Stand Your Ground: A Novel

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  But then my heart stopped again when the prosecutor stood and said, “The state calls Mrs. Janice Johnson.”

  And that was the first time that I felt my baby kick.

  Everyone had to be holding their breath. That was the only way I could explain how suddenly all the air had been sucked from the room.

  Janice put her hand on the Bible and swore to do what I would never do. And then she sat on the stand facing everyone.

  Now that I could see her face-to-face, she was exactly how I imagined from the television images. She sat taller than anyone else had done on that stand, sitting almost like she was atop a throne.

  “Mrs. Johnson, will you tell us your relationship to Marquis?”

  “I am his mother,” she said with an authority that I admired. “He is my son.”

  I noticed how she spoke of him in the present tense, even though he would never be present with her again.

  The prosecutor said, “Can you tell us about your son’s plans for school?”

  “Well, he attended Winchester Academy. He was a high school senior and on his way to college.”

  “What else can you tell us about your son?”

  She smiled, a mother’s smile that had enough wattage to light up the city. “He was a good kid. He loved to read, loved to write poetry, he played two instruments, the piano and saxophone, and he loved to play golf.”

  “How were his grades?”

  “He had all A’s, even in his advanced classes. He was a good student, very smart.”

  “So, would you call your son a thug in any way?”

  “No!” she said, and the smile that she’d worn was completely gone now. “I don’t even know how to define a thug, but my son was a good kid. Yes, he was a teenager, and he smoked weed with his friends. We told him not to, but—”

  “He was a teenager,” the prosecutor finished for her, and she nodded.

  I wasn’t surprised that Newt and his team didn’t object. In the car this morning, they had said that whenever Janice Johnson took the stand, they were going to have to play her right. They were not going to object to anything while she was being questioned by the prosecution. But on cross-examination, Wyatt had given his permission for them to go after her.

  I had prayed then, and I folded my hands and started praying now.

  The prosecutor continued questioning Janice, about how she had found out about Marquis being shot, about what it was like to bury her son, and what life was like now.

  “There are mornings when I wake up, and once I realize that yes, my son is dead, I don’t want to keep breathing. On the day that we buried him, I truly just wanted to climb into the casket with him,” she said. “It is only because of God and my husband . . .” She paused and took such a long moment to look at her husband that I turned to look at him, too.

  He sat stoic, like his wife, no smile on his face.

  She said, “I can go on because of my husband. But it hurts every day to know that I am no longer a mother. That hole in my heart will never be filled.”

  The prosecutor did not say another word. He just returned to his seat, taking slow steps. He didn’t even say, No further questions. He just allowed Mrs. Johnson to sit in that witness stand so that all of us could see the image of a grieving mother who was filled with a pain that most of us would be blessed to never experience.

  Newt’s associate stood up, buttoned his jacket, and said, “Mrs. Johnson, we are so sorry for your loss.”

  Without a beat, she said, “Thank you,” which was a much kinder response than I would have given to my enemy’s attorneys.

  Our attorney said, “Were you always aware of what your son was doing? Always aware of where he was?”

  She shrugged. “As much as I could be with a seventeen-year-old. I mean, I knew when he was at school, I knew when he was out with friends, and I knew where he was generally.”

  “Did you know where he was the night he was shot?”

  “Yes, he was at the library and then with his girlfriend.”

  “You were sure of that?”

  “Yes,” she said, frowning, looking confused.

  “But isn’t it true that when the police came to your home, you thought your son was there? You didn’t even know that he wasn’t in the house?”

  She glanced again at her husband. “Yes, but . . . I mean. No. I thought he had come home.”

  “But when the police got there, that was when you first found out that he wasn’t there, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, often, you had no idea where your son was, or what he was doing?”

  “Objection!” the prosecutor said.

  “Sustained. Move on, Counselor,” the judge told our side.

  Our attorney said, “Mrs. Johnson, can you tell us who Caleb Brown is?”

  “Objection!” The prosecutor shouted so loud this time it felt as if the walls had rattled. “Mr. Brown is not relevant to this trial.”

  Our side said, “This goes to the credibility of the witness. She’s telling us about her son’s credibility, so it’s only fair that we be allowed to question hers.”

  The judge paused, thought, said, “I’ll allow it. The witness will answer the question.”

  Janice lowered her head, and when she raised it up, there were tears in her eyes. Looking straight at her husband, she said, “He’s . . . he was . . . my pastor.”

  Before she completed the last word, her husband stood and stepped over a woman before he left the room. And right after him, another man stood up—one of the men that I’d seen on TV with the Johnsons.

  Her eyes were on her husband as a tear rolled down Janice’s face, and I cried with her.

  Our side said, “And besides him being your pastor, did you have any other kind of relationship with him?”

  She nodded.

  The judge said, “Mrs. Johnson, please answer the question.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “I had an affair. I had an affair with my pastor.”

  When she sobbed, I sobbed. And I did what Janice Johnson couldn’t do at the moment.

  I got up and walked out of the courtroom.

