Endangered (5 page)

Chapter Seven

BEFORE JANAE LEFT THE CPHR OFFICE, SHE AGREED THAT ROGER WHITFORD would make arrangements for her to visit Malik.

Earlier, when she went back to Roger's office, he showed her his research. He had been studying the conditions of young black males in America for several years. He showed her study upon study that proved that black boys were in serious trouble. One in three black males will go to prison in their lifetime. The leading cause of death for them was murder; not old age or even disease, but murder. In Philly, 85 percent of all firearm homicide victims were black. Roger said that black males had a greater chance of being shot and killed in Philly than an Afghanistan or Iraq War soldier. If it wasn't murder, then it was a random shooting or some other act of violence.

Now, on her subway ride home, she thought about Malik being caught up in the violence. Whether he understood it or not, at fifteen he was at a pivotal crossroad. There were so many paths to destruction she wanted him to avoid, including this one.

When she was close to her stop on the Broad Street subway, her cell phone rang.

“Janae, we got you in. You can see Malik,” Margaret said. Janae could feel the smile on the woman's face in her voice. “Janae, are you there?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, stunned. “Um, where do I go? How soon can I go?”

“It was Roger. He knows his way around the legal system. He is well respected in the entire country. He is very good at what he does. Very good. I hope you get that.”

Margaret's not so subtle plug was unmistakable. Their quick action pleased Janae. She had left their office less than fifteen minutes before. But sales pitch or no sales pitch, Janae had to consider what was best for Malik.

“Margaret, I am very thankful that Roger was able to do this. I just don't know about the rest, not yet.”

“Well, don't let time make the decision for you. The clock is ticking. If anyone can help your son it's Roger. This opportunity is not going to last forever. Roger will find a way to make his argument with or without your son. You can be sure of it. There are plenty of boys in trouble.
Buuut
, he chose your son's case. This is a gold mine for you. Don't be foolish.”

Janae took the phone off her ear and looked at it and then at the passenger seated next to her, as if he could hear the other end of the conversation.
Did she just say they don't need me? Did she just call me a fool?
She shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Please tell Roger thank you. I'm on my way now. I will be in touch with you as soon as I can with my decision.” She pressed the end-call button on her cell phone. She leaned back into her plastic seat and closed her eyes.

 

JANAE FOLLOWED THE TALL, MUSCULAR JUVENILE DETENTION CENTER guard through a heavy, white metal door. Overcome with relief, she inhaled deeply. For the first time, her feet skimmed the bottom of the nightmare she'd been living. For now, the anticipation of seeing Malik was enough to stop the drowning sensation inside her. She rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans. Her eyes darted from left to right, taking in the massive room. There were square wooden tables arranged in six rows across and three rows deep. There were women her age with wide smiles talking to their sons.

The guard directed her to the only empty table. Just as she was about to sit down, a door opened on the other side of the room. She saw the orange jumper first, and then she focused in on her son's face.

Malik's almond-shaped eyes still sparkled like black diamonds; the same as the first day she held him in her arms. Even from where she stood she could see his jaw twitch the way it always did when he couldn't figure out a math problem or how a toy or game worked. Instinctively, Janae raised her cupped hands to her mouth, but not before a gasp of sheer relief escaped from deep inside her. Her eyes welled with tears.

“Malik,” she whispered.

Unable to contain herself, she took a few steps forward. She wanted to run to him and embrace him, smother him with kisses, but the rules required her to stand there and wait.

By the time he reached the table, Janae thought she would burst.

“Moms!” His voice was soft and sweet to her ears.

She swallowed deeply as tears streamed down her face. “My baby,” was all she could utter. She looked questioningly at the guard who stood next to Malik. He signaled that it was okay for her to touch him. She hugged him fully. Malik felt precious in her arms. He sighed heavily and his body gave in fully to her embrace.

“Sit, sit,” she said as she reluctantly released him.

“Moms, I know you've been bawling like crazy. I'm good, don't worry about me.” Malik had always taken a protective stance toward her. As though she was the one who needed safeguarding.

