A Knock at Midnight
Brittany K. Barnett
Prologue
On the last day of her trial, Sharanda found a parking spot with a two-hour limit across from the courthouse. Early, she sat for a few minutes, admiring the blackbirds lining the branches of a small elm on the corner, both birds and tree silhouetted against the crisp Dallas sky. People complained about the birds, said they were too noisy, but Sharanda admired their tenacity. And they looked pretty, fanned out on the tree branches like that. It was late summer but the air was still cool from the air-conditioning in her car, and she shivered a little in her light blazer. As on every weekday morning, she’d been up since four to prep-cook at her soul food restaurant, Cooking on Lamar, and she relished a few quiet minutes in the car. She had no way of knowing that these private moments of peace would be her last for a long, long time.
Cooking on Lamar was her pride and joy, and though the hours were long, Sharanda enjoyed every minute of it. While her eight-year-old daughter, Clenesha, snored lightly in a blue vinyl booth, Sharanda would chop vegetables for the salad bar, set tomorrow’s brisket in marinade, smother ribs in dry-rub. At eight thirty this morning, she’d taken her break, dropped Clenesha off at McKenzie Elementary, and headed back downtown to the courthouse.
Now that her trial was finally ending, Sharanda felt relieved. It had been an ordeal, but at least it was over. Based on the obvious lies from the witnesses and the sympathetic glances the jurors shot her throughout the long week, she was sure she would be acquitted. Her attorney agreed. “The only challenge is the conspiracy charge,” he said. “Kind of hard to counter hearsay. And that’s basically all they need.” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Based on this evidence? You’re looking at probation. Worst case, five years.” Five years? Sharanda’s eyes had filled with tears. In five years, her baby would be a teenager—no way she could do five years in federal prison.
The lawyer patted her on the shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Pretty sure you’re looking at a full acquittal.”
She’d prayed, stayed positive. All the signs in her life were good. The restaurant was finally taking off, her house ready to flip. And Clenesha was an angel. Being a mom was the greatest joy of her life. Sharanda smiled a little, thinking of her daughter’s thrilled face the night before when she’d tried on the bright red leotard she’d wear to her gymnastics practice and the imitation beam routine she’d done on the way up the school steps this morning.
Reminding herself to check Clenesha’s practice time, Sharanda slipped on her heels and fed the meter. At the last minute, she tossed her purse into the backseat of the car. No reason to drag it around the courthouse. She figured she’d be right back.
During closing arguments that morning, Sharanda tried to follow what was going on but gave up after a while. The prosecutor kept saying the same things he’d said throughout the trial. Her attorney didn’t say much. Just as she started to worry about the parking meter, the judge came back to the bench to announce the verdict.
Sharanda’s attorney gripped her arm. “The marshals just came in through the back,” he whispered urgently. “No matter what happens, stay calm.”
“What?” Sharanda looked at him, not understanding. Then her stomach dropped.
She never saw her purse, her car, or her restaurant again. By the time Sharanda was able to set eyes on her daughter as a free woman again, Clenesha was twenty-four years old and a mother herself.
* * *
—
I FIRST SAW Sharanda Jones in a YouTube video. Hair half up, neatly pressed. Dimples like dimes. Her boxy tan top could pass for a Dickies work shirt, in that early-nineties style, and at first glance she looked like any beautiful young woman on her way to class, to work, to see a movie with her girls. But the beige brick wall behind her had no windows, and there was a number printed on a white sticker above her left chest pocket. Sharanda wasn’t on her way anywhere. She was a woman in federal prison, serving the harshest sentence possible in America short of execution: life without the possibility of parole.
How could such a beautiful, vibrant woman be spending the rest of her natural life in prison? In the video, the narrator decried a wrongful sentence for a drug offense, but surely there had to be something more to the story—some history of violence, a lengthy criminal record. I adjusted my headphones and leaned closer to my laptop screen. It was late in the evening at the Southern Methodist University Underwood Law Library, and only one other student sat with me at the mahogany table, a preppy-looking white guy who’d been staring blankly at the same torts textbook for over an hour. I was twenty-five and had just transferred here after my first year at the University of Houston Law Center.
Off camera, the interviewer asked Sharanda a question about her daughter, Clenesha. Pain flickered over Sharanda’s otherwise calm features before she answered with a small smile.
“My sister brings her to visit. Every time she comes it’s hard. She’s grown up from an itty-bitty girl to almost a grown-up woman. I only get to see her once a month.”
She paused to compose herself and continued, her voice full of pride and conviction.
“My dream is just to show up at her school. I know they gave me life, but—I just can’t imagine not being at her graduation. Her high school graduation. I just can’t imagine me not being there.”