by Nic Stone
And writing about them.
A lot of my current sparks are linked to the night you asked about (though I definitely have some that are MAD old…like going back to when my dad was arrested). And the more I think and talk about it, the more frustrated I get. Like Doc pushes my ass HARD in these academics. And it’s kind of a weird thing, but him believing I COULD “write a compelling argumentative essay that either supports or refutes the continued use of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird as a seminal text on American racism” (THIS guy) made me want to prove him right.
And THEN, every time I DO prove him right, and he hands me something with a “Fantastic job!” scrawled across the top (Bruh, how did you even read this dude’s handwriting??), I feel good for like five minutes…
But then the buzzer will sound to let a guard in or out, or a cell door will close, or I’ll suddenly notice all the iron and concrete. And where I am—where I’m likely gonna BE for a long-ass time—will hit me. Hard.
I guess I didn’t realize just how big of a difference it could make to have somebody really believe in you. I been thinking a lot about Trey and Mar and Brad and them. We were all looking for the same things, man—support, protection, family, that type of shit. And we found SOME of it in one another, but we couldn’t really give each other no type of encouragement to do nothing GOOD because nobody was really giving US any. Matter fact, we typically got the opposite. People telling us how “bad” we were. Constantly looking at us like they expected only the worst.
How the hell’s a person supposed to give something they ain’t never had?
Do I wish I woulda had more people to point out the good in me after my dad got taken away? That WE, every single dude in my crew, had had that? Yeah. Prolly wouldn’t be sittin’ here in (cell)block three, spilling all my guts out to you in this letter.
There’s a good chance that if we’d had the kinda support you had—dudes like Doc, for instance, who told us we could really do and be something, and who believed it—none of us woulda been at Tel’s that night.
Which brings me to your main question: What actually happened the night Tomás Castillo got popped?
Well, to be honest with you, a lot of the details are lost. When I try to REMEMBER remember, which is something Tay is always tryna get me to do, I have these like vivid flashes blended in with stretches of black.
That prolly don’t even make sense to your hyper-logical, ivy-leaguing ass.
What I will say: despite my sorta-off memory of what happened that night, there are two things I can tell you for SURE:
Number one: under ANY other circumstances, the whole thing would’ve been considered self-defense. Castillo not only had his gun out, he had it aimed. When I was reading that one letter from you where you told me the details of your encounter with him, I was shaking my head the whole time because that was definitely the same shit we were dealing with. He walked up SO certain things were gonna go south, he basically forced them in that direction, you feel me?
In one of my flashes, he’s got his gun pointed at Martel. I couldn’t really hear much because there was this roaring in my ears like I was standing next to a jet. Fight or flight on infinity. I don’t remember pulling my weapon, but next thing I knew, Castillo’s 9mm Glock was swinging toward US.
Now according to GA Code O.C.G.A. Sec. 16-3-21(a)—you best believe I looked that shit up and memorized it—“A person is justified in threatening or using force against another when and to the extent that he or she reasonably believes that such threat or force is necessary to defend himself or herself or a third person against such other’s imminent use of unlawful force.”
The fact that a cop was involved complicates things, obviously, and my lawyer doesn’t think we’ll get very far with the claim “considering the backgrounds of the young men we’d be calling as witnesses.” (His exact words. Which is exactly the shit I was talking about, but whatever.)
But you best believe I intend to use that shit in court. What I CAN do is stand by my own damn principles. Nobody can take THAT from me. Things went the way they went, and I made the decision I made. I know that because there was a police officer involved and I have a record, this case might as well be closed.
I’m not going down without at least a little bit of a fight, though. Because this is the second thing I know for sure: I’m not the only one who pulled a gun that night. In fact, there wasn’t only one, but THREE others who did.
Yes, I felt like I owed a debt because of some stuff that was done to ensure the safety and well-being of my family. So I wound up taking the charge. (That interrogation was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced, by the way. Never wanna go through anything like it ever again.)
I think I told you before that Doc once asked me if I was a killer. Back then, I couldn’t really answer, but now I can.
So. I want YOU to know—even though nobody else outside my immediate circle ever will (right?): the answer is no.
I’m not a killer.
I pulled my gun, but I never actually fired.
I’m not the one who killed Tomás Castillo.
—Q
P.S.:
I’m not gonna tell you who did it.
So don’t even ask.
Justyce McAllister has a lot on his mind during the almost thirteen-hour drive from New York back to Georgia.
Finals, obviously. He thinks he did pretty good on everything—though that last “short answer” question on the ethics exam was suspect. He knows he did better than Rosie the Racist Roommate on the Calc II final: dude tossed his paper at the professor as he left the classroom, and was still fuming about “that utter bullshit Calc II exam” as he packed to leave yesterday.
That’s another thing: while Jus certainly wasn’t sad to see Roosevelt Carothers’s back as he walked out of their shared space for the last time, it was weird to realize there’s a chance he’ll never see the dude again.