“It's my job to worry about you, Malik. It comes with the title. Save all that tough stuff for later. Be real with me. Have they hurt you or anything?”

“Naw, naw.”

He squirmed a bit in his seat. He also wasn't exactly looking her in the eyes.

As a young child, when he noticed her sad he would try and make her laugh. If he thought she was thirsty, water would appear on the table beside her.

There were times when Malik would take his pudgy little hands and rub Janae's achy feet when she returned home from work after having stood all day as a cashier. Janae allowed the massages because it was a surefire way to get Malik to be still long enough for her to read aloud to him from the latest children's book.

For Malik, it was the two of them against the world. Janae felt absolutely the same way. Malik would always be her baby.

“Your hair, it's different. Like it's grown a bit?” she questioned.

He instinctively moved his hand through his inch-deep Afro, leaving behind spaces in his hair where his fingers had just been. “Moms, it's only been a few days.”

Janae shook her head. “It feels like forever.” She put her hand on the top of his head the way she used to do when he was much smaller in order to get his undivided attention. “I've missed you so much.” She smiled and then stretched out a few strands of his hair. “It has grown.”

“Yeah, maybe. I think I might grow it longer, maybe get it braided.”

She frowned. “Really.” Her voice shot up an octave. “I don't know, Malik. I like the way you normally wear it.” One thing she knew for sure was that if she pressed the issue he would probably get the braids.

“Okay, look,” she said. “I am sure we don't have much time. There are some things we need to discuss.” She sighed, wishing she didn't have to say what was coming. She held on to his hands tightly from across the table. “I can't afford a private attorney, you know that. I wish I could. I would hire the best one I could find, but I don't have the money and there is no one I can get it from,” she said, babbling pathetically.

Her guilt had crept into her voice—no father, no money, no attorney. When Malik's father decided he wasn't going to do the dad thing, Janae never looked back. Prior to this she actually thought she was managing pretty well on her own, but now she could see the gaping hole in their lives.

“Moms, don't worry about it. They'll give me a public defender. They'll get me off. They'll get me out of here.”

It pained her to hear him talk that way. He was supposed to be talking about girls he liked, school, or sports, not about getting off of a murder charge.

“Did they tell you why they continued your case the other day?”

“Naw. They just said I'll go in front of the judge in a couple of days.”

Janae looked around at the full room. There were two guards that were both some distance away from them, manning the two doors to the visiting area. The mother at the table to her right was close but busy balancing the one-year-old on her knee while trying to get the most out of the time she had with her son.

Janae lowered her voice to almost a whisper as she explained the Center for the Protection of Human Rights. She diverted her eyes from her son to the guard on the door that Malik walked through. No reaction. It was safe to go on. “The man that runs it wants to represent you. Well, not really just you, but boys like you.”

“Are they going to represent me?” he said with a furrowed brow.

“Yes,” she hesitated, “and no. The way I understand it. The organization will be your attorney but their goal is to help a whole lot of boys like you.”

“But will they help me, Moms? Are they going to get me out of here?”

“Is he going to get you out of here?” She slowly repeated his question, really taking in the depth of its meaning.

“I am not going to stop until I get you out of here. I will do whatever it takes, including working with the CPHR.” She looked into his eyes to see if he still had a child's unwavering trust that children naturally have in their parents. “I am going to get you out of here, I promise.”

He smiled.

Janae felt there was something lost already. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I promise. You hear me?”

The guard approached their table and put up his hand. Five minutes left. Janae's heart jerked.

“Come here.” She pulled him toward her as they stood. She burrowed her face deep into his orange jumper and grabbed its cloth tightly in her hands. Her tears stained his jumper. She could feel Malik's tears fall down her neck.

“Malik, promise me that you will not give up, not give in to the craziness of this situation. I am counting on you to have a good life. I want you to grow up, get a good job, get married.”

“Moms,” he pulled away from her, but just briefly. His lower lip shivered. “I don't even have a girlfriend.”

