Dear Justyce

by Nic Stone

  More nodding. “Everything is definitely cool.”

  “Hey, speaking of ‘cool,’ peep my new papasan chair!” Martel ran his hands lovingly along the edge of the massive kente cloth seat.

  Quan smiled for real. It was odd seeing Martel so geeked about something so simple. “It’s dope, Tel.”

  “How’s your moms? She good?”

  Quan really wanted to go. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “She’s great!”

  “You sure you good?” And Martel’s expression shifted just the smallest bit. Like some of the joy leached out. “Seem like you in a hurry—”

  Which was when Brad burst into the room. Grill on his lower teeth gleaming, blond hair tied up in a funny-looking baby bun on top of his head. “Ey yo, Tel, twelve just rolled by.”

  Quan’s whole body went dry-ice cold. If the cops “rolled by,” there was a good chance they’d return. What with the music blasting and who knows how many people loitering around the house, Quan was sure they were in violation of some obscure ordinance no one would know existed until they were slapped with random-ass charges.

  He tried to keep his breathing under control. Since Dwight’s demise, Quan had been having these…spells. Where it would suddenly get real hard to take a breath and he’d be absolutely, positively, 140 percent sure horrible things were about to happen. Like the cops would bust in and snatch him up the way they’d taken Daddy all those years ago. They would pin Dwight’s murder on Quan and hit him with the death penalty without him even going to trial.

  His eyes darted around looking for the easiest escape.

  Martel’s eyes narrowed. “People started dispersing already?”

  “Yeah.” Brad rapid-fire nodded and his boy-bun bobbed. Quan almost laughed.

  Almost.

  “Good,” Martel said. “Tell a few of our guys to come inside, and you and Montrey find DeMarcus and post up by the truck. If they come back, chances are they’ll block the driveway.”

  Brad nodded—just once this time. “Cool.”

  “Vernell, you go with Bradley.”

  “Huh?” The word (is that even a word?) was out of Quan’s mouth before he could catch it.

  And if looks could truly shoot daggers, as Quan’s read in a few books, he woulda been a whole shish kabob.

  “We really need to eliminate that from your vocabulary, Vernell.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” Quan said, kicking into gear and rushing after Brad.

  With each step, the ball of dread that’d formed in Quan’s lower gut the moment he heard twelve (he legit had gas now) expanded and expanded, and by the time he and Brad reached Trey and a couple of the others at Martel’s Range Rover in the driveway, Quan could swear he had developed a headache, heartburn, the runs, and charley horses in both legs.

  Something bad was about to happen. He could tell.

  Brad delivered Martel’s message to Trey, who then dispatched a few other guys to clear the stragglers in the front yard. Some left, some headed to the back.

  Trey then popped the rear hatch of the truck and sat in the trunk space, letting his legs dangle over the edge. “Brad, take left flank. Quan, you got right. Mar, you post up next to me.”

  Mar. As in DeMarcus Johnson, Quan’s former classmate who’d gotten expelled in middle school because he couldn’t get a grip on his rage. He’d joined up with Black Jihad four months prior, and now Quan knew knew something bad was about to go down. Mar treated his pistol like he did clean underwear: never left home without it on him.

  Even now, Quan could see him shifting it around in his waistband. Something Quan knew now that he didn’t know in middle school: Mar’s dad had been shot and killed by a police officer during a traffic stop gone wrong…and he’d been in the car.

  “He TOLD dude he was carrying and had a license to do so. Heard that shit with my own ears, dawg. Then he said OUT LOUD that he was gonna get his wallet out his pocket. He SAID it. Cop pulled the trigger soon as Pops reached. I’ll NEVER forget that shit.”

  (That’s when Mar’s face would go granite-hard and he would absentmindedly feel for the butt of the piece that lived just inside the rim of his belted pants.)

  (That officer was indicted and tried, but acquitted.)

  (Because of the “anger problem” Mar displayed in school—

  after the incident—

  he was deemed not competent to testify.)

  Trey also checked for his weapon.

  Which made Quan’s ankle itch. Because Quan’s little .22 was tucked in his sock. He only had it because he’d had to make that damn pickup.

  “There they go,” Mar said as the nose of the cruiser appeared at the corner.

  “I told yo ass they was comin’ back,” Trey said to Brad. “Now gimme my money.”

  Brad reached into his pocket, and a slip of green was slapped into Trey’s palm. “Damn!” Brad said.

  The police cruiser hung a right and crept up the street toward them.

  “Y’all get in position,” Trey said.

  Quan’s heart beat faster. Almost like an internal drumroll that would lead to a mind-shattering BANG of cymbals.

  Just like Tel said, the cruiser pulled right across the edge of the driveway

  and stopped.

  (Which meant they were parked in the direction of oncoming traffic. Bold.)

  Then the doors opened. And two officers got out.

