by Nic Stone
And like, none of that is an excuse, but now that I find myself with all these people in my life who believe I’ve got some good in me and want to see me live it out…well, I’m scared, man. I don’t even know who I AM right now, writing you all this feely shit, but it’s true.
Ms. Adrienne (ain’t no way I can call that lady JUST by her first name!) made a statement at the end of our meeting that still has me shook: “We’re on your side, Quan. Our goal is to get you out of here and reintegrated into society as a vital contributor to the betterment of the world.”
But what if I can’t “reintegrate,” Justyce? What even do I have TO “contribute”? It’s not like I haven’t tried to be and do good. Like yeah, when I was like fourteen, fifteen, I stopped caring cuz it didn’t really seem like anybody cared about ME. But it took some years for me to get to that point, you know? Years of caring. And trying. And failing. And not knowing what to do about it or how to fix it. Cuz I was trying, Justyce. I was trying so damn hard.
Like I’m looking back now, and SO MANY OF US who wind up in here really did WANT to do shit the right way and be “successful.” But there’s so many other things dudes like us be contending with. Again, not saying that’s an excuse, but I also can’t sit here and pretend like the shit doesn’t matter.
It’s this new dude on my cellblock, Berto. Latino dude. He’s been here for about a month now. I got him talking the other day—bruh, dude didn’t talk to NOBODY his first few weeks up in here—and he’s 16 and in for a murder charge as well. But he was telling me how growing up, he was this real good kid, until some stuff happened in his family.
So he went looking for a new family. Like a lot of us do. Same story with another dude we call Stacks. He’s constantly talking about “this guy” he knows (aka himself) and how “he was workin’ to become a musician,” but “he was young and ain’t have no guidance”; how “he just wanted a family so he went and found one,” but then “he got in trouble doing family shit.”
And that’s what it comes down to. We find the families we were desperate for and learn different ways of going about things. Ways that sometimes land us in places/positions we don’t really wanna be in.
What if I can’t shake that? What if I get outta here and then wind up in the wrong place at the wrong time again? What if I disappoint everybody going to bat for me right now? What do I even have to offer the world, Justyce? Like if I get out for REAL for real, what am I actually gonna DO?
And I hate that I’m even thinking about this shit. That I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay outta trouble.
That I’m even considering what life will be like back on the outside.
Because what if this doesn’t work and “hope” fails me again and I get locked up…for life?
I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle that, man.
Sincerely,
Quan
Despite being here to oppose him in a sense, Justyce would be lying if he said he wasn’t in awe of Attorney Marcus Anthony Baldwin Sr. The DA is tall and fit and stately. Warm, but clearly about his business. Jovial, but take-no-shit. A man whose presence commands full attention and utmost respect.
And he’s black.
Justyce is sure he didn’t imagine the little flicker of pride on the man’s face when Attorney Friedman introduced Justyce as one of her “undergraduate interns who just completed his first prelaw year at Yale.”
And now? Justyce has the man’s full attention.
“So you’ve been in communication with the defendant, young man?” the DA asks.
“Yes, sir. I have. We’ve known each other since childhood but began corresponding through letters in January.”
“Do you intend to enter any of these letters into evidence, Adrienne?”
“I do not.”
The DA’s head tilts just the slightest bit. “You don’t?”
“Genuinely don’t think it’ll be necessary,” Attorney Friedman says.
Attorney Baldwin: “Interesting.”
“We’re actually here about some things he expressed to me in person,” Justyce continues.
“In person?”
“Yes, sir. I paid him a visit at the detention center about a week ago, and he shared some information that I believe warrants further investigation.”
Now Attorney Baldwin leans back in his fancy leather desk chair. Clasps his hands over his midsection. “I’m listening.”
“Well, the first thing he said is that the firearm found at the scene and used to identify him wasn’t the one that fired the fatal shot.”
Baldwin’s eyebrows leap up to attention.
“Do you know if ballistics were run, Marcus?” Attorney Friedman says. “I didn’t see any reports in the files that were turned over to me. There’s a confession on record, yes, but considering the severity of the charges here, I feel it vital to carry out a full investigation with due diligence.”
Baldwin puts his hands up. “I hear you. It’ll probably take a few weeks, but I’ll make sure the proper tests are ordered. However, as you just mentioned, with an admission of guilt on file—”
“That’s the other thing,” Justyce says, cutting Attorney Baldwin off.
And immediately regretting it. “Oh, man. My apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to—”
“Go on, Mr….McAllister, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Uhhh…” Now Jus has to get back on his game. He clears his throat. “As I was saying, when I last spoke with Vernell, we had a brief discussion about the particulars of his confession, and…well, I think the circumstances surrounding said confession could use a closer look.”
“And what exactly would we be looking for, Mr. McAllister?”
Without thinking, Justyce looks at Attorney Friedman.
“You’re in my office with my full consideration, Mr. McAllister. You don’t need Attorney Friedman’s permission to speak. Go on, please.”
