Stand Your Ground: A Novel (16 page)

He always stopped, always kissed me good-bye.

I sighed and moaned at the same time as I ascended the stairs, pausing at the top to catch my emotions more than my breath. Then, I moved a few more feet and paused again outside of Marquis’s room.

My hand held the knob on the door before I pushed it open. Then, I took a tentative step to the edge and inhaled. It was faint, but I relished the scent, a blend of Old Spice and old sneakers.

“You need to open the windows,” I said.

“Ahh . . . Mom!”

“ ’Cause there’s kid funk in here.”

That had sent my twelve-year-old into a fit of giggles. He thought I’d been kidding; I was not.

I took another step in.

“I’m scared, Mom. Suppose no one likes me at Winchester?”

“Everyone’s gonna love you.” I sat on his bed.

“You have to say that ’cause you’re my mom.”

“But I’m your smart mom, and your honest mom. And everyone is going to see what I see. That you’re a smart, funny, talented, amazing young man who’s as cute as a button.”

“Mom!”

“Okay, not cute. But as handsome as his father. I’m telling you, you’re going to thrive.”

Those memories made me brave and I stepped all the way into his bedroom. After a moment, I walked around, letting my fingertips graze the edge of his bookcase. I paused in the corner and felt the tops of his golf clubs and then I picked up his saxophone, cradled it actually. I held it the way I used to hold my son.

I sat down and remembered the Christmas when Marquis had busted into our bedroom hours before sunrise to thank us for the saxophone that he’d found under the tree. And then, he started blowing into that thing, sounding more like he was playing a bullhorn.

Gently, I placed the saxophone back in the corner, and I lay down on Marquis’s bed and listened to the sound of silence until it became too loud.

Reaching for the remote, I turned on the television, wondering if the protest had started.

Instead, the screen was filled with the image of that photo again. That man. That man who killed my son.

Then the photo became smaller, a small square pushed up in the corner. I’d been so focused on the picture that I didn’t even realize someone was speaking.

A man.

With hair the color of ginger.

And a build like a block of ice.

I turned up the volume.

“We know that once the police investigation is complete, my brother will be exonerated, completely shown to be without blame. It was Marquis Johnson who was the aggressor. Marquis Johnson who got out of his car in front of my brother’s house. It was Marquis who attacked my brother with a baseball bat.”

My eyes widened.

“Busting his nose.”

I sat straight up.

“It was Marquis Johnson who forced my brother to protect himself. He had to do something to make sure that he wasn’t the one having a funeral today.”

“You’re lying!” I screamed.

“My brother is a good man, a devoted husband, a loving father, and he’s been an asset to this community. And yes, he’s a Christian. Killing Marquis Johnson was the last thing that he wanted to do, but Marquis Johnson was a known thug.”

“Oh, my God!”

“And ask yourself this. If you find yourself face-to-face in the middle of the night, with a known thug holding a baseball bat, what would you do?”

He paused for just a moment as if he was trying to make eye
contact with each of the reporters. Then he turned around and strutted away as if he’d just delivered a presidential address.

I couldn’t move, but I looked up; I didn’t even realize I was standing, with my hand clasped over my mouth, until I saw my reflection in Marquis’s mirror.

And I saw my tears. But this time, I wasn’t crying from sadness.

Now, I was pissed.

This man had just told lie after lie about my son, lies that had been broadcasted across the nation. And now, who was going to speak up for my son?

Before I even answered that question, I ran out of Marquis’s bedroom and into my own. By the time I was in front of the bathtub, I was already naked. Under the heat of the water, I remembered that man’s lies.

“Marquis Johnson was a known thug.”

I scrubbed harder.

“If you find yourself face-to-face in the middle of the night, with a known thug holding a baseball bat, what would you do?”

I was trembling when I jumped out of the tub. There was no way for me to move fast enough. I tore into my closet, slipped on a black shell and black pants. I would’ve put on a black veil if I’d had one.

I wanted America to see me in my black.

Dressed, I dashed down the stairs, then paused only to grab my purse and keys from the table before I raced through the door.

