A Moment of Silence: Midnight III (The Midnight Series Book 3) (23 page)

Everything I had accomplished and avoided in my young life was now coming into the open. I realized she was correct. What I had working for me, though, was that this was my first and only arrest. I had never been a part of their legal system, or their school system or even their employment system. Even my job at Zhou’s fish market was a cash-only transaction. I got it when I was thirteen, from a Chinaman, who like most foreigners, such as myself, knew young people are capable and
need to work
, despite American ideas and laws forbidding it. I had never been hospitalized in America. There was no medical history for me. I had not been sick or
even visited a hospital except for the time that Naja was born. Back then I didn’t sign anything. They only asked questions of Umma, and required her signature. True, I had translated their questions so that Umma could understand them, but Umma and I do not share the same last name. We are Sudanese, from the “Land of Fathers.” Each Sudanese person is identified through his or her father, grandfather, and great-grandfather. Umma’s first name is Sana. The name of her father is Safieldin. The name of her grandfather is Al Salam. The name of her great-grandfather is Saif. So her true name is Sana Bint Safieldin Abd Al Salam Saif. And the meaning is deeper than any nonbeliever could or would ever imagine or know. Sana means “splendor,” Safieldin means “pure religion,” Al Salam means “peace,” Saif means “sword.” And Umma is the splendor of pure religion, and Umma brings peace, and the sword, well we know that is so necessary to guard peace. Not one of Umma’s names, or the names of her fathers, is my name. My name is only the names of my fathers. On all documents that Umma ever signed in America, she used a combination of one of her four true names. Americans only require two names, first and last. Sometimes she was Sana Saif. Sometimes she was Sana Safieldin. Sometimes she was Sana Abd Al Salam. Sometimes she did not even use Sana, but a combination of the names of two of her fathers. We believed our true names, their meanings and depth, were wasted on Americans who couldn’t seem to properly pronounce any name or thing that was not English. Americans whose names mostly had no meaning or depth. I found that out in casual conversation. Ask an American his or her name and follow up by asking the meaning . . . and there is no meaning, at least not one that any of them knows. Other than my friends Chris and Ameer, I knew better than to ask any African Americans about their father. It was considered some type of intrusion or insult, and it was a question they honestly could not answer.

But there is Immigration!
That thought exploded like a bomb in my mind. Umma and I had recently obtained citizenship. They required a thumbprint from me. We had also obtained passports. My
true name was definitely registered on my passport, and the name of my mother was required there as well.
They won’t check that far or look that deeply
, I told myself. I desperately wanted to believe that. Yet, I knew now that it was my vulnerability, and it was a link that I had not considered.

They’ll see that my fingerprints don’t match anything or anyone in their criminal system or criminal records, and they will stop right there!
I convinced myself. I reassured myself. I needed my thoughts to become facts. As long as there was no way for them to connect me to my Umma, I kept thinking and repeating that to myself.

Fuck it, I’ll choose a new name that cannot be traced back to my Umma, who I have to protect with my life.
I’ll choose a name that completely separated me and severs any connection to my real life and true identity. I’ll choose a name that will follow me for my remaining time living on American soil. The name I choose will be for them. For those who I am certain will only ever see me as a murderer. My true name will remain the name known and used only by those who love me loyally and deeply. My true name will remain the name of my fathers, and most importantly, the name of my soul.

Renaming myself took effort. Even though it would not be my real name, I did not want the name of a fool, a clown, or a sucker. I thought about African Americans and the types of names they had. I needed my false name to sound American so they wouldn’t go searching through immigration records. Names of American entertainers and athletes kept circulating in my mind. Those were the things American blacks were known for.

