Homecoming Weekend (5 page)

Venita placed her hand on Jesse's shoulder. “It's okay. It's okay,” she said. “Come on.” She knew Jesse had an explosive temper when wronged. She was there when, as a junior in college, he initiated a brawl on the basketball courts with some locals on Brambleton Avenue, near campus, after a guy he didn't like fouled him into the fence. The police came but even that did not temper his rage. Luckily, the police were more interested in controlling the situation than arresting him.

This trooper seemed to have a different objective. So Venita tried to make sure Jesse remained poised. One by one, the trooper had them lean against the car and patted them down, a humiliating act that they had seen happen to other people but were dismayed it was happening to them.

He talked into the microphone on his shoulder as he had them stand back a certain distance away from the car, in the grass beyond the gravel on which the car was parked.

“Stay right here,” he ordered them through his dark sunglasses. “Don't move.”

Within a minute, another trooper pulled up with his lights flashing. The two of them whispered to each other before they began searching Jesse's car.

“Don't you need a search warrant for that?” Jesse asked.

“You're driving with a suspended license in my state; that gives me reason to wonder why—and to search your vehicle,” he said, his nose a few inches from Jesse's. “You got a problem with that?”

“I do have a problem with that,” Jesse said. “I'm an attorney and I know we have done nothing for us to be standing on the side of the highway or for you to be searching my car.”

“You're gonna need a lawyer to get you out of jail if you keep talking,” the trooper said.

“Jesse,” Venita said.

“You'd better listen to her,” the trooper said before turning away.

Jesse was seething. When he was fifteen, he had the scare of his life. While standing in line for a cheesesteak one day, he was approached by two Philadelphia cops. They pulled him out of line and slapped handcuffs on him.

In the police car, they explained that he fit the description of someone accused of robbing a woman at gunpoint several blocks away as she exited her car.

“What? I didn't do anything,” he said.

“We will see,” one cop told him. “If this women identifies you, you're going to jail.”

Jesse's heart pounded. He had heard of men being mistakenly identified, yet jailed nonetheless. “Oh, God. Please help this woman see I'm not the person that robbed her,” he prayed to himself. He had plans for the future that included college and law school, and even that young, he knew going to jail could derail his ambitions.

When they arrived to the woman's house, she was standing in front of her brownstone on Bainbridge. The Philadelphia skyline was in the not too distant background.

One officer pulled Jesse out of the car. The other officer brought the woman over. He stood there, shaking, understanding that his fate rested in the word of a woman he had never before seen.

She was old, he quickly surmised; in her seventies, meaning her vision had to be suspect. That made him even more scared.

The woman looked him over, pulled down the glasses that hung near the tip of her nose and made a face that Jesse could not read.

“So, is this the boy that snatched your purse, ma'am?” one officer asked.

She didn't answer. She looked him up and down and focused on his eyes.

“No,” she said finally. “This is not the young man.”

“You sure,” one cop said.

“That is not him,” she said. Then she turned and slowly made her way toward her home.

Jesse was placed in the rear of the police car, where he wept. His tears were from relief that the woman was honest but also because he had no control over his life. It was then he knew for sure he would become a lawyer to defend the rights of the unprotected, the vulnerable. His parents moved to Richmond that summer.

Those troopers reminded him of the officers that randomly pulled him out of line when he was a teenager. And it made him angry. He and his friends watched one trooper pull the cooler out of the back and go through it, tossing aside items as if they were debris. Finally, he pulled out a few empty beer bottles.

“Who drank these?” the trooper said.

“They were in there from the last time I used the cooler,” Don offered. “I put ice over them.”

“Why wouldn't you throw the bottles away if they were old?” he asked.

“Because I bought the ice and put it in the car. I opened the cooler to put the ice in it as we were driving and saw the empty bottles in there. So, I just left them at the bottom and poured the ice over them.”

The trooper was not buying it, but he couldn't prove him wrong, either. And he was so aggravated that he did not notice the vodka in the cooler. “I think we should test them,” one trooper said to the other.

“Let's see what's in the trunk,” he answered.

They then went into the rear of Jesse's BMW and pulled out their luggage.

“I can't even believe this,” Venita said.

They searched the sides of the trunk and underneath, where the spare tire was kept, apparently searched for drugs or weapons.

Several minutes later, they came over to them.

“You,” he said, pointing at Jesse, “cannot operate a vehicle in my state. So, unless one of you two have a valid driver's license, I'm impounding the car.”

“What?” Jesse said.

“It's okay” Don said. “I can drive.”

The first trooper took his license and went to the car to run it through DMV. The second trooper stood with them.

“Where you all going?” he asked.

“What difference does it make?” Venita said. “We can go wherever we want, right? We're free, you know?”

“Hey, don't be a wise-ass with me,” he said sharply.

“Nobody's being a wise-ass,” Jesse said. “What if you were riding with your friends and get pulled over for no reason. You wouldn't be happy, either.”

“But we know it wouldn't happen to you, would it?” Don said.

The trooper approached Don. “I don't know what you're insinuating, but I don't like it,” he said. “Now, you should get out of here with just a ticket—if you keep your mouth shut.”

“Excuse me, but why can't we talk?” Jesse said. “And I should be happy to get a ticket I don't deserve after being stopped for no reason and now standing on the side of the highway as I watch you go through our private property? I should be happy to receive a ticket?”

The other trooper came up. “You should be happy this man has a valid Virginia driver's license,” he said.

He went over to Jesse. “This is your citation. And here's your court date,” he said, circling the piece of paper. “I look forward to seeing you then. In the meantime, if I catch you driving in my state, I'm going to haul your ass off to jail. You got that?”

Jesse did not answer. They stared at each other.

The second trooper interceded. “Now you all go on and have a nice day,” he said.

