“But the DA knows that the next time, she might not even get any blacks on the jury.” I paused. “Plus, I’m thinking about finding a way to make a large campaign contribution to her since she’ll be running again. She’s more of a Democrat, but I’m sure a few dollars from me would not only help her run, but also help her to make the right decision about a new trial.”
Andre said, “You better run that by Newt first.”
“Trust me, I will. Without Newt, who knows which way this trial would have gone.”
Andre nodded. “Newt was hard-core. He tried to tear everybody down and I can’t see the Johnsons wanting to go through this again.”
“Well, a mistrial works for everyone. The Johnsons can claim a win because I didn’t get off completely, and I won because I’m not sitting in some prison somewhere in western Pennsylvania. But it really needs to end here because as long as there’s one white person on my jury, I will never be found guilty.”
Andre waited a couple of seconds before he said, “That’s a sad commentary on America, don’t you think?”
Now I was the one who gave him a sideways look. Was Andre getting radical on me?
But then he chuckled and I realized he was just kidding.
We steered the conversation away from the trial, and for the rest of the drive, we chatted about everything else: my foundation, my business, and how I was really looking forward to becoming a father for the second time.
“I never thought I’d be fathering children at this age, but I got a young one for a wife, so it works.”
Andre laughed. “I see the way you are with Billy. Age ain’t nothing but a number.”
“You’re right about that.”
It took just about two hours until we exited I-83 and were in Shrewsbury. I never ventured this way much, never ventured too far out of the Philadelphia area since my business was primarily for city folks. But as we drove down North Main Street, I wondered how a Cheesesteak Castle would do out here. I might have to alter the menu just a bit, include something that might appeal more to the folks who called this place home. Like instead of cheesesteaks, I could have chicken-fried steaks. Yeah, a Chicken-Fried Steak Castle!
That made me chuckle just as Andre turned the SUV off the road. The tires crunched over the gravel of the packed parking lot and I wondered if all these people were here for me. Every space was taken with F-150s, Silverados, and Denalis.
I grinned. Oh, yeah, these were my kind of people. There would be no black ties in here tonight.
At the front of Big Red’s, Andre stopped. “You go in; I’ll find a parking space in the back. I’ll be right behind you.”
“All right.” I jumped out of the SUV, thinking how much I loved this door-to-door treatment. I might have to rethink Andre’s contract. He might need to become one of my permanent employees.
Even from the outside of Big Red’s, I could hear the sounds of celebration. Nothing but music and laughter, and when I opened the door that was painted to look like it belonged on a saloon, the sounds wrapped around me. I took two steps inside, and a couple of guys standing at the bar looked up, then turned and started clapping.
That caught the attention of everyone else, and within seconds the place exploded with applause, cheers, and whistles.
I stood there, soaking it all in. No one had even come up to me and asked if I was Wyatt Spencer. They just recognized me—and I loved it.
“Welcome, Wyatt.” One of the men who saw me first stepped up to me. He was a burly guy, almost a cliché with his cutout denim vest that put his biceps on display even in the forty-degree temperature. And then there was the navy bandanna tied around his head. “My name is Buck.”
“Hey, Buck,” I said, thinking that he must’ve been undercover during his policing days.
We shook hands as the others surrounded me. They had names like Clint and Cash and Dallas. And they said things like “Atta boy,” and “We’re proud of you, cowboy,” and “Thanks for standing up for all of us.”
Like all of the events that recognized my bravery, I felt proud.
Buck raised his hand toward the bartender. “Get this guy a beer and let the party begin.”
The place filled with laughter and then music filled the air. I didn’t have much time to look around, but when I did, this place really did look like an old-time saloon, with its wood-planked floor, red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, and dartboards on three walls.
“So, Wyatt,” Buck began as he slid me a beer. “How does it feel to be a national hero?”
“I don’t see myself that way. I was just doing what was right.”
“Well, you’re a hero to us,” Cash said.
Dallas nodded and added, “You’re a hero to all of America. You put SYG on trial again.”
The guys around us nodded and I did, too. I was glad that I knew what they meant by SYG. The first time I’d heard it at the Conservative Mothers of America brunch, I didn’t know what the emcee was talking about. Thank God Newt was there with me to explain it. I guess in some parts, Stand Your Ground was so familiar, its acronym stood in for its full name.
Buck spoke up. “I don’t know how many times we’re gonna have to defend it, but SYG is the American way. There is not a state in the union that is going to take that law down. So these niggers better understand, that is our right as Americans. They come over here, trying to change everything about this country. This is our land!”
There was a chorus of “yeahs” all around.
“We’ve got to protect ourselves against these thugs!” someone shouted.
“Yeah,” Buck said. “Anybody coming at me with a baseball bat is gonna find themselves up close and personal with my Beretta and their gut.”
“I’m going for the balls,” one of the other guys said, and that caused more laughter. “Castrate ’em!”
Then, “I’m aiming for the brain.” More laughter. “That’s if I can find a thug who has one of those.”