Oddly enough, Justyce has come to pity his roommate just the slightest bit. Yeah, Roosevelt comes from hella money and more or less has the whole world at his fingertips, but homie is the furthest thing from happy Justyce has ever seen. It’s occurred to Justyce how pointless it is to have access to basically everything when you’re a person who’s satisfied by nothing. The more time Jus has spent around the guy, the more he’s realized just how sad and pitiful dude’s life actually is.
Justyce’s life, though, is rich and full. He joined the BSAY (aka Black Student Alliance at Yale) and was one of eight freshmen selected to the newest class of the Yale Debate Association. He found his people, his grades are solid, and his long-distance relationship with the world’s finest Jewish girl has been working out just…well, fine.
It’s baffling, Jus thinks as the trees blur by near the state line between the two Carolinas. His first Yale year is over, and he made it through with very little personal turmoil to write home about.
And write home, Justyce did. Not to his mama—there was a phone for all that—but to Quan Banks.
Childhood playmate. (1…2…3…BLAST OFF!)
Fellow smart guy. (Though Quan didn’t seem to want anybody to know it.)
Cousin of Justyce’s slain best friend.
Rich and restless Roosevelt’s polar opposite.
On a hunch, Jus decided to check his PO box one last time before leaving campus, and he found a letter that must’ve gotten lost in the mail for a minute: it’d been postmarked more than two weeks prior.
And what was in that letter?
Still has Jus shook.
There’s movement behind him in the back seat. Then a groan. And an overly loud yawn. “Are we there yet?”
“Eww, why is it talking?” comes a groggy second voice from the passenger seat. This one makes Jus smile. And shake his head.
“Aww, SJ! I’m super thrilled
to be with you too!” Jared Christensen puts a hand on Sarah-Jane Friedman’s shoulder—then quickly snatches it back when she thumps the crap out of it. “Oww! Jesus!”
“No touchy.”
“Ahh, come on, pal! Can’t we bury the hatchet? It’s not like you can get away from me now. I’m sure J-Man told you we’re rooming together next year—”
“A decision I’m still questioning.” She hits Justyce with the kind of side-eye that could slice glass.
He’d never tell her, but he kinda loves it when she looks at him like that. “Ah, he’s not so bad, babe.” Jus winks and takes her hand.
“Exactly!” from Jared. “I’m a changed man!”
“Changed man, my ass,” SJ says, pulling away from Justyce. She crosses her arms and looks out the window. “I still can’t believe you agreed to let that douchenozzle ride home with us.”
“I’m literally right here behind you—”
“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t be. My boyfriend shouldn’t be bearing the burden of responsibility of getting you home safely.”
“ ‘Burden of responsibility’ feels a tad strongly worded—”
“Well, that’s exactly what it is. We all know who Daddy Christensen would go after if something happened to you on this ride.”
“Babe, relax,” Justyce says, more an attempt to cut through the tension in the car than anything.
Because…well, she’s right. It’s not like Justyce doesn’t KNOW that. Jared surely knows it too because he doesn’t try to deny it.
And now something Jus has been trying to keep off his mind crawls right to the front of it: his newfound friendship with Jared Christensen.
True to his word, after their chance encounter at the grave site of their mutual best friend Manny Rivers, Jus did reach out to Jared once they returned to school.
And much to SJ’s chagrin, the two have been thick as thieves ever since. Honestly, having a little piece of home around has been helpful for Jus considering the two people he cares most about—Mama and SJ—are people he doesn’t get to see as often as he’d like. And while Jared definitely still has a ways to go, he is doing better. In fact, if Jus had a dollar for every time dude said “Bro, lemme know if I need a privilege check on this, but…” Jus could probably cover next semester’s tuition.
Jus peeps at Jared in the rearview—he’s staring out the window with his jaw clenched—and then down at his own arm, where the face of an heirloom watch meant to go to that friend he and Jared both lost stares up at him. Jus can’t help but think Manny would be happy to see the Justyce/Jared beef squashed, grilled in one of those Big Green Egg things white people seem to be partial to, and served medium-well.
“You’re enabling him, Justyce,” SJ continues, snatching him back.
“Enabling me?” from Jared.
SJ whips around, so pissed, Jus is tempted to roll all the windows down so her fury can fly free. “Yes, asshole,” she snaps. “Let’s unpack things, shall we? Why are you here?”
“Huh?”
“Here. In THIS car instead of your own?”
Jared doesn’t respond.
“Correct. Your license is suspended. Why?”
“Come on, S—”
“Can it, Jus. I get that you two are cool now, but him being here with us is very much not.”
“Look, it’s J-Man’s car. He can drive whoever he wants—”
“Stop calling him that!” SJ rages. “His name is Justyce, and the fact that he’s carting your ass home after YOU screwed up is a tragic miscarriage of the concept he’s named for!”
“SJ, I offered him a ride,” Justyce says. “You make it sound like I was coerced or this is some kinda assignment.”