Jesse stepped around the trooper and opened the door for Venita. He and Don put their belongings back in the trunk and Don took over the driving duties.

In the car, the anger was palpable; no one said a word for a few miles.

Finally, Don broke the silence. “It was my time to drive, anyway,” he said. “And give me a beer, Jesse. To hell with those guys. We're going to homecoming.”

“For a minute,” Jesse said, “I thought we weren't going to make it. I was a half-second from jumping on that dude's neck and strangling him.”

“I could tell,” Venita said. “And you know what? I would have helped you.”

“How can I have a suspended license in Virginia from an address I never lived? That's crazy,” Jesse said.

“You know they mess that stuff up all the time,” Don said, reaching for the beer Jesse handed him. “The best thing to do is pay the ticket and be done with it—but also call the motor vehicles office to figure out how they have you at an address you never lived.”

“Uh, bartender,” Venita said. She had turned in her seat to face Don. “Can I have a Cosmopolitan, please? And not too heavy on the cranberry juice.”

“Coming right up,” Jesse said. “But how about a shot of Grey Goose to take the edge off. On the house.”

“Well, since they're complimentary, I say pour them,” Don said, smiling into the rearview mirror. Venita high-fived Jesse.

And just like that, they were back on track. Their roadside experience flustered and angered them. But it did not diminish the purpose of their journey. They were almost at homecoming, and soon that little incident would be a small but memorable part of their fascinating 2012 experience.

Catherine and Earl

F
our months before homecoming, Earl Manning received a surprising e-mail from Catherine Harmon, widely considered the finest woman on campus by the men of their era at Norfolk State. Physically, Catherine was a gem, an elegant, curvaceous, five-foot-six presence that commanded any room without even attempting to do so. Her cheekbones seemingly were carved perfectly by God to bring out the radiant eyes and sexily contoured lips. Her hair was mid-length, black and flowing, like a calm stream.

Her teeth were like a string of pearls, making her smile practically hypnotic. Indeed, Catherine was like a delicately sculpted mannequin, ideal in every physical sense—only she had blood running through her veins and moved about campus like everyone else. Best of all about her was that, for all her beauty, it did not define her. It was hard to not notice her, but she was as smart and congenial as she was beautiful, so much so that any woman that had a problem with her was all about “hate.” It was nearly impossible, especially in college, to be so well-liked, especially as envious as young women were. But Catherine did not display a strand of arrogance or pretense. She was as close to ideal as Earl—or anyone—could perceive.

Guys expected her to marry Michael Jordan or some other
superstar-level man—she was
that
bad. But she didn't. She married a nice guy and had an ordinary marriage for almost twenty-five years before having enough. Five years after her divorce and four months before Homecoming, she e-mailed Earl, a fellow Business major she knew but did not really
know
.

To receive an e-mail from Catherine stunned him. They had not seen each other in a decade, and even that encounter at a homecoming party was brief.

“This can't be
Catherine Harmon
,” he said to himself when he read her name in his Inbox.

But it was. Turned out that Earl's name came up when she and friends gathered at the Capital Jazz Festival outside of D.C. the previous weekend, and her friends encouraged her to reach out to him. She always harbored a curiosity about Earl, and so her friends' support made it easier for her to make the first move, however subtle.

“Why is she e-mailing me?” Earl said to himself. Then he figured she must have heard that he had his own technology company and she wanted a job. Or that she was so thoughtful to just say “hello” to him. He could not make himself believe that Catherine Harmon actually had an interest in him.

When he opened the e-mail, there was no mention or intimation of a job. She talked about getting his e-mail address from a girl-friend and wanting to say hello, to reconnect.

Earl responded immediately. He had grown exponentially since college. He was considered among the more well-rounded guys on campus: athletic, funny, intelligent. But he was shy. Not to those who knew him well, but certainly to those who were not in his vast circle.

He was tall, dark and thin, considered attractive by some because of how he comported himself more than how he looked. He had
a way about him, a humble and gentlemanly way. He was respected and liked by many.

Earl had friends from many factions of student life: his home-town of Washington, D.C., his fraternity, his roommates, his classmates, his floor mates when he stayed in what was called the New Men's Dorm back then as a freshman, and just about anyone he came in contact with in a more than casual way. And he treated them all the same—with respect and fondness. When it was learned he was considering pledging a fraternity, brothers from each organization recruited him—he was the guy everyone wanted.

Still, he did not even consider approaching Catherine in college. By his own admission, he was not ready for her. She was a woman—poised and self-assured. He was growing into his manhood.

More than two decades later, Earl's growth was evident. He was a man of supreme confidence and relative success in Charlotte, N.C. He was completely comfortable with who he was and believed he could hold the interest of most any woman. He kept his body in shape and looked less than his fifty years. Still, he could not conceive that Catherine would reach out to him.

But that initial e-mail put in motion a reconnection that shocked them both. Their communications grew to multiple text messages a day and infrequent but in-depth phone calls. Each contact expanded in substance and detail, advancing their knowledge of and comfort with each other and their feelings. Incredibly, the two distant friends who had not seen each other in ten years blossomed into friends that came to rely on each other.

It was the text-messaging that got them there. Their expressions in the missives ranged from how their day was going to how much they enjoyed each other to music and movie recommendations to sexual innuendo to falling in “like” to anticipating seeing each other.

“How can this happen?” Catherine wrote to Earl in a text about six weeks into their reconnection. She was on the couch in her condo in Virginia Beach. “I miss you and I haven't even seen you.”

Earl sent back a smiley face and this: “This whole thing, reconnecting with you, is amazing. I knew you in school but I didn't REALLY know you. I had an idea about how you were as a person. Turns out, you're even better than I imagined. You're wonderful.”