“Michael Jordan,” I said aloud as I sat alone in the guarded hospital room. He has a father. He’s black-skinned like me. He plays ball like me. He’s a man of action, not a trash talker like most. He went at that game with a concentration and an energy that was unlike any other player. I admired that, to the fullest. More than that, I admired how he gave the game his all, is a champion in his own right, even without his team. He seemed real, faced the same challenges that any and every regular everyday man faced. I remember
the game he played this year on April 20. It was against the Boston Celtics, starring three-time MVP Larry Byrd. Me and Ameer checked that game on his television. I remember the announcer saying, “Can one man beat the Celtics?” Referring to Michael Jordan, who is young, only a sophomore in the league and coming off of a foot injury, but up against some hefty competition and seasoned players. That’s how my life is. I’m just one young man up against some hefty circumstances and some dirty players, but I’m still pushing, working, fighting, and most of all believing solidly that I can win. Michael Jordan knew he couldn’t win by being like every other player or by playing the game the same way his opponents did. He was even comfortable looking like himself, styling his kicks and basketball shorts the way he needed to rock ’em and then reversing it, causing everybody to want to be like him instead. In that game Jordan scored sixty-three points, crazy! He had them Boston boys frustrated, afraid they were gonna lose on their home court, which had not happened to them for a long stretch. At the free throw line, he forced the game into overtime with his accuracy and skill. I smiled. Then I laughed. I loved the way he made them sweat. I loved the fear he put in their eyes. I loved the way he made them hustle hard so that even if they won over him, they had to fucking earn it. I loved the way even though Boston won that game, all everybody was talking about was Michael Jordan and the spanking he gave Boston. A whipping so severe, it was clear that even though they won, he was a force to fear in the future. He would become a record breaker. Even though Jordan was not more than seven feet tall like the veteran Wilt Chamberlain, he was swift, skilled, and accurate enough to break Wilt’s record-setting 100-point game. Young Michael Jordan was the future of absolute dominance. I smiled. That’s the name I’ll call myself, Jordan. I didn’t dig the name Michael, so I’d drop that. Yes, he’s a real man living a real life. He hit 63 points but still he didn’t win. I could relate to that. In his mind was probably the same type of thoughts I had
moving in my mind at this very moment.
Time to refresh, and reflect and strategize and train hard, and go hard, and hit ’em again.
Maybe Jordan was watching the film of his game and thinking to himself, even though I did a tremendous performance, I see a few flaws that I need to clean up and fortify.

I see some flaws in myself as well, as I’m reflecting, but my flaws were a lot less than my victories,
alhamdulillah.

The lawyer returned before I had come up with a last name, like the “two-name Americans.” The names of colors raced around my head. Jordan Black, Jordan Brown, Jordan Blue. Then adjectives started swirling in my thoughts: Jordan Strong, Jordan True, Jordan Power. She wasn’t carrying her coffee cup. Instead she approached me with a newspaper folded and tucked beneath her armpit. She placed the paper on the table, then extended her hand and said, “Please allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Ayn Eliana Aaronson, your attorney. I’m on your side. And you are?” she asked calmly as though I was not a prisoner and she and I were just meeting in the bookstore. Still extending her hand as though she wanted us to shake hands, I extended my hand and answered, “Jordan.” I paused and added, “Jordan Mann.” She smiled. “Six days of silence—I’m honored, Jordan. Nice to meet you.

“Before we get started, I need to be certain that you are aware and that you are understanding me when I speak. It’s really for your sake. A defendant is placed in a completely different category when he is not understanding his surroundings, or is not able to process and understand the words being spoken to him or the charges against him. So, I’ll ask you a few questions. Please answer them as soon as the answers come to mind for you. What year is this?” she asked.

“1986,” I answered calmly.

“Who is our president?”

“Ronald Reagan, and Vice President George Bush,” I answered like a real proud American.

“Who is the mayor of New York?”

“Ed Koch,” I said in an even tone. Everybody knew him. He is the mayor who rides the New York City subway.

“What’s the name of the New York baseball team?” she asked.

“The New York Yankees, of course,” I said.

“Okay, those were fairly easy questions, right?” she asked me. “Now, a few more, which are a bit more difficult.

“Who is Albert Einstein?”

“A genius,” was all I responded. She smiled.

“Who is William Shakespeare?”

