Stand Your Ground: A Novel (35 page)

How could this woman be afraid of me? Why didn’t my wife realize that she had nothing to fear? I loved her, really loved her.

Especially after the way she’d stood by me.

I pulled her into my arms again, and this time kissed her forehead, hoping that somehow she would feel the energy and understand my love.

“I won’t be too late,” I said.

All she did was nod.

“I love you.”

This time, she gave me two words. “I know.”

Stepping outside, I stopped for a moment and looked back at the door. Maybe I needed to finally talk to Meredith. Maybe we needed to sit down and discuss what she saw . . . or what she thought she saw.

Yeah, she saw me with the bat, and yeah, she deduced that I planted it on that thug. But what she didn’t know was that I’d
only done that to protect her. Because if there hadn’t been a bat, I would’ve been on my way to prison. And who would take care of her, and Billy, and our soon-to-be-born child if I were locked up for no reason?

That boy deserved everything that I gave him and more. The way he jumped out of his Jeep, disrespecting me, raising his voice. Next, he would’ve raised his fist and attacked me. I was not going to be beaten in front of my own home; I had to get him before he got me.

I was just going to have to figure out a way to make Meredith understand that and believe that. So that she would stop trembling. That’s all I wanted—for my wife to stop trembling.

Once I hopped into the SUV at the bottom of my driveway, though, all thoughts of my wife were gone, to be dealt with at a later time.

“What’s up, buddy?” I asked Andre, and slapped him on the back.

He gave me a grin that showed all of his teeth before he pulled away from the curb.

I was so grateful that Andre was still with me. He’d hung in there from the beginning. I never asked him if he’d had any idea what he was walking into when Newt hired him, along with the three other guards from that security firm, but whatever he thought, he’d stayed, and now, out of the four that started, only Andre was left.

I kept him because first, he was bigger and broader than the others and I knew he’d be able to handle himself in any kind of altercation. But I also kept him on my team because he was one of the brothers. Keeping him was like having a firewall around me. When black people saw Andre with me, they’d have to ask, How bad could I be if I had a brother working for me?

So I kept him on for the rest of the year and I was paying him well to be my driver and the brawn that I needed to move around the city.

Not that I really needed this kind of protection. The Brown Guardians had kept their word. They said there would be no violence as long as the DA got me into court. Well, they’d won that battle, and I’d won the war. I was still mad that I’d had to spend all of that money for my defense. Nobody had that kind of millions to spare.

But having millions kept me out of jail, and now it kept the peace.

Andre said, “Another honor tonight, huh?” as he maneuvered onto the Interstate.

“Yup!” I said, hoping that I didn’t sound too excited.

Even though this had been going on now for the four weeks since the mistrial, I was still as juiced up as when I got that first call. This was the third event where I was being honored, but in between those, I’d been on a couple of TV shows, dozens of radio stations, and I couldn’t even count the number of newspaper and blog interviews that I’d done.

And then I’d been offered a new job! My favorite TV news station wanted to hire me as a contributor, focusing on race relations.

“Have you ever heard of this group where we’re going tonight?” I asked Andre. “The Defenders?” Before he could answer, I said, “They’re a group of retired cops.”

“Nah,” Andre said, his eyes still on the road. “It’s not like I’d be affiliated with a group like that, especially not one out in Shrewsbury.”

Yeah, I guess he was right about that. Shrewsbury was nearly two hours away, out in York County. And I bet that while I was out there tonight, Andre’s would be the only black face that I’d see.

“Well, having a couple of beers with a bunch of cops sounds great to me.”

This was different from the other two honors. The Conservative Mothers of America had hosted a Sunday brunch where they honored me and Meredith for being a couple who stood strong and with grace while under all of this fire. And then Americans United had honored me at a black-tie event last Saturday night with lots of caviar and champagne and kudos for all that I’d done. Both of those were classy, jazzy events.

But this one tonight was something I was really looking forward to. Dressing down and having a few beers with law enforcers was exactly the way I wanted to spend this Friday night.

There were a couple of minutes of silence before Andre asked, “You feeling good about the next trial?”

