Endangered (9 page)

She nodded again, not making eye contact. “But we are talking about my son.”

“I know, Janae. I have children of my own. I know this is hard for you.”

Janae pursed her lips, and her brow creased. “Do you even have a son?” She shook her head. “Even if you do, I bet you never had to tell him how to act around the cops in order to make sure he's not hurt by them. You can't possibly understand that. There's just no way.”

The two of them sat in silence for a while before Janae asked, “What am I going to do at this conference?”

“You are going to stand beside me. I am going to introduce you as Malik's loving mother who would do anything for her son.”

“But you said earlier that they would paint me as the ghetto mom.”

“They will. They'll flash pictures of your home as proof. They'll say over and over again that you are a single mom from one of the roughest and most drug-infested parts of the city. Oh, and if there is anything from your past, some dirt that paints this picture even more, they'll include that too, if we're lucky.”

She looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “Where's the luck in that?”

“We need this story to catch on. We're competing for attention with the very existence of the first black U.S. president. And the local news has been fixated on that courtroom murder-suicide. We need as much news coverage as possible, and historically that's not what usually happens with these types of cases. Think about it, Janae. You live here. Murder happens all the time. And not just murder. Have you ever gone to Walmart and looked at those bulletin boards? They have a whole section devoted to missing kids. A substantial number of the kids on those boards are black and Hispanic. But when you watch the news it's as if the only kids that ever go missing or are murdered are white. Hell, there was a little British girl who went missing from a hotel in Portugal; her case got a lot of attention here, too.”

“Why does this matter to you?” she said, frowning with confusion. “I just feel like the more I am around you, the less sense everything makes.”

“Because it's not right. I am tired of living in a world in which how you look determines your value and ultimately your newsworthiness. It's not right. Oh, and by the way, the reason I confuse you is because I don't fit into your racist box,” Roger said matter-of-factly.

“Huh, we'll see,” Janae said, with a slight smile, which quickly faded when she realized what Roger was saying. “Hold up, I am not racist. I'm not even sure if a black person can be racist.”

“Sure you are. And absolutely you can. Well, maybe not racist. I should have said
prejudiced
.” He nodded at his correction. “Yeah, some of the most prejudiced people I've ever met were black.”

Janae rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you, my dear, are trippin'. Just this morning you said to me”—she gestured with her fingers, making air quotes—“‘you black girls.' Now, if that ain't racist, then nothing is.”

“That's a fact and you know it. Black women have a lot of attitude. I personally don't think that it's necessarily a bad thing. It can get you in trouble, though.”

“First, nothing about me is a girl. Second, it's not a fact, it's a stereotype.”

“Touché,” he conceded and threw his hands up in surrender. “We can have this conversation until the cows come home. The point that I am trying to make is we need this case to get as much media attention as possible. The more the better. The fact that the case deals with black-on-black crime dramatically reduces the chances of me getting that attention.”

“So, we'll have this press conference tomorrow. What do you hope will happen because of it?”

“I want to get people talking. I want them . . .” and he stopped. His heart fluttered. He had pondered the question of equality all of his adult life. It was such a simple idea supported by every religion, culture, and the will of individuals. The notion of life, abundant life. “I want them to care as much about these kids as they do about saving animals, or saving the environment.”

“I don't know, Roger, your logic seems circular to me. On the one hand, they don't care because the players are not the right color, and on the other hand, you need them to care in order for this to work. What if they don't care, what if they simply don't care and you can't get them to care? And”—now her voice jumped up an octave—“what will that do to Malik?”

Pensively, Roger uttered, “No, no, people care. Give them the chance and they will care. I'll never believe anything different. They just need to know how bad it really is.”

“What if they ask me a question? I don't know if I could talk on TV, Roger.”

“You don't have to worry about that. I will field all the questions. Just stand beside me and look concerned.”

Roger's bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows arched upward. “It was a really good day in court for Malik. I am not going to sugarcoat this; he is still in a lot of trouble. Though it would have been much more challenging to have his case transferred back to juvenile court than to get it to stay there. Today was about how he would be tried, and of course if things don't go the way we hope that impacts sentencing tremendously.”

Sentencing.
The word sickened her. She swallowed hard against the bile in the back of her throat. Tears rolled down her face. She couldn't imagine her little boy in prison. It would surely kill his spirit, and that would be her failure, not his.