She chuckled faintly through her tears. “That's good, you're too young for a girlfriend.” For several moments, there was complete silence between them, except for the steady rhythm of their hearts. She reached up and palmed his precious face with both hands. She looked him intently in the eyes. “I just want you to have a good life. I love you.”

The guard moved toward them again. Before Malik let her go he kissed her check. “I love you too, Moms.”

She trembled as she released him to the guard.

Chapter Eight

CALVIN ASCENDED THE STEPS OF THE CPHR. THE DIFFERENCES BETWEEN Fox, Biddle & Rothschild and the Center for the Protection of Human Rights were stark. He had become accustomed to plush offices in the heart of downtown Philly, high-powered lunches at the most exclusive restaurants in the city, tailored clothing and designer shoes. It all suited him. It was what he prepared for his whole life.

CPHR was the opposite. It was on the edge of Temple University's campus in North Philadelphia. It was surrounded by run-down storefronts where alcohol could be bought any time of the day. Perfectly able-bodied men, young and old, hanging out on corners as though everything the world had to offer was on those crumbling sidewalks.

When Calvin went off to college he left the neighborhood behind him. He could finally be who he wanted to be. He didn't have to hide the fact that he loved learning. His college friends valued his mind. In his new world, reaching for more than what he had was expected.

As he stepped over the threshold of the door, he was confronted by Margaret. She was standing inches away from the entrance, nearly blocking him from entering. She must have been watching him as he stood outside the place, contemplating whether he should actually turn the doorknob and enter or just nix the whole thing.

The older woman grinned at him, and Calvin took a few steps to his left to avoid making physical contact with her.

“Mr. Moore, you're handsome,” she said, and her grin turned into a broad smile. “Very, very handsome. We've been looking forward to meeting you. I'm Margaret Banks, the receptionist slash accountant slash office manager slash . . . you name it.” She circled behind him in order to grab at the shoulders of his coat to remove it. He stooped to be helpful.

The place reminded Calvin of the Legal Aid office he worked at in his third year of law school. There were few bells and whistles, if any, in terms of the overhead, but the lawyers and law professors who ran the place were extremely committed to the community. He had fond memories of his two semesters working for Legal Aid, his first dose of really practicing law. His clients had serious problems, and little or no money to pay for legal representation. Armed only with two years plus of legal education he helped them avoid evictions; he even worked on a few domestic-violence cases. What he remembered most about those early clients was how extremely appreciative they had all been for the little help they received.

Out of habit, Calvin clapped his hands together. “I'm here to meet with Roger Whitford.”

“I know why you're here. And he is waiting for you in our conference room. It's just down this hallway.” She started walking in the direction she was pointing, but then stopped abruptly. “Can I get you something? Coffee or tea? You name it I'm sure I can scrounge it up.”

“No, I'm fine.”

“Are you sure?” she questioned him like a grandmother determined to feed any and all in her presence.

He chuckled. “I'm good, really I am.”

“All right, then. Do you have any questions I could answer before you two get started?”

He didn't really, but to appease her eagerness he asked, “Well, how long have you been around?”

“I've been around for almost sixty-seven years, but I take it you're referring to CPHR.” She smirked.

He smiled. Her feistiness was refreshing. He liked women with a strong presence and some semblance of a sense of humor. They reminded him of Grandma Pearl.

“We've been doing this almost twenty-five years. And I've been here from the start.” She stopped in front of a conference room. “Roger is right in here.”

Calvin looked in and could see an older gentleman hovering over stacks of files.

Roger looked up as soon as Margaret opened the door. He immediately walked over to Calvin and extended his hand. “Mr. Moore, it's so good to meet you. I've heard such good things about you from Matt.”

“You southern? What part?” Calvin asked.

“New Orleans. I get back there every once in while. Especially when I'm itching for a po boy. I don't care what they say, a Philly cheesesteak can't touch a po boy.”