  And Quan’s consciousness detached from his body. Or something. All he knows is it suddenly felt like he was watching a movie:

  THE END

  a short film

  Starring:

  Officer Garrett Tison—White, salt-and-pepper gray hair, middle-aged and paunchy, looks a couple shakes past “ready to retire”

  Officer Tomás “Tommy” Castillo—looks white, early thirties, military buzz cut, buff and puffed up and ready to fight some crime

  Montrey David Filly—African American, eighteen, long and lean with shoulder-length locs and very little impulse control

  Bradley Craig Mathers—White, seventeen, blond boy-bun, gold grill that spells BRAD across his lower teeth

  Martel Montgomery—African American, thirty, tall with an athletic build and faded haircut, cool/confident exterior

  Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr.—African American, sixteen, bystander(ish)

  Setting:

  EXTERIOR: Martel Montgomery’s driveway and front yard—nighttime

  After exiting their car, the two officers, with hands on their utility belts near their firearms, approach the group of boys gathered in the driveway around an older-model luxury SUV.

  TISON

  Evening, fellas.

  TREY

  ’Sup, officers?

  TISON

  Sorry to disrupt your night, but we received a complaint about the noise level.

  BRAD

  Lemme guess: Barbie and Ken up the road called cuz they didn’t get an invite to the cookout.

  All the boys laugh. Castillo instinctively grips the handle of his holstered gun.

  BRAD (CONT’D)

  (raising his hands)

  Whoa now, officer. It was a joke.

  TREY

  (to the other boys)

  One of y’all let Martel know the cops are here.

  Quan jogs up to the house—uncomfortably thanks to the small firearm rubbing against his bare ankle—and disappears inside. Castillo, with his hand still on his gun, sizes each boy up.

  A few people leave the house and head away on foot before MARTEL MONTGOMERY comes out onto the porch, hands in pockets, with a small group of African American boys behind him.

  Quan returns to the group at the SUV. (Though he has no idea why and doesn’t remember the w
alk.)

  MARTEL

  (shouting)

  Something I can help you with, officers?

  TISON

  Need ya to keep your hands where I can see ’em, son.

  Martel smirks, pulls his hands out, and raises them.

  MARTEL

  My apologies.

  TISON

  You’re the owner of this home?

  MARTEL

  That I am.

  TISON

  You, uhh…

  (beat as he looks around)

  …mind if we have a word?

  MARTEL

  Sure, but—

  Martel grabs the right side of his pants, and Tison freezes, hand hovering near his firearm. Behind him, Castillo shifts into a shooting stance, gun drawn and aimed at Martel, who lifts his pant leg, revealing his ankle monitor.

  MARTEL (CONT’D)

  —can’t leave the porch.

  Tison exhales and relaxes.

  TISON

  All right, we’re coming to you.

  MARTEL

  That’s cool. But I’d appreciate your partner lowering his weapon before approaching my house.

  Tison’s head whips around.

  TISON

  (under his breath)

  Put your goddamn gun down!

  CASTILLO

  You sure you trust these assholes?

  TISON

  Whether or not I trust ’em is irrelevant, kid. There are twelve of them and two of us. Lower it.

  CASTILLO

  No disrespect, sir, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

  TISON

  (to Martel)

  Bear with us a moment, please.

  Martel nods once and crosses his arms.

  Quan definitely isn’t breathing. The itch at his ankle becomes a burn as his eyes trace the barrel of Castillo’s pistol to its target: the one man who’s actually been around and worked to keep Quan safe and on some semblance of a straight and narrow.

  Quan tugs at his own pant leg without thinking.

  TISON (CONT’D)

  (coaxing, to Castillo)

  Tommy, I know you’re scared, but you gotta lower the weapon before things escalate.

  CASTILLO

  I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do that. I know what guys like these are capable of—

  There’s sudden movement beside the Range Rover, and Castillo whips right with his gun still extended.

  *BANG*

  *BANG*

  TREY

  (ducking)

  The fu—

  *BANG*

  CUT TO BLACK

  Quan blinked.

  There was ringing in his ears. Then shouting. And cussing.

  Blinked.

  Somebody bumped his arms, which he realized were extended in front of him.

  Blinked.

  His head swam and there was a sharp twinge in his temple as the ringing died away and the blinding, spinning light of the police cruiser came into focus.

  When had that been turned on?

  “Dawg, we gotta MOVE!” someone said, grabbing him by the upper arm and pulling hard.

  That’s when Quan noticed the body on the ground. Facedown. Dressed in all blue. Military buzz cut. Buff.

  But no longer puffed up.

  There was a dark spot expanding in the grass beneath his upper half.

  “Quan, let’s GO!”

  That’s when Quan noticed the gun in his hand.

  And dropped it.

  Then he allowed himself to be pulled into a

  run.

  September 10, 2017

  Dear Dad,

  I don’t really even know how to start this letter. I’ve tried five times now, and can’t seem to find the right words.

  Part of the problem is there’s too much to write. A lot has happened since that night they took you away, and to catch you up on everything would take time I’m not really sure I have at this point.