Now she locks Jus in the laser beams of her wrath. “Clearly we all need a refresher: Jared Peter Christensen is here because he got a DUI. Which is bad enough on its own, but there’s more to it, isn’t there? Not only did he try to run from the cops.” Now she looks back at Jared. “Didn’t get very far, did ya, party boy? You were too drunk to effing stand.” Eyes back on Justyce for the grand finale: “He had a bag of pot in his pocket!”
“Marijuana is decriminalized in Connecticut,” Jared says.
“SO WHAT? IT’S STILL ILLEGAL!” (She’s on a roll now.) “Especially in tandem with underage drunk driving! If Justyce—or any other African American!—had done what you did, they’d be in jail. Hell, he might even be dead! But you? Did they even put you in cuffs?”
Silence from the back seat.
From the driver’s seat too. Jus would be lying if he said he hasn’t thought every single word coming out of SJ’s mouth right now.
“Of course they didn’t. You rode to the police station with your hands free, didn’t you? I know you did.”
Another glance in the rearview lets Jus know SJ’s words are hitting Jared hard. What she doesn’t know is Jared has thought about all the stuff she’s saying. He broke down (sobbing like a big, pink-cheeked baby) to Justyce about it a few weeks ago.
“Papa Christensen shows up with your family attorney, and *poof*: what should’ve been a felony charge results in nothing more than a slap on the wrist. You don’t get to drive your little Beemer for a few months, big whoop.” She shakes her head again and crosses her arms. “Wanna never suffer any real consequences? Straight-white-cis-maleness and money, friends. Keys to the goddamn kingdom.”
“Quan didn’t do it.”
Jus has no idea what makes him say it out loud. In fact, now that it’s out of his mouth, he’s sure he wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. Especially not his upper-middle-class Jewish girlfriend and a hella rich, hella white former denier of systemic racism. What the hell is Jus doing?
Too late now, though. They’re both staring at him.
“Huh?” Jared says as SJ says, “What?”
“He’s innocent.”
“How do you know?” from SJ.
“He told me. In his latest letter.” SJ and Jared both know about Quan’s letters, though he’s never really spoken of their contents. Until now, apparently.
“And you believe him?” Jared asks.
SJ turns fully around now. Jus can’t see her face, but whatever expression she’s wearing makes Jared literally put his hands up. “It’s a legitimate question!”
“No it isn’t, you entitled son of a bi—”
“I do believe him,” Justyce says. “Wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t.”
“See?” SJ rotates back forward. “Idiot.”
“My apologies, Justyce. I wasn’t thinking—”
“What else is new?” SJ grumbles.
They sit in a jittery silence for a minute before Jared says: “Forgive me if this next question is also rooted in privilege”—there’s another dollar for Justyce—“but if Quan didn’t do it, why is he in jail?”
Justyce: “It’s complicated.”
“Does he know who did do it?” Jared goes on.
Jus nods. “He does.”
“Then why doesn’t he just tell the cops?”
“Sweet lord, you are so obtuse,” SJ says.
“Dudes like Quan don’t snitch, man,” from Justyce. He remembers Quan’s first letter. How bothered he was by Jus dissociating himself from “those” black guys in Jus’s own letters to Martin. “Dudes like us, I should say,” Justyce corrects. “If I were in his position, I wouldn’t snitch either.”
Jus expects Jared to fire off another oblivious white dude question—“But like, I mean, why not?” would be fitting.
But Jared doesn’t.
“So what do we do?” he says instead.
“Huh?”
“Like…to help him. All three of us are prelaw students at two of the most prestigious educational institutions in the world.”
Neither Jus nor SJ responds. They do glan
ce at each other in surprise, however.
“I mean, we do care about dismantling injustice, right? Should a young black man—a BOY, even!—who did not commit the crime be doing the time?”
Now Justyce smiles. He can’t help it. “Couldn’t’ve said it better myself, dawg,” he says, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to smirk at SJ.
She huffs. “Fine. I swear to god, though, Jared, if this is an attempt to pad your resume, and you try to take credit—”
“You have my word that won’t be the case,” Jared says.
The silence that follows feels electrified. Charged with…hope.
It makes Justyce’s fingertips tingle.
“So we doing this?” he says, meeting eyes with Jared in the rearview before kicking another look at SJ.
Jared’s giant head appears between the front seats. “Whattya say, Sarah-Jane? Huh? You in?” He pokes her shoulder, and she swats his hand away.
“Could you be any more annoying?”
“He could,” Jus says. “And so could I. You joining this mission or what?”
“Of course I am,” she says.
“Yesssss!” Jared sticks a fist forward, and Justyce reaches out to bump it.
“Just do me a favor?” SJ continues to Justyce.
“Anything for you, baby girl.”
She puts a palm against Jared’s forehead and shoves him back into what Jus knows she would say is his proper place. “Keep your pet WASP away from me.”
A single argumentative essay separates Quan from his high school diploma.
As such, he’s sitting in the block study room across from Doc, brow furrowed. The only sound is his scratchy pencil, covering his lined white paper with the little graphite symbols that’ll seal his fate.