Slowly, Calvin cracked a smile. “I wouldn't say that so loud around here. If you know what's best for you.” He winked at Margaret and then turned his eyes to the conference table.

“So what do we have here?”

“Just give me one sec.” He turned to Margaret. “Could you get me another cup of coffee, Margaret? And, by the way,” he added, still talking to her, “Janae called. She said yes. We've got our case.” He smiled triumphantly, then looked down at his watch. “Oh, and I need you to get down to the courthouse and file the complaint. I don't want to wait another second.”

Margaret's eyes widened. “Okay, okay. I am on my way.” They shared a smile before she turned to leave.

Roger winked at Calvin. “I'll fill you in on that shortly. Do you want something to drink before we get started?”

Without breaking her stride, Margaret yelled over her shoulder, “We've covered that already, he doesn't want anything. As for Janae, I'm surprised it took as long as it did.” She sauntered out of the room.

“She keeps it all together here. I am the boss in title but it's Margaret who runs the place.” Roger refocused his attention on the stacks of files on the conference table. He patted them as if they were loyal pets. “These, my friend, are why you are here.”

“Let me just say that, um, Matthew has not filled me in on anything. I have no idea what this is all about.” Calvin wanted to put the brakes on Roger's enthusiasm. He was here merely as an exercise in office politics.

“I'm not surprised. That's just Matt for you. By the book. Always straitlaced. He wanted me to have a fighting chance to get you on the case.”

Uneasy, Calvin shifted his stance.

“He is a really, really good guy. I just hope he is not so tight-assed there at that firm that you can't see who he really is. I know him well. He is my best friend.” Enthusiasm was jumping off of Roger like electric sparks. Roger was motivated by something other than money. Most lawyers Calvin knew were in the profession strictly for the money, or as a stepping-stone into politics.

“Tell me about this case. This lifework of yours.”

“Well, a major piece of the puzzle just fell in place right before you got here. We have our client, so now the real work begins. Here, take a look at this.” He pointed a remote control toward the television. A local news anchor talked about the murder of a teenage boy in West Philly.

“That here defendant is our client.” He pointed to the screen before turning it off.

“What I know about CPHR doesn't tell me why the organization would get involved in a criminal case, especially representing the defendant of a homicide,” Calvin stated.

“In a nutshell, our goal is to argue that the defendant is a part of a protected class of individuals who should be helped by the system and not unfairly prosecuted, or, more accurately, damned by it.”

“I need more than a nutshell. Why are you getting involved in what appears to be a run-of-the-mill homicide?”

With his hands clasped and his index fingers pressed together against his lips, Roger studied the young attorney. “Well, let me see.” His pressed fingers were now pointed at Calvin. “Young black males are routinely criminalized. They are suspect simply because of how they look and choose to dress. They are dying way too young and quite often at the hands of guys who look just like them. And the ones who are not dying are living a substandard existence. I am also saying that the conditions of our society are so hostile to this group that in order to preserve what we call”—he made air quotes, dramatically—“the African-American male, this group needs to be protected or we run the risk of them eventually dying out, or, worse, becoming totally irrelevant.”

Calvin cocked his head. “There's a black man who's just been sworn into the highest office of this nation and you can still say that? Let's make it real personal—how do you explain someone like me? I'm black. I grew up in the hood, I saw crime, I know firsthand that public education in the inner city essentially stinks, but here I am, a well-educated attorney.”

Without hesitation and with complete confidence, Roger shrugged his shoulders. “You are an anomaly.”

“What the hell!”

“It's the absolute truth. Some of the largest school districts in the country—New York, Philly, Houston, L.A., Chicago, D.C.—the high school graduation rates for black males are under forty-five percent. Right here in Philly it's a whopping twenty-four percent. If
you
were a teenager right now, right here in Philly, there's a three-out-of-four chance you wouldn't even graduate from high school. You throw into the mix your Ivy League law degree”—with this, Roger nodded his head vehemently—“and, yes, you are an anomaly!”

