Stand Your Ground: A Novel (34 page)

But day one ended with Tyrone and me posted up in the family room with me stretched out and my head resting on his lap. And that’s where we stayed, that’s where we slept all night.

When we woke up on Thursday, I knew there was no way that I could stand a repeat of yesterday.

But when I said to Tyrone, “Let’s go out,” he wasn’t feeling that idea.

“Suppose we miss something?”

“How?” I held up my cell. “We have this new invention. It’s a telephone that has no cord and rings anywhere.”

He twisted his lips like he thought my joke was only kind of funny.

“Look,” I said. “We have our phones, and the news comes fastest across Twitter. We will be in touch. Let’s just go out and pretend that we’re tourists. And do things that we would never do rather than sitting here and watching every second of the clock go by.”

He acquiesced, I guess because the thought of sitting at home was torturous. There was only one problem: I hadn’t considered that our images had been everywhere—on television, in the newspaper, on the Internet.

So when we got to Love Park, which was a place I enjoyed going to since it was where I met Delores, it was surprising when people started snapping our photos. And then we were asked for our autographs. Just a couple of minutes after that, three Brown Guardians stepped to us, and escorted us out of the park and brought us home.

We were back in front of the television and the clock in less than an hour from when we left.

We didn’t even try to leave the house on day three. We just watched TV and paced. Checked social media and paced. Responded to e-mails and paced.

And it wasn’t until I woke up on day four that I realized (with a little bit of horror) that it was Saturday.

“Do they deliberate on Saturdays?” I asked Tyrone. The thought of nothing going on for the next two days already had me shaking.

But Tyrone didn’t know. “I think I heard of a couple of cases where the verdicts came back on a Saturday, but I don’t know about this one.”

Still we spent Saturday the way we’d been spending every day. Just watching. Just waiting. Feeling now like we were the ones being sequestered.

The only thing that was different was when Delores came by.

“Y’all need to go with me to church tomorrow,” she said. “Because if you don’t find a way to have some peace, neither one of you is going to make it through another day.”

So on day five, Tyrone and I rolled out of bed, actually a little excited about having someplace to go. This was our first time attending church in three years—not counting, of course, the day that we said good-bye to Marquis.

And attending the service was the best thing that we could have done. Because love was poured all over us from the moment we walked into that church. Neither Tyrone nor I saw ourselves as heroes—I would have given anything to have Marquis back and have no one ever know our names.

But I was glad that we had stood up because maybe we could prevent just one child from being murdered.

We sat in the fourth row with Delores through the praise and worship and the opening of the services.

Then Pastor Davis stood at the altar and said, “It is an honor to have with us today the parents of Marquis Johnson.”

That was all he had to say. The congregation stood on their feet and applauded like we were special. And we stood with them because that’s not how we felt at all.

When everyone had settled down again, the pastor continued: “These young people, and yes, they are young compared to me.”
He paused through the laughter. “These young people have been through what no parent can ever imagine. And I just want them to come up and share with us.” He looked directly at me and Tyrone. “Nothing too long.” More laughter. “Just tell us a little bit about your journey and what you’ve learned.”

There was more applause as Tyrone took my hand and led me to the altar. We didn’t know the pastor was going to ask us to do this, but Tyrone had spoken at so many places since this all began that I knew he could handle it.

I stood by his side as he said, “My wife and I want to thank you for everything. This has been a hard road, one that so many times I asked myself, why me, Lord? Why did You allow my son to be taken? But then right after that, I had to ask myself, why
not
me?”

“Preach,” someone from the congregation shouted, and I wanted to shout the same thing.

Tyrone continued, “God never said that this walk was gonna be easy, but He said He would take the walk with us. That He would never forsake us. And that’s what He’s done. I’m telling you. When I thought that I wasn’t gonna breathe again.”

“That’s right!”

“When I felt like I wanted to go out and kill somebody myself!”

“Tell it!”

“God was with me. He helped me to focus on His way so that I would do the right thing. Because you know what? I didn’t want to always do this the right way. When my son was murdered, I wanted to murder somebody. But if it wasn’t for the Lord”—he paused and took my hand—“and my wife . . .” He stopped, shook his head, and people stood to their feet shouting and clapping. “All I can do is say thank you, Lord. And thank you to all of you for taking this walk with us and holding us up.”

Everyone clapped again and then he handed the microphone to me.

Nuh-uh!
I wanted to say. First of all, I wasn’t a public speaker. And if I were, how was I supposed to follow what Tyrone had just said?

But with a nudge, Tyrone encouraged me, and I did owe a thank-you not only to everyone here, but to God as well.

So I took the microphone, cleared my throat, and spoke with a little softer voice, and a little more tentative tone, than Tyrone.

“Like my husband, I want to thank all of you for your support, your prayers, and all of that good food that you brought to our house.”

When everyone laughed, I relaxed.

I continued: “It’s been a long walk, but like my husband said, we’re making it . . . because of God. And Pastor Davis, you asked what we had learned from all of this. I think one of the biggest things I’ve learned is that sometimes we say things that we really don’t mean and we need to be careful with our words.

“Specifically, I’m talking about a woman who came up to me during one of the many rallies we attended. And she said, ‘Mrs. Johnson, just know that this was God’s will.’

“I didn’t say anything to the woman because I knew she meant well, but I wanted to tell her that this wasn’t God’s will. God’s will wasn’t for my son to be shot down in the street for no reason. God’s will is not for white men to hunt black boys like they’re target practice. None of that is God’s will and we have to stop blaming our human mess on God. My son is not dead because of God. My son is dead because Wyatt Spencer murdered him!”

“That’s right!”

“Now God allowed it to happen for reasons that I don’t
understand right now. But I know that wasn’t
His will
. Because I know that God cried right along with me and Tyrone and Delores and Raj.”