  Chapter 32

  Janice

  I had another day to add to the list of the horrible days of my life. It was humiliating to sit in front of all of those people and have to confess the worst thing I’d ever done.

  The only good thing was that Tyrone had walked out. I hadn’t known that he was going to do that, but when the questions started coming, I was grateful. Because I didn’t want him to hear anything about how long the affair had lasted, even though he already knew. And I certainly wouldn’t have wanted him to hear my response when the attorney asked if I’d spoken to Caleb recently.

  When I said, “No, I haven’t spoken to Caleb,” and when I didn’t even mention seeing him at Marquis’s funeral, my husband would have looked straight into my eyes and known that I was lying.

  I didn’t care if the attorneys knew or if the judge knew—they could have thrown me into jail for contempt or for perjury; it didn’t matter. When I told that lie, I didn’t even care that God knew—I would pray for forgiveness later.

  But that was the only lie that I told. Once Tyrone left the courtroom, I went toe-to-toe with the man who was defending the killer of my son. And while he probably won the battle, I made sure that everyone could see that he’d been in a fight.

  By the time the judge told me to step down from the witness stand, the defense attorney was as worn-out as I was, leaning back in his chair looking like it would be hours before he would be able to get up again.

  I marched past the defense table, the prosecution table, through the gallery of spectators, and out into the hall. I had done what I had to do for our son. Now I had to do what I had to do for my marriage.

  Delores met me right on the other side of the courtroom doors and pulled me into a hug. “I’m so sorry about that, baby.”

  At least my mother-in-law had forgiven me. Maybe she could convince her
son to do the same. “Where’s Tyrone?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Raj called and told me that he’s with him, though.”

  I released a long breath. “Good.”

  “Raj said that the car will be waiting where you normally meet.”

  I hugged Delores good-bye since she’d come to court with her pastor, and I dashed down the stairs, hoping, praying that Tyrone would be in the car.

  He wasn’t. So I rode that long distance alone. Just me and the driver and enough silence for torturous thoughts to sprout like weeds in my head. Thoughts that made tears fall from my eyes, though I kept my cries as silent as I could. I cried and I prayed.

  “Here we are, Ms. Johnson,” the driver said, getting me home in an hour, much quicker than I expected for a Friday.

  I thanked him, then jumped out as fast as I could because I had hope—our car was in the driveway.

  I busted through our front door, but the moment I stepped inside, I knew Tyrone wasn’t home. It was just the feeling in the house. We had found a way to warm up our home just a little since Marquis passed away. Today, though, that cold, empty sadness that had weighed us down from the day we heard the news was back.

  I ignored the cold, I ignored the sadness and ran from room to room, calling Tyrone’s name and checking every crevice and corner as if my husband would hide from me.

  He was hiding, just not at home.

  Once my search ended, I dialed Tyrone’s cell, and even when it went straight to voice mail, I hung up and dialed once more, just to hear his voice again.

  His phone was off, and he was nowhere to be found. He didn’t want to talk to me, didn’t want to see me.

  I just prayed that he still wanted me to be his wife.

  I parked myself in the living room so that Tyrone would see me as soon as he returned. Stretching out on the sofa, I didn’t even take off my shoes, not caring at all about the stains that my soles might leave. I lay down because there was nothing else to do. Nothing except to wait.

  So that’s what I did. I cried, I prayed, and I thought about Tyrone. I cried, I prayed, and I thought about Tyrone. I cried and prayed and thought about Tyrone . . .

  And then I opened my eyes. It took a moment to remember who I was, where I was—and then it came back and I remembered it all. It took another moment as I wondered if I had opened my eyes on the same day that I’d fallen asleep. But the brightness of the sun breaking through the living room’s bay window told me that Friday had turned into Saturday morning.

  And I didn’t even have to get up to realize that my husband had not come home last night.

  This was not the first time that Tyrone hadn’t come home without a call, without a text, without me knowing where he was. That last time, three years ago, had led to bad things happening.

  I prayed that this wasn’t the worst part of my history returning for a repeat visit.

  I tried my best to hold on to hope.

  It was just a little before nine when I went into the shower, hoping that by the time I came out, Tyrone would be home.

  It was 9:13 when I stepped from the shower into my bedroom, and still he wasn’t home. I tried his cell; it went straight to voice mail.

  It was 9:27 when I started getting dressed, and I hoped when I finished, Tyrone would be downstairs in the family room watching TV like my testimony never happened.

  It was exactly 9:45 when I walked down the stairs and into the family room. It was empty, just like every other room in the house. Another call to his cell, and just because I wanted to hear his voice, I listened to his entire voice-mail message. Twice.

  So, I sipped one cup of coffee after another, and prayed that Tyrone would come home before I got some kind of caffeine poisoning.

  By 11:02, I could feel the coffee floating in my belly, and my hope was fading. I wandered back to the front of the house and sat on the bottom step.

  So many times I’d heard of a family breaking up after the death of a child. But that wasn’t supposed to happen to me and Tyrone. We’d been through the fire already. And since the fire hadn’t killed us, weren’t we supposed to be stronger?

