Stand Your Ground: A Novel (5 page)

“Then the man told Marquis to get out of the car and say that to his face. I tried to stop Marquis, but he jumped out anyway. And then it was like just two seconds later and . . .” She lowered her head and her tears dripped onto our entwined hands.

I waited a moment, knowing she needed time. But I had to know, so I encouraged her with my question again. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she sobbed, looking up at me. “I was trying to see out of the back window of the Jeep, but it was dark and all I saw was the man. I didn’t even see Marquis because he was on the side of the car. And then I heard the shot. I was too scared to move. I didn’t know if the man was going to shoot me, too. So I just crouched down on the floor and called 911.”

I squeezed her hand. “I’m really glad that you’re okay.”

She nodded.

“So he just shot Marquis?”

“Yes. Marquis didn’t even do anything,” she cried. “The man just shot him as he came around the car.”

I still held on to Heather’s hand, but now it was because I thought I was going to pass out. Hearing the way someone had just shot my son in cold blood. He’d shot him . . . why? Did a gang member really just walk up to my son’s car and shoot him? And in Haverford?

But then, right behind all of those questions, I had a thought. Because of the way Heather referred to who killed my son.

The man.

The man, she’d said over and over.

She never talked as if he were a peer. “So you didn’t know
the man
at all?”

“No! I’d never seen him before.”

I wanted to come right out and ask, but instead I phrased the question in the politically correct way. “What . . . what did
the man
look like?”

“Heather!” Her mother said her name as if she were giving her a command and marched right over to the sofa. She stood over us and took Heather’s hand away from mine. To me, she said, “I hope you’ll understand, Mrs. Johnson, but I think that’s enough. This has been traumatic for Heather and I’m sorry about what happened to Marcus, but now I have to look out for my daughter.”

“My son’s name is Marquis,” I said, hoping that my words didn’t sound like the growl that I felt rise within me.

She gave me a dismissive nod and said no more.

I glanced at Heather, hoping that once again she would defy her mother. But even though I pleaded with my eyes, her lips were pressed together as if they’d been zipped and locked.

I wanted to sit there until I heard the answer to the most important question. But from the way Agnes stood, I knew she would not be moved—and she wouldn’t let her daughter be moved either.

So I pushed myself up only because I had no choice, then turned away from the two women. Neither of them made any moves; I guessed I had to find my own way out.

Then, right as I put my hand on the doorknob, Heather called out, “Mrs. Johnson.”

I paused.

She took a few steps toward me. “The man who shot Marquis . . .” More steps brought her closer until her mother put her hand on her shoulder. But Heather slipped from her grasp and came to me. Looking straight into my eyes, she finished, “He was white.”
She paused, then put her sentences together. “The man who shot Marquis was white.”

I took in her words, took in their meaning. I whispered, “Thank you,” then left their home.

But once I stepped outside, I couldn’t move. So I leaned against the door that had been made for a giant and let the reality settle inside of me.

My son had been shot by a white man. And the reason for his death was inside those words. My son was murdered simply because he was black.

I’d wanted to know why; I’d wanted to understand. Now I did.

And the blackened cloud that I’d been carrying since the police had come to my home last night weighed heavier and became darker, darker than midnight.

I
t was only God’s grace that got me home. That was the only way I could explain driving for twenty minutes crying blinding tears and still making it here.

By the time I rolled our car into our driveway, I was exhausted. Grief was a heavy burden to carry.

And now there was a new albatross that had brought a different kind of pain.

A white man.

It just hadn’t occurred to me. Even when we were at the police station and they were asking all of those questions, I thought some kid had rolled up on my son. Maybe it was because the detectives talked about gangs and drugs, maybe that’s why I’d made that assumption.

I was empty of tears and drained of strength, so I had to take a moment before I had enough inside of me to push open the door and swing my legs out of the car. I was still steps away from our front door when it opened and Tyrone came out to greet me. He pulled me into our home and into his arms.