“How do we stop him from going to prison?” She shook her head, determined. “He cannot go to prison.”

“Finding the real perpetrator would make this clean, which would help with the other part of the case. Malik says he doesn't know who it is, though, and right now the police are not even looking for anyone else. They're convinced they have the right guy.”

Janae huffed. “The police. It boils down to the police?”

Roger's bushy eyebrows did that archy thing again.

“The way things stand right now. Malik had motive. There was the argument between him and the victim earlier that day. And there was opportunity. His records show he cut school that day.”

Janae shook her head. “This is not right. There has to be another way to find out who killed Troy. What about what the judge said?” She scrunched her shoulders and held them in that position. “He thought that given Troy's criminal background anyone could have done it. Everyone around here knows Troy sold drugs.”

“That's a theory.” His voice lowered. “It's not evidence, though.”

“So, you're telling me”—she poked eagerly at her breastbone—“that what's standing in the way of Malik getting out of that detention center is a little bit of evidence.”

Roger's eyes narrowed with suspicion. He pointed his thick index finger at her. “Your only role is to be the concerned parent. My job is to build the case. I don't need to worry about Malik
and
you, too. If I need to go door to door myself, I will get the evidence we need.”

Janae rolled her eyes.
Yeah, that would go over real well. The concerned neighbors will just open up to the strange white guy.

“Okay, Roger, whatever you say.”

Chapter Thirteen

A WHITE BANNER, EMBLAZONED WITH THE CPHR LOGO IN VARIOUS SIZES, draped the back wall where the press conference was to be held. The room was the smallest conference space available at the hotel, which was just down the street from the courthouse. The room had only a small wooden podium in it, and standing space for no more than ten people.

Roger stood at the podium with his face buried in his notes. He flipped back and forth through the stack of papers, ignoring Janae, who was standing right next to him.

She prayed to God that this would be her first and last press conference. She was petrified as if she was being hauled off for slaughter.

“When this starts, make sure you are standing right next to me. And try your best to look confident and calm, and look straight into the camera,” Roger clipped, immediately going back to flicking the pages of his notes.

“Okay,” Janae said, sensing that something was wrong. She closed her eyes and tried to shake off the doomed feeling she woke up with that morning.

Reporters and video crews started to stream into the room, and Janae's chest grew tighter. The lights in the cramped space glared, making her feel completely exposed.

She pressed her eyes shut, again.
Help me be strong for Malik
.

The podium separated Janae and Roger from the reporters, but they were still so close she swore she could feel their breath on her skin, stale hot breath that was now making her nauseous on top of her nervousness.

One reporter eyed his watch while two others talked on their cell phones in rushed voices. Janae noticed one guy who wore a black jacket with a Channel 10 insignia on it. Every once in a while she would catch him staring at her, and then he would jot down a few notes on a small pad. She tried to ignore him, but he wouldn't stop staring and then jotting down more notes. She could feel her nostrils flare a bit. Under different circumstances she would have been tempted to snatch that damn pad away from him. Now, she just shifted her body away from him to obstruct his dead-on view.

Roger leaned toward her and smiled tightly. “Here we go.” He held up his hands to the audience of ten. “Let's get started. I want to thank all of you for coming to this press conference. I know every one of you in here in some capacity or other, and I want you to know that I appreciate your interest. First I want to tell you what the CPHR is up to, and then I will take your questions.”

“Who is this you have beside you, Roger?”

Janae didn't flinch. It was the Channel 10 reporter. She was determined to look directly at the camera, the way Roger had instructed her earlier.

“Just give me a sec and all will become clear. I gather most of you were just at the DA's press conference.”

Ah, that's what it was,
Janae thought,
that's what that funky vibe was all about.

“I was told that the office announced its new effort to ‘get tough' on juveniles who commit adult crimes. That they've decided to create a special unit so that they can up the ante on the number of these defendants being prosecuted as adults.” There was an edge to Roger's voice, and his cheeks were a bit flushed with anger.