This was not a fight that I wanted, but I would fight to the end now. That man had spoken my son’s name in vain.

Now he would have to deal with me.

Inside the car, I bobbed and weaved through the streets and then took I-76, but once I exited and hit Main Street, I was stuck in traffic.

What was all of this on a Tuesday morning?

I circled the streets of the courthouse in search of a parking space. But there was not one available—except for the five or six spots in front of fire hydrants.

“If you find yourself face-to-face in the middle of the night, with a known thug holding a baseball bat, what would you do?”

I parked in front of the hydrant that was closet to the courthouse. Let them tow me away!

I locked the car after I jumped out, then ran down Main Street. But the crowd thickened as I crossed Cherry, and when I got to Swede, it was hard to press forward. I could see the Montgomery County courthouse in front of me. An old building that always reminded me of the Supreme Court in Washington, DC.

But though I could see the building, I couldn’t get there, not through the thick crowd.

Was this all for Marquis? It couldn’t be. Just an hour ago, the news cameras showed empty courthouse steps. But now there were throngs of folks. Mostly black, but a lot of white people, too.

“Excuse me,” I said taking baby steps forward. “Excuse me,” I said as I inched through.

I clawed my way to the front of the steps, but now the people were packed so close together there was no way that I was going to make it any farther, no matter how many times I excused myself.

But then behind me, I felt the gentle hand of someone touch my elbow. Turning around, I faced a man in a brown beret and brown fatigues.

I’d never seen this man before, but from his eyes, I could tell that he knew me. Without a word, he cupped my arm in one hand, and then with his other, he cut through the crowd.

“Coming through.”

It was like he was a “crowd whisperer,” making the masses part. It was more than that, though. Whenever anyone looked up and saw the uniform he wore, they stepped aside.

With this man by my side, I climbed the stairs, and even once I could see the top, where Tyrone stood, my Guardian escort did not let me go. I was about halfway up when Tyrone looked down.

His expression was not what I expected; I’d been sure that my husband would bust out in a grin. But as he trotted down the steps, his eyes filled with tears.

I understood.

And I grinned at him.

I was handed off to my husband, who grabbed me into the tightest embrace. Then, as Raj’s voice boomed through the speakers that were all around, Tyrone held my hand and we climbed to the top together.

The first one to greet me was Delores, and after her hug, she passed me to Syreeta. Even Raj gave me a nod, though he didn’t miss a beat as he delivered his speech about justice for all.

“We’ve had enough of this!” he shouted. “Enough!”

And the crowd chanted back, “Enough!”

I stood next to Tyrone and looked down at all the people. It was more massive than what I’d seen below.

Tyrone whispered, “They’re all here for Marquis, baby. This is all about our son.”

“We want justice for my nephew,” Raj kept on. “And justice is more than an arrest; we have to put an end to this law that allows murderers to hide. We have to get rid of this law that is not about giving people a chance to protect themselves; this is about giving people a license to kill!”

“Enough!” the crowd shouted.

Raj said, “Think about it. This law isn’t asking adults to use reason; our country is saying go ahead and act on the emotion of the moment. We’re saying, ‘Go ahead and shoot to kill! Ask questions later.’ This is legal murder!”

“Enough!”

“We’ve had too many murders, too many of our boys dying in the streets. And so this is the time. Wyatt Spencer must be put on trial for murder and this law must be repealed.”

The steps beneath my feet felt like they were vibrating with the way the crowd stomped and cheered.

Then Raj raised his fist in the air, and the hundreds that had gathered did the same.

“Enough,” they chanted. “Justice for Marquis.”

After taking the deepest of breaths, I raised my fist. And I chanted, “Enough!”

I chanted that over and over, even as I cried.

    I WISH . . .

I COULD

HAVE BEEN THERE . . .

TO STOP HIM

MAY 20, 2014

S
ay the T-word,” Newt shouted as he punched his cigar through the air, emphasizing each word he spoke. “Come on, the T-word.”

I wiggled a bit, more from the discomfort of Newt’s words than the hard cushion of the hotel’s chair.