“Whoa, I don't give a damn if you are my boss's best friend, nor do I care if you're the second coming of Mother Teresa with all your humanitarian work. Don't disrespect me. You don't know anything about me.”

“Well, that's not entirely true, Calvin,” Roger retorted. “I know that you were the only child of not one but two crack-addicted parents. I know you did a quick stint in the foster-care system before your grandmother came to get you.”

Calvin felt like he had been punched in the gut. He clenched his fists at his sides. “Okay, so you did some research,” he said, forcing himself to breathe. “Listen, man, I am sure you are well intentioned. I worked hard to get where I am. It was not an accident. It's nothing freakish. It was with complete purpose. I had a plan, and I worked it. Anyone with a plan—I don't care who they are—can do the same thing.”

“I see you've been drinking the Kool-Aid. Look, I'm not saying it doesn't happen, but for every one ghetto-to-riches success story, there are at least several
hundred
failures that include crime, drugs, and prison.”

Calvin snorted. “Where'd you get that from?” He turned his body away from Roger in total disbelief.

“You're offended. Sorry. No need to take offense.”

“Well, it's kind of hard not to take offense when you basically called me a freak of nature.”

“The reason I want you on this case, Calvin, is because you're young, energetic, and as smart as all get out.”

Calvin wrinkled his brow. “And the fact that I'm black has nothing to do with it?”

“It can't hurt.”

“Let's be real. It's more than that and you know it. Question—what law are you using?”

“What do you mean?”

Calvin cleared his throat, hoping it would take some of the venom out of his voice. “What law are you using as the basis of your claim that these boys ought to be a protected class?”

“Well”—Roger hesitated—“the Endangered Species Act is the foundation of my argument.”

Calvin rolled his eyes as he shook his head. “Man, now we get at the heart of the matter. You want me to be the public face of this case, right? It's less controversial to say little black boys are like animals when it's a black man doing all the talking. I'm not going to let you use me like that. And”—he shrieked, his pulse pounding now—“I don't buy it. I don't buy the argument.”

“Calvin, Calvin, I do not think black boys are animals.”

Calvin shifted his muscular frame, his suit feeling more like a straitjacket than the designer label it was.

“What I do think is that a lot of black boys are suffering and not a lot is being done about it. Yeah, they'll study and debate the problems, but they don't actually do anything to help black boys.. They throw them in jail, and that's killing your community. Did you know that the suicide rate for young black males has tripled in the last decade? It's now the third-leading cause of death for them. Homicide is number one.” Roger shook his head in frustration. “Calvin, at thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen, young black males are being convicted as adults, and they are serving hard-core time. Some of them will spend the rest of their lives behind bars. I don't know about you, but I think that's ridiculous.” Roger shook his head. “We just throw them away.”

A heaviness washed over Calvin. He knew things were bad. He had lived it, breathed it. He had family members and childhood friends who were represented in those statistics. It was evident that there was an intangible force that didn't favor black boys. It started at a very early age, with them being disproportionately placed in special education or unfairly suspended or even expelled from school when other kids would merely get a slap on the wrist.

“Help me out here.” Calvin's anger subsided now to genuine curiosity. “How do you go from wanting to help black boys to comparing them to animals? I don't quite get that leap in logic.”

Roger smiled. “It's simple. The government and society have already settled in their minds that there are specific classes of things worth setting aside and protecting. They have set up a whole system to protect at-risk animals. People are passionate, absolutely passionate, about preserving animal life that's endangered. Even look at organizations like PETA, they have bullied celebrities and politicians to the point where a celebrity runs the risk of getting paint thrown on her not to mention jeopardizes her career just by wearing fur.”

“I never understood how people could have such passion for animals, in some cases even die for their cause, but when it comes to their fellow man, the cries for justice fall on deaf ears,” Calvin contributed.

“Did you know that right now in this country the government actually spends money to protect butterflies? Twenty-one types of butterflies are endangered, and they only have a life expectancy of between twelve days and a year. By no means am I saying we shouldn't save the butterfly from extinction, but when you compare it to human life there is no comparison.”