Justyce takes a deep breath. “Based on what Qua—I mean Vernell told me, sir, I think his Miranda rights may have been violated.”
Now Justyce really has the DA’s “full consideration.” Feels like he’s on a slide that’s just been clipped into place beneath the lens of a microscope. “Is that right?” the man says, picking up a pair of glasses from the desk and sliding them onto his face before opening a drawer to pull out a legal pad. (Justyce almost laughs at this.)
“Yes, sir.”
Attorney Baldwin scribbles some stuff. “Well, you have my word that we will thoroughly investigate the matters you’ve brought to my attention.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Baldwin tosses his pen on the desk, removes his glasses, and looks Jus in the eye. Jus wants to look away posthaste but forces himself not to.
“You picked a good one, Adrienne,” Baldwin says.
“Don’t I know it,” from Attorney Friedman.
“You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, Mr. McAllister,” Attorney Baldwin continues. “Vernell’s lucky to have you as a friend. It’s unfortunate, but in the majority of cases like this one, the young men involved don’t have any true advocates. I commend you for coming forward.”
“Just don’t want to see another African American boy wind up in prison, especially for a crime he didn’t commit,” Jus replies, feeling a burst of boldness shoot up inside him, strong and steady. “As a person committed to the dispensation of true justice, I hope you feel the same way, sir.”
Attorney Baldwin draws back the teeniest bit and blinkblinkblinks. And out of the corner of his eye, Justyce sees Mrs. F “cough” into her fist.
“Ahh…” Attorney Baldwin clears his throat. “Yes. I most certainly do, young man.”
“Thrilled to hear it.”
There’s a beat of silence that feels to Justyce like an invisible balloon full of confetti is ab
out to burst overhead and shower the room in his sense of triumph. Then:
“Is there anything else I can do for the two of you?” from Attorney Baldwin.
“I think that covers everything, sir,” Jus replies.
And Mrs. F just grins.
Despite the “meeting” Quan was pulled into—with Liberty and Tay—in preparation for this week’s visitor, each step up the corridor makes him feel that much closer to the chopping block for a beheading.
(Maybe shouldn’t’ve read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland last night.)
It’s gotta be bad.
Like has to be.
It’s not just the fact that she hasn’t visited once in the twenty-one months he’s been in here.
She also never answers when he calls—which he made a point of doing at least once every couple weeks for the entire first year he was locked up.
She hasn’t sent any letters. Or care packages.
Which means whatever she’s coming to tell Quan is so bad,
she feels the need to say it
to
his
face.
And he ain’t ready.
But it doesn’t matter. Because the superintendent has stopped and the door is opening and her chin is lifting. Eyes widen, mouth opens—
“Ain’t got all day, Banks…,” the superintendent says.
Because Quan’s still standing in the doorway.
Looking at his mama. His mama whose chin seems to be quivering in time with the drumroll sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. He can’t even force down one of his special recentering breaths the way Tay told him to when she and Liberty were “preparing” him.
The meeting/session/whatever the hell you wanna call it was strange for Quan. It was his first time in who-knows-how-long sharing a space with two women at once, and seeing the rapport between them, the way they fed off each other in pursuit of “the optimal circumstances” for his “mental and emotional well-being” shook him down to his molecules.
“So,” Liberty said as she sat down across from him in one of the cushy chairs that takes up the center of the office space where Quan has his regular counseling sessions with Tay.
(Libz was wearing this long yellow dress and had her hair tied up in this dope wrap-thing that reminded Quan of the kente-print shirts Martel sometimes wore. Made Quan feel he was being addressed by the sun. Actually makes him feel a little better in this moment to think about her.)
“First I want to apologize for inserting myself into your weekly session,” Liberty began.
(Like I mind, Quan thought.)
“But Tay and I agreed that this was important enough to break with routine,” she continued.
Tay nodded.
Quan smiled. Basking in the sunlight.
And then:
“Your mom called the facility to ask about visitation hours,” Liberty said.
Quan went hot all over.
“Ms. Bernice, who works at the front desk and received the call, immediately reached out to me after checking the visitation log and seeing that this would be your mom’s first time coming.”
“And then Libby immediately reached out to me,” Tay said.
Over the next hour, they “discussed.” Was Quan okay taking the visit? (He was allowed to refuse.) Did he feel ready to see his mother? Was there anything he wanted to talk about or work through prior? Did he have any questions?
And he did:
Why now?
What does she want?
Does this mean she still cares?
Then why don’t she answer my calls?
But he didn’t ask any of them. Because the overriding one is still clanging around in his brain like an eight-alarm fire alert as he crosses the visitation space:
What happened?
She doesn’t get up when he reaches the table, and it occurs to Quan how good it is that the thing is cemented to the ground. Because watching her sit there and cry like she’s suddenly moved by the sight of him makes Quan want to flip the whole shit over.
He sits without a word.
Even with her brown skin, Quan can see the dark circles beneath her eyes. She’s lost weight too. More gray in her hair.
She wipes her face and smiles. Sort of.