  It seemed ridiculous . . . that I was paying for a three-year-old sin. I’d repented, I’d begged God and Tyrone for forgiveness. And I’d been grateful when I received it.

  I guess when it came to humans, the ransom for sins was never fully paid.

  The cold, empty, sad silence of our home hummed in my ears as I stared at the door, willing it to open and for Tyrone to enter. The minutes passed, the humming got louder, and the door never opened.

  It was when the silence started to scream that I jumped up, grabbed my purse from where I’d dropped it last night, and ran out the door. I revved up the engine to our car and the tires screeched as I sped out of our driveway to a destination unknown. All I knew was that I had to find my husband.

  So, I made a list in my head. First stop—Raj’s. It didn’t take me ten minutes to pull up to my brother-in-law’s row house. Before I turned off the ignition, I already knew he wasn’t home, and Tyrone probably wasn’t there either. Both Raj’s truck and motorcycle were missing from where he usually parked them.

  Still, I knocked on his door. And after I knocked for a solid five minutes, I got back in the car.

  Before I pulled away, I called Delores, thinking that I might save myself a trip.

  “No, baby, he’s not here and he hasn’t called me,” she said after we got all the greetings and how-are-yous out of the way. “But I don’t expect him to call me ’cause he knows I’m gonna tell him to take his butt home.”

  “Thank you. Thank you for forgiving me.”

  “Baby, our sins are forgiven before we even commit them. Forgiven and forgotten as far as the east is from the west. And Tyrone’s gonna remember that. Just give him a minute, and he’ll remember that he ain’t no saint either.”

  I told her good-bye, and then drove to Tyrone’s auto shop. There was no way I was going to go inside looking for Tyrone. No way I was going to let people know our business like that. Enough of our life was already on display.

  But even from where I sat, I could see a good many of the guys in the shop. And there was no sign of Tyrone. I eased the car around to the back, just in case he’d parked Raj’s truck or motorcycle (I didn’t know which he’d taken) back there.

  No sign of my husband.

  If Tyrone wasn’t at Raj’s, Delores’s, or his shop, I had no idea where to go next. Tyrone had never been a hanging-out-with-the-fellas kind of guy; he always said that with his wife as his best friend, who else did he need?

  With nowhere else to look, I just drove through the streets. Making lefts and making rights. I wandered through just about every street in West Philly, then made my way up to Germantown before I hooked back around through North Philly, Center City, and then home to my neighborhood again. I just drove, stopping nowhere, seeing nothing.

  I was about two hours into my drive when I started to cry. And pray. As time passed, my tears thickened, really blurring my vision. At a red light, I rested my head on the steering wheel, needing just a moment. A moment to control my tears, a moment to figure this all out.

  When the car behind me honked, I jumped, looked up, and right there on the corner was Sweet Carolina’s! Tyrone’s favorite restaurant.

  That had to be a sign, and I made a quick, sharp turn, lined up my car into a parking space, wiped my eyes, then ran inside. I had such a good feeling because there were no coincidences in life.

  “May I help you?” the hostess asked.

  “Uh . . . I’m looking . . . for a friend. I was supposed to meet him here.”

  She looked behind her. “There are only a few people here; you can look around.” She moved to help a couple who’d walked in behind me and I rushed through the informal restaurant that raved about having the best soul food north of the Carolinas.

  I checked every table, every booth, not caring about the question I saw in everybody’s eyes as they stared back at me
.

  When I didn’t see Tyrone, I checked every table, every booth again. Just in case he’d been hiding during my first go-round and I could catch him as I doubled back.

  But there was no sign of my husband. And that meant riding past Sweet Carolina’s hadn’t been a sign at all.

  As I walked back toward the door, I was filled with a dread that made my heart sink to my feet. Maybe this time, it had been too much for Tyrone. Maybe between Marquis’s death and the resurrection of my infidelity, it was all too much and Tyrone couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe this time, he wasn’t coming back.

  I tried to hold my feelings in until I got to my car. Really, I did. But I didn’t. And I cried. I mean, I really cried as I stumbled through the restaurant’s doors, bumping into someone on my way out as they came in.

  “Janice?”

  I could hardly see him. But I knew his voice.

  “Janice . . .” Caleb called my name again. “What’s wrong?”

  My tears not only blinded me, they choked me. And I couldn’t get a word out.

  Caleb took my hand and led me away—just like he did three years ago. And I followed him because, like before, I didn’t know what else to do.

  He led me to a car—a Lexus, the same car he’d had when we were lovers.

  I slid into the passenger seat, and I cried. He slid in on the other side, and I cried. I cried and Caleb just sat there, as if crying was just something I had to do and he was patient enough to wait until I finished.

  There came the time when I finally stopped. And found my voice. And said, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?’

  “For . . . this. For this . . . again.”

  I looked up at him and could tell that he remembered, too. That day, three years ago, when he’d found me in the church’s parking lot, a crying mess, just like this.

  Tyrone had been so angry when Raj called him from the police station, telling him he’d been arrested and needed an attorney and bail.

  “I can’t believe you did that, Janice!” Tyrone screamed. “I can’t believe you turned my brother in.”