I chuckled along, but I can’t say that I really found any of this funny. They were talking as if they wanted to use people as target practice.
“Well, all I know,” Buck said, “is that every time I see a black boy from now on, I’m gonna be thinking about you, that boy, and that baseball bat. And I’m telling you, if he even looks at me the wrong way . . .”
Buck left his threat right there, and while it brought on another round of loud laughter, this time I didn’t even pretend to join in. Was this dude talking about every black boy? He couldn’t be.
Lots of black boys worked for me and I worked with lots of black boys through my foundation. All of them were polite and respectful—none would deserve to have happen to them what happened to Marquis Johnson.
And what about someone like Andre? That guy was a good dude. Were Buck and these guys talking about gunning down someone like Andre?
Just as I had that thought, the bar became silent. Like really silent. Like all talking, all moving, all breathing stopped. All that was left was the chorus of “Cleanin’ This Gun,” by Rodney Atkins over the speakers.
I turned my focus to what had everyone’s attention.
The front door.
And Andre.
Buck took a step toward him. “Buddy, I think you’re in the wrong place.”
“No!” I jumped to Andre’s side as the words they’d just spoken played through my mind. More than one of these guys were strapped, I was sure of that. And I had to make sure no one pulled out anything. “This is my friend Andre.”
Every face twisted into a scowl.
For his sake and mine, I added, “He’s my driver.”
“Oh,” they all exhaled together.
Then Buck said, “You wanna beer, Andre?”
And Andre did exactly what I would’ve done if I were wearing his shoes. He looked around, took in all the faces, studied the scene, and said, “Nah. I just came in to tell you”—he turned to me—“that I gotta make a couple of calls. So I’ll be out in front when you’re ready to g
o.”
“Okay, okay. Right. Right.”
“You take your time,” he said. He looked around once again. “I’ve got plenty of calls to make.”
“No problem.”
The group was still staring Andre down when he gave them all a final look-over. “Nice meeting you, fellas.”
Not a good-bye was given or another word was spoken until Andre walked out and left us to our business.
Buck said, “You had me worried for a moment.”
“Why?”
“You said he was your friend,” Cash said as if he knew what Buck had been thinking.
I guess he did. Because Buck nodded. And all of the rest of them did, too. And then they all laughed again.
I wasn’t going to say anything, but I did consider Andre a friend. A friend was someone who was by your side when you needed them, and that’s what Andre had been for me since May. He was as important to me as anybody else on my team.
But there was no reason to tell these guys that. In fact, there was no reason for me to hang out here much longer. I’d only been at Big Red’s a few minutes, but this was not what I thought it would be. I’d come here expecting to maybe find a couple of guys to hang out with. But while on the outside I looked like I had a lot in common with these guys, I guess I really didn’t. I mean, I didn’t think every black person in America was bad. I just didn’t like thugs. But it felt like this crowd thought every black person was a thug.
Still I stood there for a while, put in my time. They were honoring me, so I had to at least make it look good. My second round of beer brought a new group of friends. Guys kept coming by, patting me on the back, telling me how proud I’d made them, saying there needed to be more men like me.
“What’s up?” someone said as he gave me another slap on my back.
Turning to face him, at first, I thought the guy was white. But then, after a quick scan of the olive tone of his skin, I figured he was Hispanic.
“My name is Carlos,” he said, holding out his hand.
“What’s up?” I responded, giving him a handshake. Everyone else had come up to me in groups of two and three. But Carlos came alone. “So, you’re part of—I paused for a second to look around—“the Defenders?”
“Yeah. I retired from the force two years ago.”
“Oh,” I said, hoping my surprise wasn’t in my voice or showing on my face. It’s just that this guy didn’t seem to fit in with this all-American, all-white gathering. But I guess every group had to have a token.
“So, you’ve had quite a time, haven’t you?”
I shrugged. “I really wish it had never come to this. Wish there had never been a trial. But there was such social pressure; the DA was just trying to be politically correct.”
He agreed with a nod. “But like everybody said, the law was put on trial once again and you won.”
“No,” I said. “We won.”
He chuckled. “No, I think it was you.” Then he took a long swig of his beer. “You showed the blacks; you and your lawyers set the example, showed everyone that if they try to bust that law, there will be a price to pay. I bet you Marquis Johnson’s parents got that message. Especially his mama.” He didn’t wait for me to respond. He just laughed out loud and walked away, leaving me standing there alone.
Out of all the guys, that dude made me the most uneasy. It was time for me to get the hell out of Dodge.
I grabbed a third beer and texted Andre:
I’m ready. Where are you?
Two seconds later, his text came back:
Meet me out back. Crowded up front.
I replied:
Great. Really ready to go home.
Then:
Car running, I’m waiting.
I began my round of good-byes, starting with Buck.
“You’re not leaving already,” he said. “We’re just getting started. We haven’t even done our tribute to you.”
