The Hate U Give(82)

It takes fifteen minutes to get to downtown from Garden Heights. There’s always construction work going on for some new building. Garden Heights has dope boys on corners, but downtown people in business suits wait for crossing lights to change. I wonder if they ever hear the gunshots and shit in my neighborhood.

We turn onto the street where the courthouse is, and I have one of those weird déjà-vu moments. I’m three, and Uncle Carlos drives Momma, Seven, and me to the courthouse. Momma cries the entire drive, and I wish Daddy were here because he can always get her to stop crying. Seven and I hold Momma’s hands as we walk into a courtroom. Some cops bring Daddy out in an orange jumpsuit. He can’t hug us because he’s handcuffed. I tell him I like his jumpsuit; orange is one of my favorite colors. But he looks at me real seriously, and says, “Don’t you ever wear this, you hear me?”

All I remember after that is the judge saying something, Momma sobbing, and Daddy telling us he loves us as the cops haul him off. For three years I hated the courthouse because it took Daddy from us.

I’m not thrilled to see it now. News vans and trucks are across the street from the courthouse, and police barricades separate them from everybody else. I now know why people call it a “media circus.” It seriously looks like the circus is setting up in town.

Two traffic lanes separate the courthouse from the media frenzy, but I swear they’re a world away. Hundreds of people quietly kneel on the courthouse lawn. Men and women in clerical collars stand at the front of the crowd, their heads bowed.

To avoid the clowns and their cameras, Uncle Carlos turns onto the street alongside the courthouse. We go in through the back door. Goon and another King Lord join us. They flank me and don’t hesitate to let security check them for weapons.

Another security guard leads us through the courthouse. The farther we go, the fewer people we pass in the halls. Ms. Ofrah waits beside a door with a brass plate that says Grand Jury Room.

She hugs me and asks, “Ready?”

For once I am. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll be out here the whole time,” she says. “If you need to ask me something, you have that right.” She looks at my entourage. “I’m sorry, but only Starr’s parents are allowed to watch in the TV room.”

Uncle Carlos and Aunt Pam hug me. Nana pats my shoulder as she shakes her head. Goon and his boy give me quick nods and leave with them.

Momma’s eyes brim with tears. She pulls me into a tight hug, and it’s at that moment, of all the moments, that I realize I’ve gotten an inch or two taller than she is. She plants kisses all over my face and hugs me again. “I’m proud of you, baby. You are so brave.”

That word. I hate it. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” She pulls back and pushes a strand of hair away from my face. I can’t explain the look in her eyes, but it knows me better than I know myself. It wraps me up and warms me from the inside out. “Brave doesn’t mean you’re not scared, Starr,” she says. “It means you go on even though you’re scared. And you’re doing that.”

She leans up slightly on her tiptoes and kisses my forehead as if that makes it true. For me it kinda does.

Daddy wraps his arms around both of us. “You got this, baby girl.”

The door to the grand jury room creaks open, and the DA, Ms. Monroe, looks out. “We’re ready if you are.”

I walk into the grand jury room alone, but somehow my parents are with me.

The room has wood-paneled walls and no windows. About twenty or so men and women occupy a U-shaped table. Some of them are black, some of them aren’t. Their eyes follow us as Ms. Monroe leads me to a table in front of them with a mic on it.

One of Ms. Monroe’s colleagues swears me in, and I promise on the Bible to tell the truth. I silently promise it to Khalil too.

Ms. Monroe says from the back of the room, “Could you please introduce yourself to the grand jurors?”

I scoot closer to the mic and clear my throat. “My name—” My small voice sounds like a five-year-old’s. I sit up straight and try again. “My name is Starr Carter. I’m sixteen years old.”

“The mic is only recording you, not projecting your voice,” Ms. Monroe says. “As we have our conversation, we need you to speak loud enough for everyone to hear, okay?”

“Yes—” My lips brush the mic. Too close. I move back and try again. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. You came here on your own free will, is that correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You have an attorney, Ms. April Ofrah, correct?” she says.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You understand you have the right to consult with her, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You understand you’re not the focus of any criminal charges, correct?”

Bullshit. Khalil and I have been on trial since he died. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Today, we want to hear in your own words what happened to Khalil Harris, okay?”

I look at the jurors, unable to read their faces and tell if they really want to hear my words. Hopefully they do. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, since we have that understanding, let’s talk about Khalil. You were friends with him, right?”