“You were gone for so long,” he said, pressing me to his chest. “I was going to go out and look for you, but then I remembered, you
had the car.” When he released me, he chuckled just a bit, though it was so strange—to hear a chuckle and see a tear.

“I’m sorry, babe,” I said. “I just had to go.”

“Where?”

“To . . .” Before I could tell him my news, from the corner of my eye, I saw Delores, Tyrone’s mother, rushing toward me.

“Oh, my God, Jan!” She grabbed me in a hug that felt like she never planned to let me go.

There had never been a time when she’d held me this tight. Not that I had any doubt that Delores loved me. After all, if it hadn’t been for her, I had no idea where I’d be now. Seriously.

Delores Johnson had found me living on the streets when I was fifteen; I’d just run away from what had to be my tenth, eleventh, or twelfth foster home; I couldn’t remember.

Whatever the number, the Saturday Delores found me, she’d been out with her church, witnessing to the downtrodden and forgotten. They were in Love Park, which had been my home for about three weeks.

Of course, people thought living on the streets was dangerous, but to me, the outside was safer than the inside. I’d had to fight off grown men who always wanted to put their hands on me, and I’d won those battles, giving more than one a busted lip or a blackened eye.

There were always repercussions, of course: I was beaten, not fed, locked in rooms and closets —I was never raped, though.

But I got older, and it got harder. So I left. I left my foster home, left the system, and met Delores, that third Saturday in October in 1996.

She told me about my Savior in heaven and then she saved me on earth.

“The streets ain’t no
place for a pretty young girl like you. You need to be at Harmony Hearts Home.”

“What’s that?”

“My church has a home for people who need a place to stay. If there’s a room, I’m gonna get you in there.”

She gave me her number on the back of a napkin, but I never called her. That home she’d described was just like the places I’d lived. But a couple of weeks later, she came back to the park and convinced me to at least give it a try.

My plan was to stay there for one night. But the home turned out to be decent, and I stayed way longer than the thirty days everyone was given. With Delores’s guidance, I became one of the teen counselors encouraging girls like me to leave the streets behind. I lived and worked there until I graduated from high school.

“How are you, baby?” Delores asked, pulling me from the memories of my dire past into the torment of this present.

She didn’t wait for me to answer, just took my hand and led me down the hall toward the family room. It wasn’t until I followed her that I noticed her attire—black pants, a long-sleeved black blouse. Where was the orange or yellow or red caftan that she almost always wore?

Then I remembered.

Inside the family room, the first thing I did was grab the remote and turn down the television’s volume.

“Why’s the TV up so loud?” I asked my husband, who’d followed us.

He shrugged. “I didn’t even notice.” And then he ran his hands over his bald head. At any other time, that would’ve got me thinking about the things I loved to do with that man . . . and his head.

But now the only thing that move did was remind me of Marquis.

“Daddy, can I shave my head?”

“No, son.”

“But why, Daddy? I wanna be like you.”

I closed my eyes and remembered the pure joy that was on Tyrone’s face when Marquis had said those words.

“Well, maybe one day, son, but right now you’re only six . . .”

A sob tried to escape from my throat, but I pressed my hand across my mouth and pushed it back.

Delores and Tyrone sat together on the sofa, leaving me with only one alternative—the recliner. The recliner that Marquis had bought for his father (with my money) last Father’s Day, but the recliner where Marquis had sat more times than his father and me combined.

I didn’t want to sit there now.

But I did.

Because I was too weary to stand.

We three sat with the chatter from the television slicing through our silence. We stared at the TV as Tyrone flipped from one channel to the next.

“I keep thinking,” Tyrone said as he clicked the remote again, “that one of these news stations”—he clicked again—“is gonna have something”—another click—“about my son.”

“It’s probably just too soon,” Delores said. “There’ll be something on there later today. I just know it. But what we’ve got to do now”—she turned and looked at me—“is start planning the funeral. Do you have a pen and paper, Jan? I can take notes.”