“I don’t think they’re gonna retry me,” I said right away. “Everybody already got what they wanted out of this. The Johnsons and the Brown Guardians got their day in court, and a jury of my peers said I was innocent. We’re all even.”

His eyes were on the road, but he still kinda looked at me sideways like. “They didn’t say you were innocent. It was a mistrial.”

“Same thing. It was eight to four—in my favor. And if this hadn’t been turned into a race thing, it would have been unanimous for me. I know how the jury voted—the blacks voted that I was guilty and I understand that ’cause blacks always stick together. And then the two young gals. You know how young people are these days. They’re for all kinds of diversity and everything.

“But the DA knows that the next time, she might not even get any blacks on the jury.” I paused. “Plus, I’m thinking about finding a way to make a large campaign contribution to her since she’ll be running again. She’s more of a Democrat, but I’m sure a few dollars
from me would not only help her run, but also help her to make the right decision about a new trial.”

Andre said, “You better run that by Newt first.”

“Trust me, I will. Without Newt, who knows which way this trial would have gone.”

Andre nodded. “Newt was hard-core. He tried to tear everybody down and I can’t see the Johnsons wanting to go through this again.”

“Well, a mistrial works for everyone. The Johnsons can claim a win because I didn’t get off completely, and I won because I’m not sitting in some prison somewhere in western Pennsylvania. But it really needs to end here because as long as there’s one white person on my jury, I will never be found guilty.”

Andre waited a couple of seconds before he said, “That’s a sad commentary on America, don’t you think?”

Now I was the one who gave him a sideways look. Was Andre getting radical on me?

But then he chuckled and I realized he was just kidding.

We steered the conversation away from the trial, and for the rest of the drive, we chatted about everything else: my foundation, my business, and how I was really looking forward to becoming a father for the second time.

“I never thought I’d be fathering children at this age, but I got a young one for a wife, so it works.”

Andre laughed. “I see the way you are with Billy. Age ain’t nothing but a number.”

“You’re right about that.”

It took just about two hours until we exited I-83 and were in Shrewsbury. I never ventured this way much, never ventured too far out of the Philadelphia area since my business was primarily for
city folks. But as we drove down North Main Street, I wondered how a Cheesesteak Castle would do out here. I might have to alter the menu just a bit, include something that might appeal more to the folks who called this place home. Like instead of cheesesteaks, I could have chicken-fried steaks. Yeah, a Chicken-Fried Steak Castle!

That made me chuckle just as Andre turned the SUV off the road. The tires crunched over the gravel of the packed parking lot and I wondered if all these people were here for me. Every space was taken with F-150s, Silverados, and Denalis.

I grinned. Oh, yeah, these were my kind of people. There would be no black ties in here tonight.

At the front of Big Red’s, Andre stopped. “You go in; I’ll find a parking space in the back. I’ll be right behind you.”

“All right.” I jumped out of the SUV, thinking how much I loved this door-to-door treatment. I might have to rethink Andre’s contract. He might need to become one of my permanent employees.

Even from the outside of Big Red’s, I could hear the sounds of celebration. Nothing but music and laughter, and when I opened the door that was painted to look like it belonged on a saloon, the sounds wrapped around me. I took two steps inside, and a couple of guys standing at the bar looked up, then turned and started clapping.

That caught the attention of everyone else, and within seconds the place exploded with applause, cheers, and whistles.

I stood there, soaking it all in. No one had even come up to me and asked if I was Wyatt Spencer. They just recognized me—and I loved it.

“Welcome, Wyatt.” One of the men who saw me first stepped
up to me. He was a burly guy, almost a cliché with his cutout denim vest that put his biceps on display even in the forty-degree temperature. And then there was the navy bandanna tied around his head. “My name is Buck.”

“Hey, Buck,” I said, thinking that he must’ve been undercover during his policing days.

We shook hands as the others surrounded me. They had names like Clint and Cash and Dallas. And they said things like “Atta boy,” and “We’re proud of you, cowboy,” and “Thanks for standing up for all of us.”

