From the Desk of Zoe Washington(26)

I blinked at her, surprised by how confident she sounded. “You do?”

“Yes,” Grandma repeated. “Marcus dated your mom for two years, and I got to know him pretty well. He never seemed like a violent person. He was always so polite and respectful. And such a gentleman to your mom. You could tell he really respected her.” She laughed. “Your mom would take forever to get ready for dates. She’d be in that bathroom singing along to some song, putting on makeup or whatever. Anyway, instead of waiting outside in the car, Marcus would come inside and talk to your granddad and me. He talked about college. Said he wanted to travel. One time he helped your granddad fix the leaky pipe under the sink while he waited for Natalie to get ready. He got his shirt all dirty, so he had to run back home and get a new one.”

“Wow,” I said.

“There’s this quote from Maya Angelou,” Grandma said. “‘When someone shows you who they are, believe them.’ That quote usually refers to when someone shows you their bad side, but I think it’s also true when someone shows you how good they are. I really do think Marcus is a good person. I don’t see how he was capable of killing someone. I always trust my gut, and my gut has always said to believe him.”

I nodded, feeling a little more hopeful.

“Then I don’t get it,” I said. “Why did the court think he could’ve killed somebody?”

“The prosecutor told this one story about Marcus . . . ,” Grandma began, but then shook her head. “Never mind.”

“What? You have to tell me.”

Grandma exhaled again. “There was one time when Marcus was a senior. He got into a fistfight with another player at a basketball game.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“The other player provoked Marcus—got him mad enough to fight. Your granddad wasn’t too happy when he heard about this, so the next time he saw Marcus, he asked him for an explanation. Marcus said that the other player, who was white, called him the N-word while they were playing. Under his breath, when nobody else could hear him.”

I knew exactly what word she meant. Mom and Grandma had talked to me about it. Racist people used it. And sometimes other Black people called each other that, which wasn’t racist but wasn’t great. My parents had told me that I should never use that word, and to tell them if anyone ever called me that. I’d never heard anyone say it about me.

“When the white kid called Marcus that,” Grandma said, “Marcus got really mad. Of course he did. So that’s what started the fight. A lot of people were at the game, and they all saw it. The white kid, he was the star player of the other team, so a lot of people took his side. With all the racism around Boston, people weren’t about to take a Black kid’s word over a white kid’s.”

Every once in a while, I’d overhear my parents talk about how racist Boston was. I noticed it myself, too. Like all the times people gave Dad and me “the look.” Once, I went to a fancy clothing store on Newbury Street with Mom, and a saleslady started following us around the store, looking at us like she didn’t trust us with the merchandise. As soon as Mom noticed what was going on, she pulled me out of the store. “I’m not giving them my business,” she’d told me.

I had no idea where the idea of Black people as thieves came from, but it wasn’t the first time something like that had happened. In fourth grade, a girl told me that I wasn’t invited to her birthday party because her parents said Black people steal. I’d said her parents didn’t know what they were talking about. After I told my mom, she stopped herself from cursing out loud, and said she didn’t want me going to that racist family’s house anyway.

“Did Marcus say what the other kid called him?” I asked Grandma.

“Nobody else heard it. But I believed him, and your granddad did too.” She paused and then said, “Anyway, when Marcus was later accused of the crime, the prosecutors told that story, used it against him. They said he had a violent past.”

“But getting into a fight isn’t the same thing as killing someone!” I squeezed a corner of a pillow between my fingers. “And the other kid called him the N-word!”

“I know. But it was up to the jury, and they decided that Marcus was capable of all kinds of violence, even the worst kind.” She sighed. “People look at someone like Marcus—a tall, strong, dark-skinned boy—and they make assumptions about him. Even if it isn’t right. The jury, the judge, the public, even his own lawyer—they all assumed Marcus must be guilty because he’s Black. It’s all part of systemic racism.”

“It’s not fair.”

“I know, baby,” Grandma said, her expression sad.

I thought about all of this. “Why didn’t Mom want to see him in prison before the trial?”

“She was really mad at him.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because Marcus was friends with the victim.”

“Lucy,” I said.

“That’s right.” Grandma said. “Marcus and Lucy were spending a lot of time together, because they were in the same study group. Your mom thought something more was going on. Marcus said there wasn’t, but your mom, she had her doubts. It was tough for them—he stayed in Boston for college, and she went down to New York. It wasn’t a huge distance, but it was still hard on their relationship.”