I wasn’t going to begin planning anything—not until I saw Marquis. All I was going to do now was inhale and exhale; that would have to be enough.

It had to be the look on my face that made her add, “Now, Jan, I know this is hard. But we have to do this.”

“No.”

“Yes,” she said as if my word and my feelings didn’t count. “You may not be ready, but we have to do it. Remember, blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted—” And then, suddenly, she crumbled. Collapsed right there on the couch.

If I’d been mean, I would’ve said something like:
See, it’s too soon for any of us.
But I said nothing as I watched Tyrone shift on the sofa so that he was closer to his mother.

“Mama” was all he said as he wrapped his arms around her.

She sobbed into his chest and I wanted to cry, too. But at this moment, there was no one to hold me, so I kept my tears to myself.

I just sat and waited, knowing her crying spell would pass. Just like mine. I let a couple of minutes go by before I said, “There’s nothing that we can plan. We can’t bury Marquis because the police still have his body.”

“What?” she said, sitting up. “Why?” She sniffed.

“Because the police have to finish the investigation,” Tyrone said.

His words reminded me: “There’s part of the investigation they didn’t tell us.” I told Tyrone and Delores about my visit to Heather.

“She said that she and Marquis were just sitting in the car talking when the man came up to them. She said Marquis got out of the car and the man shot him. She was too scared to get out herself.”

“That poor baby,” Delores cried, pressing her hand to her chest.

Grief works in mysterious ways. Because Delores liked Heather about as much as I did. For the same reason. This was the first time she’d ever said anything close to kind about the girl.

“So, just like that?”
Tyrone said, confusion all over his face. “Some punk kid shoots my son?”

I took a deep breath and then exhaled the most important part: “And . . . he was white. That’s what Heather said. He. Was. White. A white man.”

Tyrone sat as if my last words had frozen him, but I wasn’t surprised. Grief had stifled his brain, too. Just like me, he had never considered that the murderer wasn’t a punk black kid.

My husband leaped off the sofa. “Wait! What? White?”

I nodded.

Tyrone stomped back and forth in front of the television. “I thought the police said it was a gang member. I mean, yeah, white boys are in gangs, but . . .” He paused and looked at me. “White?”

“Oh, Lord, Jesus! This is just like all them other cases,” Delores cried out. “We’ve got to call Al Sharpton.”

I stopped myself from rolling my eyes and saying,
Really?

“Well, I know who I’m gonna call,” Tyrone said, looking at me. “You still got that card the detective gave you?”

I paused for a moment, having forgotten that Detective Ferguson had rushed behind us and tucked his card into my hand right before we walked out of the station. I shifted through all the stuff in my purse, found the card that had slipped to the bottom, and handed it to Tyrone.

It didn’t take him two seconds to dial the number. “I need to speak to Detective Ferguson,” he said with authority. “This is Tyrone Johnson; my son was murdered last night by a white man and I need to speak to Ferguson.”

Now I was the one who sat frozen. Frozen and grateful that we weren’t at the police station because with the way my husband was shaking, it wouldn’t have been good for him or for the detectives.

“Yes, this is Tyrone Johnson. I spoke to you about my son, Marquis Johnson.” Tyrone didn’t even pause before he said, “And I want to know if you arrested the white man who murdered him.”

A pause.

“What do you mean you don’t want me to say ‘murdered’?” Tyrone’s voice rose but I didn’t try to stop him the way I did last night. This time, I let his rage, rage. Maybe that would get the police to respond.

Tyrone said, “A white man murdered my son and both of us know why.” A pause. “No, you can’t tell me that my son confronted him. And even if he did, my son was unarmed.” Another pause. “Well, how long is all of this gonna take?” More silent seconds.

Then my husband asked the question of all questions. “All right, then, what’s the man’s name?”

I wish I’d been thinking and had gotten the cordless from the kitchen when Tyrone first made this call. But I couldn’t move now; I couldn’t miss any part of this conversation.

“Oh, yeah, right. You have to protect him, but who was protecting my son?”