Like all of the events that recognized my bravery, I felt proud.

Buck raised his hand toward the bartender. “Get this guy a beer and let the party begin.”

The place filled with laughter and then music filled the air. I didn’t have much time to look around, but when I did, this place really did look like an old-time saloon, with its wood-planked floor, red-and-white-checkered tablecloths, and dartboards on three walls.

“So, Wyatt,” Buck began as he slid me a beer. “How does it feel to be a national hero?”

“I don’t see myself that way. I was just doing what was right.”

“Well, you’re a hero to us,” Cash said.

Dallas nodded and added, “You’re a hero to all of America. You put SYG on trial again.”

The guys around us nodded and I did, too. I was glad that I knew what they meant by SYG. The first time I’d heard it at the Conservative Mothers of America brunch, I didn’t know what the emcee was talking about. Thank God Newt was there with me to explain it. I guess in some parts, Stand Your Ground was so familiar, its acronym stood in for its full name.

Buck spoke up. “I don’t know how many times we’re gonna
have to defend it, but SYG is the American way. There is not a state in the union that is going to take that law down. So these niggers better understand, that is our right as Americans. They come over here, trying to change everything about this country. This is our land!”

There was a chorus of “yeahs” all around.

“We’ve got to protect ourselves against these thugs!” someone shouted.

“Yeah,” Buck said. “Anybody coming at me with a baseball bat is gonna find themselves up close and personal with my Beretta and their gut.”

“I’m going for the balls,” one of the other guys said, and that caused more laughter. “Castrate ’em!”

Then, “I’m aiming for the brain.” More laughter. “That’s if I can find a thug who has one of those.”

I chuckled along, but I can’t say that I really found any of this funny. They were talking as if they wanted to use people as target practice.

“Well, all I know,” Buck said, “is that every time I see a black boy from now on, I’m gonna be thinking about you, that boy, and that baseball bat. And I’m telling you, if he even looks at me the wrong way . . .”

Buck left his threat right there, and while it brought on another round of loud laughter, this time I didn’t even pretend to join in. Was this dude talking about every black boy? He couldn’t be.

Lots of black boys worked for me and I worked with lots of black boys through my foundation. All of them were polite and respectful—none would deserve to have happen to them what happened to Marquis Johnson.

And what about someone like Andre? That guy was a good
dude. Were Buck and these guys talking about gunning down someone like Andre?

Just as I had that thought, the bar became silent. Like really silent. Like all talking, all moving, all breathing stopped. All that was left was the chorus of “Cleanin’ This Gun,” by Rodney Atkins over the speakers.

I turned my focus to what had everyone’s attention.

The front door.

And Andre.

Buck took a step toward him. “Buddy, I think you’re in the wrong place.”

“No!” I jumped to Andre’s side as the words they’d just spoken played through my mind. More than one of these guys were strapped, I was sure of that. And I had to make sure no one pulled out anything. “This is my friend Andre.”

Every face twisted into a scowl.

For his sake and mine, I added, “He’s my driver.”

“Oh,” they all exhaled together.

Then Buck said, “You wanna beer, Andre?”

And Andre did exactly what I would’ve done if I were wearing his shoes. He looked around, took in all the faces, studied the scene, and said, “Nah. I just came in to tell you”—he turned to me—“that I gotta make a couple of calls. So I’ll be out in front when you’re ready to go.”

“Okay, okay. Right. Right.”

“You take your time,” he said. He looked around once again. “I’ve got plenty of calls to make.”

“No problem.”

The group was still staring Andre down when he gave them all a final look-over. “Nice meeting you, fellas.”

Not a good-bye was given or another word was spoken until Andre walked out and left us to our business.

Buck said, “You had me worried for a moment.”

“Why?”

“You said he was your friend,” Cash said as if he knew what Buck had been thinking.

I guess he did. Because Buck nodded. And all of the rest of them did, too. And then they all laughed again.

I wasn’t going to say anything, but I did consider Andre a friend. A friend was someone who was by your side when you needed them, and that’s what Andre had been for me since May. He was as important to me as anybody else on my team.