But even as my husband’s attorney roared as he bounced on the edge of the sofa, my eyes stayed locked on the television screen.

“Come on, Wally,” Newt shouted as if my brother-in-law could hear him through the TV. “Say the T-word.”

Then . . .

“Marquis Johnson was a known thug . . . If you find yourself face-to-face in the middle of the night, with a known thug holding a baseball bat, what would you do?”

Wyatt and Newt sprang up from the sofa, knocking over the chessboard that was on the table in front of them. But neither seemed to notice. They high-fived and cheered the way I’d watched them do many times on a Sunday afternoon when the Eagles scored a touchdown.

Only this wasn’t Sunday. And this wasn’t football.

“He did it,” Newt said as he grabbed my husband in a bear hug. “Wally came through.”

“So it was really that important for him to say ‘thug,’ huh?” Wyatt asked as he muted the television.

Newt nodded, his head wobbling on his shoulders like a bobblehead. “That’s the new N-word. All the white people will know what Wally meant. In their minds, they’ll see that big black boy in a hoodie with his pants sagging and music blasting from a cell phone that’s more expensive than theirs and probably stolen.” Newt laughed. “Wally just scared every white person sitting in front of their TV. And probably a few black ones, too.”

I wanted to throw up.

“So what do you think, Meredith?” my husband asked.

It was a reflex the way that once I heard my name, I arched my back, sat straighter, crossed my ankles, and blinked a couple of times. Then I passed them both the smile that had become my signature.

“If that’s what Newt thinks, then—”

“Okay, so we won this first round, huh?” Wyatt said, turning away from me that fast.

Newt nodded. “And I’m hoping that we won’t have too many more rounds to go.” Wyatt’s attorney flopped onto the sofa next to my husband. “I don’t have the connections up here that I have in Texas,” he said, referring to the state where he now lived. “But I’ve put out some feelers and I don’t think you’ll be charged. They don’t have a case.”

Wyatt released a long breath of relief.

I wanted to throw up.

My husband said, “I can’t believe they gave out my name like that, though.”

“That’s part of the law, dude,” Newt said, stubbing out his cigar.
“You oughta pay me double for how long I was able to stall them. But it’s good. Your name’s out, and now so is your story.”

The sound of barking filled the room and Wyatt laughed and shook his head the way he did every time an incoming call sounded on Newt’s phone.

Newt glanced at the screen. “Let me take this.” He pushed his massive frame from the sofa, then ambled toward the small kitchen in the suite.

Wyatt stood and for the first time gave me more than just a second of attention. “How ya doing, sweetheart?”

I waited a moment to see if he really wanted an answer. When his eyes were still on mine, I said, “Fine.” I couldn’t maintain eye contact with him, though, so I let my gaze roam around what this hotel called the living room section of the two-bedroom suite.

“Wally did a great job, didn’t he?”

I caressed the back of my neck, twisting a bit to relieve the stiffness. But I didn’t say a word.

“Maybe now we’ll be able to go home,” Wyatt said, not noticing that I hadn’t answered him. Then, “Where’s Billy?”

“He’s asleep,” I said, so glad that my son had slept through that press conference. Even at three years old, I didn’t want him to see the way his father and godfather behaved. “I’ll check on him in a minute.”

Wyatt smiled, leaned over, kissed me, and then patted the top of my head just as Newt ended his call.

“It seems your house is still safe.”

“I’m sure it is,” Wyatt said. “I’m paying a fortune for security.”

“I’m not talking about security. I’m saying that no one is there. No one has even come close to your house. There’s nothing. No
protests, none of those stupid memorials with those teddy bears and plastic flowers. Nothing.”

“Really?” Wyatt’s eyes were filled with the same surprise that I felt. “What’s that about?”

Newt shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Whatever it’s about, it’s good. I’m not saying it’s safe to go home, but you might not have to stay here much longer.”

Wyatt glanced around the room the way I’d done just minutes before. “Well, no matter what’s going on, we’re not staying here.” His face was marked with disgust. “I’ve worked too hard to be staying in a two-bit hotel like this.”