“Let me begin by saying that what the DA is doing is fundamentally flawed. The goal of the Pennsylvania juvenile justice system is three-pronged.” He held up his right index finger. “First, it must protect the community. Second, it must impose accountability. But there is a third charge that is equally important, and that is to restore the juvenile—that's the child we're talking about here—to a place where he can be a functional and productive citizen in his community once he has paid his debt to society. The DA's office is being tragically shortsighted in its goal. To aggressively go after more and more of these kids and try them as adults when it has been scientifically proven that emotionally and mentally they are not equivalent to adults is to truly turn them into criminals. They plan to lock these kids up for five, ten, fifteen years with actual adult criminals. The problem is, when they come out they are adults. Really young ones twenty-five, thirty, and what are we going to do then when they really have been criminalized by the system we've housed them in?” He raised his open right hand at the reporters. “That's all I am going to say on that subject for now. We at the CPHR”—he turned his body slightly and pointed to the banner behind them—“we have a bit of news ourselves. The CPHR is representing a juvenile in one of the more recent homicides in this city. The DA intends to try our fifteen-year-old client as an adult on a charge of first-degree murder. However, he is currently in the juvenile system, and our plan is to keep it that way.”

“But shouldn't he be in adult court with the other teenage murderers that the DA mentioned who are, literally, terrorizing communities?” asked a reporter.

The reporter may as well have taken a knife and stabbed Janae in the heart, speaking of Malik as a murderer.
You don't know my son. You don't know his heart. He could never do what they have accused him of.

Roger kept talking, as if the reporter had never parted his lips. “It is our position that my client is innocent of these charges, and we intend to make sure that by the end of this case the evidence will bear this out.”

Janae reached for Roger's hand and squeezed it.
He finally called Malik innocent
.

With his free hand he patted their embraced hands and then pulled her closer to him and the podium. “This is my client's mother, Janae Williams. That's J-A-N-A-E. She is here to support her son.” Roger paused. Releasing Janae's hand, he leaned forward pointing at the reporters. “Now, let me be clear. In no way do I support, condone, or acquiesce to the use of my client's name simply because I have told you his mother's name. It's poor journalism when the media exposes a child to condemnation and stigma when the system hasn't even determined yet that he's done anything wrong.”

“His name is already out there,” one reporter shouted.

“There's no need to perpetuate the wrong,” Roger retorted.

“Why the press conference, Roger? Murders happen in this city practically every day. Why is the CPHR getting involved in a homicide, and why this case?”

“Jerry, those are excellent questions. Murder does happen in Philly practically every day. You're right. We need to start asking ourselves why. Too often the focus becomes prison. Build more prisons for the prisoners. It's not working. In fact, the problem is getting worse. The victims and the alleged perpetrators are getting younger and younger. And what is the DA's response? Let's charge them as adults. Let's ignore the fact that they are not fully developed and are not capable of thinking and processing decisions the way adults do. Let's throw them in prison and ensure that if they ever get out, they really
will
be criminals.”

“So what's the solution? We can't have these kids taking over the city, terrorizing anyone who has the misfortune to cross their paths,” said the same reporter sarcastically.

“Let's get real, Jerry, the chances of you becoming a victim, a white middle-aged guy who probably lives in the suburbs, are slim to none. We are talking about young black boys who are victimizing young black boys. So you asked earlier why the CPHR is getting involved in a homicide case; here's the reason: it is our position that the DA's office and the criminal justice system as a whole deal unjustly with black boys. And the consequence has been that a whole generation of black males is endangered and should be afforded protection under the laws of our land. We also filed a companion case in federal court seeking to broaden the scope of the current Endangered Species Act to include threatened human life. All of this to address the dire conditions that too many young black boys face on a daily basis in this country.”

The guy from Channel 10 had an aggressive glare in his eye. “Is it your position that they should somehow be exempt from the consequences of their actions? Under this broadened law, would they be protected from a murder charge if they've committed a murder?”

The entire time he spoke, his eyes were locked on Janae.

Roger leaned into the podium. His voice boomed through the microphone: “There are two important words here.
Endangered
and
protection
. In this country when a species is endangered what do we do?” He paused and the reporters looked at each other.