“This was tribute enough. And you know, my wife, she’s pregnant, any minute. Gotta get home,” I lied, figuring none of these dudes had paid enough attention to know that Meredith’s due date was still three months away.
“Oh, yeah.” Buck slapped me on the back and I almost keeled over. “Maybe you’ll bring another boy into our world.”
I didn’t know what he meant by “our world,” but I knew that I didn’t want Billy growing up and being like the guys I’d met tonight. I mean, yeah, I agreed with their views—America was our country and there was too much changing. But I wasn’t trying to put anyone else down or out. I just believed that as white Americans, we should be lifted up.
I kept my sentiments to myself, though, as I hugged my way out of there. They all embraced me as if they’d known me for a long time. Everyone called me brother, extended their good wishes, and invitations for me to join them again soon.
“Yeah, maybe once the baby is born,” Buck said.
I glanced around, checking for Carlos, wanting to say good-bye to everyone. But when I didn’t see him, I shrugged it off. I wasn’t going to wait around for him to come out of the bathroom.
With a final general good-bye to everyone, I made my way to the back, found the exit, and stepped outside into the day that had become night.
I inhaled, then exhaled, feeling relief. Feeling like I’d just left a place where I never should have been.
I’d only taken a single step, I was sure of that.
Just one step.
And then, one blow.
One blow to my head. Made me dizzy, made me stumble, made me fall to my knees, then collapse all the way to the ground.
I didn’t even know what hit me. I wanted to scream, but all of the pain kept me silent. If I could just reach for my head, and hold it, then maybe . . .
A foot. No, a boot—in my mouth. A boot in my mouth that filled my mouth with blood. I swallowed, I gagged, I swallowed what felt like small stones.
But right after that, I had no more thoughts. At least not thoughts of what was happening. All I could think about was the pain. From the fists and feet. Everywhere. Jabs and jolts. All over me.
It was blow after blow after blow.
Strike after strike after strike.
From the front. The back. The side. And the other side.
I writhed on the ground, struggling to get away, but there was nowhere to go. Because everywhere I moved, there was another fist. Another foot. Another blow waiting for me.
Maybe if I’d been able to see, I’d’ve been able to fight. But I could see nothing through my swollen eyes. Saw nothing but the blackness of night. And the blur that came from my tears.
I was crying, though that wasn’t my intent. The tears just came. Just came with the pain.
Then the pain was almost gone. I could hardly feel it anymore. The fists were still beating. The feet were still stomping. But it had gotten to where hurt didn’t hurt anymore.
That was when my senses shifted. To sound.
I heard nothing. Except cracking and crackling.
What was that?
Crack.
Crackle.
My bones?
My bones!
There was nothing I could do but lie there and swallow stones that were seasoned with my blood. And listen to the cracking and the crackling.
I heard death coming.
I needed to do something. Something to dodge death. So I concentrated. Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Breathe. Breathe.
But that was getting harder and harder to do.
And then it stopped. The fists, the feet, it all stopped.
Then, faint sounds of steps. How many steps? How many men? Or was it the clicking sound of a woman’s heels that I heard?
I tried to figure it out. Needed to know so that I could tell the police . . . or God—whoever came first.
Now there was nothing but quiet.
Except . . .
The sound of something falling. And rolling toward me.
Through the slits in my eyes, I saw a little b
it of light. And then felt a hand, maybe two, roll me onto my side. Now I could see.
It was rolling toward me.
A bat.
Someone knelt down beside me.
A man. Or a woman. Maybe one. Maybe two.
With a towel, he/she/they wiped the bat clean.
And then, he/she/they leaned over me. “Enough” was whispered into my ear.
I struggled to keep my eyes open, but I couldn’t anymore.
It became black. And I lay there, waiting for the white light to come. Like the stories that had been told before, my life flashed. In just seconds, I saw every scene, every moment that was important to me. My father, my mother, my brother. And then Meredith, Billy, and my child to come.
Thoughts of all of that love. All of that wasted.
But my last thought, my final thought, the thought that took me to the other side . . .
Enough!
And then my world ended.
Epilogue
The district attorney announced today that the case of the State v. Wyatt Spencer is officially closed. Of course, that was just a formality since Wyatt Spencer was found fatally beaten on October twenty-fourth, three weeks ago. There are still no leads on what happened to Spencer when he left Big Red’s on that Friday night. His driver was waiting for him in the front of the club and there are several witnesses who saw his driver out there. It was the club owner and Spencer’s driver who discovered Spencer beaten behind the club.
“The police have no idea why Spencer was in the back of the club, nor have they ruled out that this may have been a random assault and robbery since Spencer’s wallet and cell phone were missing. But there is still that question of the baseball bat that was found near his body. As you know, a baseball bat played a major role in Spencer’s trial, in which he was accused of shooting seventeen-year-old Marquis Johnson. The district attorney has always claimed that the bat was planted by Spencer, and so it was a curious piece of evidence at Big Red’s that just might be a coincidence.
Stand Your Ground: A Novel Page 28