And then they just sit. For who knows how long.
Staring.
At each other.
Quan’s certainly not gonna be the one to break the silence so—
“Gabe misses you,” his mama says, and she might as well have dropped a bucket of ice water on his head.
He’d get up and walk away if not for the fact that it’s his mama.
And beneath all his fury,
he still wants her to love him.
“What you here for, Ma?” he says, and her gaze plummets to the table. Through the table, even.
“I’m not tryna be rude,” Quan goes on, “but in all honesty, you popping up out the blue like this has me a little shaken. So if we could avoid dragging this whole thing out—”
Quan stops, not wanting to go any further. He’s sure that stung—it pricked his throat on the way up. He knows if he keeps talking, all the mama-related rage he hasn’t gotten to in his sessions with Tay will shoot off his tongue in sharp-edged words.
Mama sighs. “Your sister is sick, LaQuan.”
“Huh?”
(Though of course he heard exactly what she said.)
(He wasn’t expecting her to just give in to his…aggression.)
“Dasia was diagnosed with leukemia a few weeks ago.”
Now Quan has
NO IDEA
what to say.
“It’s pretty aggressive, and she starts chemo next week…”
Quan opens his mouth to speak this time, but it’s no use: the rest comes pouring out of Mama like hot coffee gulped down too fast, scalding her mouth on the way out, searing a path into the table and burning Quan’s hands and arms as it overflows the edge into his lap.
* * *
FirstDoctorWeWentToSaidTheChemoWasPointless.”There’sNoWayWeCouldGetItAll.SheMaybeHasTwo/ThreeMonthsToLive.”ButYouKnowYourSister,StubbornSinceTheDaySheWasBorn—Ain’tEvenReallyWannaComeOutINTOthisCrazyWorld—AnywaySheRefusedToHearThat“Bull”AndDemandedWeSeekOutASecondOpinion.PrognosisWasBetter—IThinkItProbablyHelpedThatTheSecondDoctorWasABlackWomanWhoActuallyGaveADamnWhetherOrNotMyBabyGirlLivesOrDies.ButThePointIsEvenWithALessShittyDoctor,CancerIsStillCancerAin’tIt?It’sExpensiveAndTime-ConsumingAndWeWereUninsuredAtFirstAndThoughWeGotTheInsuranceNowAndIt’sRetroactive,IRecentlyLostMyJob,LikeLastWeek.JustSoHappenedThatTheNextDay,YourFriendCameByToCheckOnUsCuzHeSai—
* * *
“My ‘friend’? What friend is that?”
Montrey, she says.
(And now there’s a new little stab of rage—and maybe even fear—in Quan’s gut.)
(Ain’t like he heard any more from his “friends” than he did from Mama…)
(But does this mean they haven’t forgotten about him either?)
* * *
LikeIWasSaying,MontreyCameByCuzHeSaidHeSawGabeInThePark”LookinAllSad,”SoHeWantedToMakeSureEverythingWasOkayAnd—
IDunnoWhatHappened…
She’s wholly in her own world now. REliving as she REcalls. Which makes the whole thing, and the fact that she’s sitting here in front of him sharing it, seem a little less RIdiculous.
* * *
EverythingJust…CameOutIGuess,IWasSoStressedOutAndHadn’tBeenSleeping.NextThingIKnow,I’mCryin’AndMontrey
IsHuggin’MeAndHe’sSayingSomethingAboutHow”YouKnowAnyFamOfQuanIsFamOfOurs”And”WeGonMakeSureY’allTakenCareOfMs.Trish,”ThenHeLeftAndAFewHoursLaterHeAndAFewOfYourOtherFriendsShowedUpWithGroceriesAndMadeMeGetOffMyFeetAndAGirlHeIntroducedAs”MyLadyHere”CameInAndCookedDinnerAndCleanedUpAndTheyLEFTAnEnvelopeWithEnoughMoneyToGetUsThroughTheMonthAndIDon’tKnowWhereTheMoneyComesFromAndAin’tSureIReallyWantToBut—
* * *
She shakes her head, realizing where she is, and seems to slip back into her body. Quan’s been staring at her the whole time, and they finally look at each other.
He definitely ain’t got nothing to say now.
“Anyway,” Mama says, breaking the eye contact. “Sorry for shakin’ you up by coming here. I just—”
(Please let her say she wanted to see me…Quan thinks.)
“Well, I just thought you should know.” She sniffs. Turns away from him now. And Quan knows right then he won’t feel his mama’s gaze on him again. “About your sister.”
“She know you were coming to tell me?” he says, though he already knows the answer.
He watches her chest rise and fall with force. “She didn’t really want you to know.”
“I figured. Well, thanks for telling me anyway. Not much I can do, obviously—” though I wish there was more, he doesn’t say.
She nods. Just once.
“Gabe really does miss you, though.”
Quan smiles in spite of himself. “Tell li’l man I miss him too. Imma see him soon—” It’s past his lips and dangling in the air out of reach before he can snatch it back.