“I'll tell you. We seek to protect it. And why do we protect it? Because it has value. Imagine a world where there is no tiger. They are endangered. Already three types of tigers no longer exist. Imagine if they were all gone. Do you remember the first time you saw one? Do you remember trips to the zoo, the way they would pace and arch their majestic backs? And if we got lucky they would open their ferocious mouths in a yawn and then we could really see the threat and beauty of them? How would you describe the extinct tiger to your future grandchildren if we as a society didn't take efforts to save the tiger now? Much like the tiger, African-American boys are endangered. And if we don't do something about it, they could share the fate of those long-lost tigers.”

“Just so I am clear,” the Channel 10 reporter said. “You are claiming that black boys are animals that need protecting.”

Roger frowned. “Yes. Yes, that is exactly what I am saying. But we are all animals, aren't we?”

“Why should they be protected, any more than other kids who have committed a crime?” another reporter questioned.

Roger looked at him intently, begging him to get it, not as a reporter, but as a man, a fellow human being. “Because they are the ones endangered. It's not even close, the number of black boys we are losing to violence, illiteracy, and drugs, on a daily basis, compared to white boys. It's a crisis that is staring us dead on. Why should we care about tigers existing more than our fellow human beings who can think and reason and if given the right opportunities help solve the great mysteries of the world?”

“If they were that great at reasoning, then maybe they wouldn't be endangered,” the Channel 10 guy offered, with a smirk of amusement. “Just maybe a little Darwinism is at play here. Maybe they don't survive because they are not fit—”

“You racist bastard! You actually believe that nonsense—that kids like my son are inferior because of the color of their skin!” Janae exploded into the microphone. The rumbling of her voice was followed by the thunderous sound of her amplified movement. Beads of sweat formed on her brow. Her dress clung to her, the unnatural fibers responding to the moisture that seemed to spill out of every pore on her body. Her chest was burning as if her heart was on fire.

Photographers snapped numerous photos.

Roger tugged at her arm. Instinctively, he reached for the closest mic and covered it with his fist.

“Do you like your attorney comparing your son to an animal?” a voice bellowed from the crowd of reporters. It seemed like there were more than ten now, their microphones and cameras aggressively angling toward Janae.

She shook her head uncontrollably. “No! No!”

Roger gripped Janae's waist, blocking her from the journalist. “This press conference is over.”

“I think I heard her say no,” said one of the reporters. “Why are you making an argument, Roger, that your client disagrees with?”

“No, no, that's not what I meant.” Janae forced her way around Roger, anxious to set the record straight. But Roger pressed Janae closer to him, trying desperately to silence her. He held up his free hand. “I want to thank you all for coming . . .”

He didn't let Janae go as he gathered his notes. He glanced behind him in search of a second exit from this pillbox of a space. The energy in the room had risen considerably. The podium no longer served as a divider between Roger and Janae and the reporters. One of the closest reporters shoved a small silver box in Janae's face.

“What are your thoughts on the DA's move to step up its efforts to try more and more juveniles, like your son, as adults. Do you think it's a racist policy?”

Janae tilted her head to get more than a side view of Roger. Her breathing was beginning to return to normal. The chaotic emotions she had been carrying around had made their escape. She felt suddenly an odd sense of control over her life. She reached for the microphone briefly tugging against Roger's soft pull of resistance.

She looked straight into the camera. “All I know for sure is that my son is innocent of this horrific crime. I also know that he is very much a kid and should be treated as one,” she said and smiled softly, revealing just how beautiful she was. “Malik would be totally embarrassed if he heard me say this, but he still has his very first security blanket. Please, please don't paint him as a monster. He's not. He's not.” She released the microphone and turned away from the camera. She removed Roger's hand from her waist and the two of them made their way out of the conference room.

 

ROGER'S FACE WAS NEARLY CRIMSON BY THE TIME HE AND JANAE REACHED his car. He snatched the back passenger door open and flung his briefcase onto a stack of papers. He turned to her, with one hand on the hood of the car to support his weight.

“What the hell do you call that, Janae?”

She covered her face with her hands and leaned back heavily onto the car. When she removed them, her eyes were red and swollen with tears. “I'm so sorry. I blew it, Roger. Plain and simple.”

“You sure did.” White puffs of air escaped his nostrils and mouth. “That little outburst of yours—” He looked at her intently. “Make it your last.”

She nodded her head eagerly in agreement. “It won't happen again. I promise you.”

“No, Janae, promise
yourself
.” He sighed, followed by a lengthy pause. “Well, do you need a ride home or something?”