“An author, a writer, a poet,” I said.

“Last one: Who is Holden Caulfield?” She looked at me like she had me stumped. She leaned back in her chair and waited as though she was sure she needed to give me extra time. Yet she looked like she knew that even with extra time to think, I would come up blank.

“A fool,” I replied.

“A fool?” she repeated and asked at the same time.

“A fool who some fool wrote about, in a novel titled
Catcher in the Rye
,” I said. She smiled again.

“So you enjoy books?” she stated happily at the same time as asking.

“I read books. I only enjoy the good ones,” I replied. “Is that it?” I asked her.

“Now let’s talk about Lance Polite,” she said, swiftly switching her topic and casually dropping the name of the jackass I had murdered. She checked my face and opened her copy of the
Daily News
to page three.

“Who?” I asked calmly. She just looked at me.

“Very clever,” was all she said, and she lowered her eyes back onto the article. I checked the headline. “Lance, Not So Polite,” it read. And the caption below the headline said, “Man murdered in a public execution at a Brooklyn block party community concert was himself a convict, a repeat sexual offender and a public nuisance.”

I didn’t say anything. She went into her opened briefcase, her eyes taking note that her wallet was right where she left it and how she left it. Her name books still laid out exactly the way she laid them out and untouched by me. Even her Parker pen was in the same position. She pulled out some papers and began spreading them out before me. They were all clipped articles. She had some of the text in each of the articles highlighted with a yellow marker. What stood out to me was one headline that referred to me as “The Silent Killer.” In each of the articles, there was only one photo. It was the same one of a faceless me with my nine in his mouth.

“If you’ll look closely at this article, and this one too,” she said, pointing, “they each suggest that this was a drug-related execution and that you are suspected to be a member of a gang of armed and dangerous men who specialize in robbing drug dealers.” She was staring into my eyes. I was silent.

“I don’t believe it,” she said. “I think that’s not at all who you are or what actually happened. I need you to confide in me so that I can defend you properly.”

Her to defend me . . .
It sounded strange in my head. My gaze was steady but inside I was getting heated. Not at her, but at the insult in one of the news articles. It is definitely not an honor to be branded a thief, even if I was “allegedly” robbing hustlers.

“I am not aware of exactly what crime I am being charged with, or the reason that I am being held,” I suddenly told her. She revealed a half smile.

“You are right. You have not been arraigned yet, which is highly unusual after six days of being held, and I will certainly highlight that fact and challenge that process. Your arraignment is actually where you will hear the judge read the charges against you. I talked to the court today. They had you listed as an adult. And so far, it seems that you are definitely going to be charged with resisting arrest and assaulting a police officer. We can survive those charges and I will defend you against them. However, pending there is a police officer’s affidavit stating that you confessed to having
murdered Lance Polite,” she said, straight-faced and searching me with her green eyes.

“Why don’t you believe it?” I suddenly asked her.

“Believe what?” she said.

“That I am a part of an armed and dangerous gang that robs drug dealers.”

She paused, adjusted her posture in her seat, and said very calmly and casually, “For a few different, very important, and very pivotal reasons, the first of which is because I sit across the table with armed robbers, drug dealers, and murderers every day. I know what it looks like. I know what it feels like.”

I was silent.

“Look, I’m a court-appointed attorney. I’m not sure that you know what that means. I’ve been in court all day today and will do the same tomorrow. I have a caseload of 212 clients. Right now,” she checked her watch, “I’m off duty. I’m not supposed to be here working, but I am. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be scheduled to appear before five different judges all at the same time, nine a.m., which you and I and they all know is impossible. You are one of the appearances that I have to make out of the five at nine a.m. I plan to show up for you if you make it possible for me, by communicating with me and trusting that I am on your side.”

“Why my case?” I asked. I wanted her to reveal her motivations. I had observed that each of the cops, detectives, and other authorities I had encountered so far would mention overtime pay, promotions, credits, benefits, receiving stars, stripes, or medals in relation to cornering and capturing and convicting me.