  I will say: I got YOUR letters…all 104 of them. I read every single one, and now I owe you an apology. Maybe that’s the best place to start…

  I’m sorry, Dad. For not writing you sooner. Not that I could’ve responded to the letters you sent ME—for reasons wholly outside my control, I only gained access to them a few days ago, almost a full year after you stopped writing. But even that is saying something, isn’t it? Whether I knew about it or not, you wrote to me consistently for over four years without ever receiving a response.

  I could’ve done the same.

  I also want to apologize for letting myself believe you’d given up on me. When I got to some of the later letters you wrote and realized you’ve been under the impression I’D given up on YOU…I dunno. It kinda stabbed me in the heart a little bit.

  Imma be real, Dad: I’ve never really felt like I’ve had much…power, I guess. But reading that last letter from you…That one part where you say you know you made some mistakes and you wouldn’t blame me for “wanting to pretend (you) don’t exist,” but that you hope I never forget that you love me “and will always want only the best” for me…Man. That really made me feel some type of way.

  I didn’t realize I could make YOU feel like that, Dad. It seems so backwards. You’re the parent and I’m the kid. I guess I just assumed my feelings toward you didn’t really matter because you’re the one with the authority? I don’t know how to explain it.

  Let me make it clear (even though I feel kinda funny writing it): Dad, I could NEVER forget you and I have NEVER wanted to pretend like you don’t exist. And I’m sorry for EVER making you feel like I could.

  Everything is just real messed up. Everything.

  Which leads me to my final apology: I failed, Dad. I failed to become what you believed I could be. I’ve gotten in a lot of trouble over the years, and I’m in some trouble now.

  It’s too much to explain right now, but after you got taken away, bad thing after bad thing after bad thing started happening. Your letters were hidden from me for a long time because of some of those bad things. And the person who hid them is no longer with us (which is another kinda-bad thing that might’ve led to a definitely bad thing).

  Anyway, without you, I didn’t really have anybody in my corner. I’m sure that sounds like an excuse, but it’s true. Mama had her own stuff going on, and my favorite teacher left, and it seemed like no matter how good I TRIED to do, it never worked. And I really did try. I need you to believe me on that.

  I don’t want to think too much about it because there’s nothing that can be done about it now, and that makes me real mad…but I can’t help but wonder how different things might’ve been if I’d gotten your letters when you sent them. Honestly, I just cried as I read your words about how much you believed in me and how you were taking responsibility for your actions, but you knew I was headed in a different direction. How “thinking about all the great things” I would do is what kept you going.

  Dad, if I’d known that, I would’ve…I dunno. Maybe I would’ve…

  I can’t even write it.

  Doesn’t matter now. I chose my path. Though, real talk—and I promise this isn’t me making an excuse—I don’t really see where there was a different path for a dude like me. Just like there probably wasn’t a different one for a dude like you. Is what it is, right?

  I’m likely going away for a long time, but I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I didn’t let you know I love you and I’ll never give up on you, Dad. There’s this part of me that feels like I’m supposed to be mad at you for being gone, but…I’m not. Especially not now, knowing you were writing to me a
ll those years.

  I just wanna say thank you. For your words. Even though I didn’t know about them until it was too late.

  Actually, I take that back. It’s not too late. Your letters reminded me of my power, and now I know what I gotta do.

  I love you, Dad. Stay up, aiight?

  One day we’ll meet again. I hope.

  Your son,

  Jr.

  April 24

  Dear Justyce,

  Man, your ass had a LOTTA questions in that last letter you sent. What’s crazy is Doc and Liberty (She so damn fine, bruh. I’m not a religious fella, but good LAWD.) have been asking me some of the same shit…which means I actually have some answers.

  Before we get into all THAT, though, I have news: your boy is three and a half weeks away from becoming a high school graduate. I get to put on a cap and gown and the whole nine (over my jumpsuit, but still).

  I’m getting a little emotional thinking about it. Like I’m excited…but I’m also mad. Even sad.

  Weird seeing me write that, ain’t it? A dude is up in here gettin’ in touch with his feelings and shit. I was extra tired a few weeks ago, and slipped up and told Doc about these episodes I have sometimes. He said something to somebody around here, and next thing I know, I’d been assigned to a new counselor. Black lady named Tay—short for Octavia, but she said don’t call her that (I feel it). She’s got this blond fade that makes me wish I could hit the barbershop, and she’s probably the coolest adult female I’ve ever met—though I’ll admit it took me a minute to warm up to her. WAY easier to talk to than Agnes, the overly chipper middle-aged white woman they had me with before. I pretty much NEVER talked to her out-of-touch ass.

  Getting back to the point: Tay said she’s pretty sure I’ve been having “panic attacks” (which sounds mad violent, don’t it?) and I have that same PTSD thing I remember you saying your dad dealt with. I thought it was only linked to being in the military and going to war, but apparently a lot of the stuff I went through as a kid qualifies as “trauma” and my brain has created these…reactions to anything that reminds me of the traumatic events. She calls them “triggers”—which IS a trigger (the psychological kind she be talking about), so I’ve been referring to them as sparks.