“You betta preach, little girl!”

I busted out laughing at that one, and I was glad to have that little reprieve. Because I needed that moment. I continued with, “So, if there is anything that I would love for us to get out of this, it’s that we really need to start praying
for
God’s will. Because that’s the only way that men like Wyatt Spencer will pay for their crimes, and that’s the only way we can get Stand Your Ground repealed. Tyrone and I will fight. And we hope you will fight with us.”

The congregation was back on their feet, and when I faced my husband to give him the microphone, there were tears in his eyes. The sanctuary was rocking from all of the applause, and the stomping, and the cheers.

Tyrone held me and kissed me. And it wasn’t some little peck on the lips. It was one of those
I love you with all of my heart
kisses. Right there on the altar.

In front of God and His people, it was just me and my husband. United.

If I didn’t know anything else, I knew in that moment that no matter the outcome, no matter what happened with this trial, everything was truly going to be all right.

Because where I’d come from and where I was now with Tyrone standing by my side—this was God’s will.

Truly, His will.

Meredith

W
e’d been called back into court, and after ten days, Newt didn’t know what this meant.

“The jury must want more instructions or something serious.”

“Could it be a verdict?” Wyatt asked.

“Nah,” Newt said. “They would have told us that. They just said that we needed to be back in court.”

For the first time since this all began, my husband’s friend and lawyer sounded weary. Gone was the arrogance and the surety that I was so used to hearing in his voice.

Maybe it was because ten days had passed already, and when we’d left court on that final day, Newt had been convinced that it was going to be a quick, not-guilty verdict.

But the days had passed. One had turned into two, which turned into a week, and we were coming up on another week. And now we had this mysterious call back to court.

No one in this car was sure of what to expect when the eleven-o’clock court session started.

And I wasn’t sure either. Every day my opinion changed. In the beginning, I thought what Newt thought—that in days, my husband would be home, having completely gotten away with murder.
But then as the days went by, I imagined the jury getting this right.

And it was only now that we had been called in that I really considered the possibility of what it could mean. What would happen if Wyatt went to jail for a murder that he
had
committed?

Is that what I wanted? I kept asking myself that question. To me, it would be the fairest thing, it would be justice.

But at the same time, I had to admit that it would be the easiest way for me. Because there was the other side . . . What if Wyatt got off? What if he walked away, completely free? I couldn’t imagine what that would do to my husband’s mind.

He would turn from just being cocky to believing himself invincible. An invincible Wyatt Spencer would be a dangerous man.

There had always been a crowd when we stopped in front of the courthouse. But today there was an electrical spark flowing from the people. A kind of excitement was the only way to describe it. Like a cliffhanger that people had been waiting to see resolved—waiting to see how the story would end.

Like always, Wyatt helped me from the car before we rushed into the courthouse. By the time we got upstairs, it was just minutes before eleven and it looked like we were the last ones there. The well was already full, every seat taken. And the Johnsons were in their seats on the left side of the room.

Wyatt hugged me in a long and tight kind of way before he took his place next to Newt and the other attorneys.

We rose when the judge came in, and then again for the jury.

I held one hand against my belly and the other in the middle of my chest, trying to will my heart to calm.

“Counselors, please approach,” the judge said.

And I wanted to run up there with them when the two attorneys for Wyatt along with the prosecutors stepped up to the judge.

There was a lot of nodding and whispering, though we heard nothing since the judge kept his hand over the microphone.

When the attorneys turned around, I searched their faces for some indication of what was going on. They were stoic, but I was sure I saw something, a little twitch in one of the lawyers.

Oh, my God!

Then the judge said, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we understand that you cannot reach a verdict.”

I was sure that every single person in the room gasped.

The foreperson, who I would have bet was the oldest white male, said, “No, Your Honor.”

“And I understand that you don’t believe that more time will help you reach a unanimous decision?”

“No, Your Honor. We’re hopelessly deadlocked.”

“Well then, I declare this case is a mistrial. The defendant will remain free on bond until a decision is made by the prosecution. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service, and you are excused.” With a final look out to all of us in the well, the judge said, “Court is adjourned.”

The judge’s gavel hit the bench and the moment the judge was gone, there were pats on the back and shared congratulations between Newt and his attorneys.

Then Wyatt turned to me. I gave him that smile that he was used to seeing. But as he held me, I trembled.

I knew that with a mistrial, the prosecution would decide whether or not to retry my husband.

But I knew Wyatt. He was already feeling invincible.

When I stepped away from his embrace, I said, “Congratulations.” My voice sounded as if it were shaking as much as my body.

“Thank you, sweetheart. We’re going out to celebrate.” Then he rested his hand on my belly and said, “We’re all going out to celebrate.”

He turned back to his attorneys and I couldn’t help it: I looked to where the Johnsons sat, and were still sitting. Janice was in her husband’s arms, they were holding each other up as a woman and her husband’s brother stood over them.

They were a couple in love, surrounded by nothing but love.

My eyes were still on her, when she opened her eyes and looked up at me.

Like so many other times, our eyes locked, but this time, Janice didn’t look away. This time, I got to study her and I tried to figure out what was in her eyes . . . What was that? Pity?

Still she kept her gaze on me.

In that moment, we weren’t friends. But we
were
something.

We were two women. Two mothers. One with a son and one without. We were two people whose lives were forever linked and forever changed.

We were Janice Johnson and Meredith Spencer.

Forever hopelessly connected.

THE TRUTH . . .

OCTOBER 24, 2014

I
kissed my wife, then stepped back just a little. My hands were still on her shoulders, and that’s why I could feel it; I could feel her trembling. The way she always trembled, at least for the past few months.