This Is My America(20)

“I’m gonna finish making calls upstairs,” Mama says.

I give her a kiss good night before she takes her time walking upstairs. Slow. Disoriented. She’ll break down when no one’s watching. Then I close the door behind Beverly.



I watch Beverly set up to guard the house, regardless of what the sheriff said. She must have persuaded the other officers to leave, because they drive away, and she takes their post. My heart soars; we have her on our side.

I take this moment to sneak out the back door. Barefoot, I run toward the grass. Warm air whipping around me, I ignore that it’s pitch-black, and chase the path Jamal would’ve taken without being seen. I stop midway into the woods, cup my hands, and yell.

“Jamal!”

I wait for a response. Keep focused on the woods for the slight chance to spot him running back home. I wait and wait. Then yell again.

“Jamal! Jamal!”

I yell until I’m so hoarse it rips my throat to call out again.

I hear my name.

“Jamal.” My voice is strangled. “Come back. Don’t leave us.”

I hear my name again. Turn when I realize it’s coming from behind me, toward the house. Beverly’s arms are wrapped around Mama, watching me cry out for my brother.

I drop to my knees because it wasn’t him. Painful tears spill out my eyes, down onto my chin.

When I’m all dried up with nothing to give, I pick myself up. Prepare myself for the fight.





Wednesday, May 5

Stephen Jones, Esq.

Innocence X Headquarters





1111 Justice Road


Birmingham, Alabama 35005

Re: Death Penalty—Intake Department Dear Mr. Jones, My brother, Jamal Beaumont, is on the run. The Galveston County police think he killed a girl at my school. He didn’t. He couldn’t. They’re blaming him because of who his dad is. The cycle won’t stop. I need your help more than ever. We have to help Jamal, take every last drop of money we have—which is almost nothing, so maybe our house—to help defend Jamal. That means nothing left to help with my dad’s appeal.

I can’t have my father and my brother be in prison in a death penalty state. You are the only one who can help us. There’s no hope if you don’t take his case. Help us, so we can help my brother.

Please review James Beaumont’s application (#1756).

Thank you for your time.





Tracy Beaumont





GUILTY…UNTIL





PROVEN INNOCENT


Wednesday morning Jamal’s still missing. That’s how Mama sees it, but I know the truth. He’s running. Each call to his friends was a dead end, all denying they know anything about where Jamal is. He was home. I locked eyes with him, and now he’s out of touch. Suspected of killing Angela—the girl he’s been secretly seeing. His boss’s daughter.

Mama moves gingerly down the hall, stopping at my door to wake me, but I’ve been up for hours, waiting to hear from Jamal and writing a letter to Innocence X to let them know about Jamal’s situation. As much as I want Jamal home, I’m also hoping he ain’t stupid enough to come back, at least not until we know it’s safe for him. Deep down I know it won’t be easy. We’ve never had it easy.

“You up?” Mama asks.



“Yeah. You heard from him?”

“Grab that legal-help handout from your workshops for me. Gonna make a few calls before we head to the police station.” Mama’s hair is haggard, sticking up. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without her hair wrap on in the morning.

I go through my drawer and hand the paper to her, then help Mama by checking on Corinne, who will be going to school. She’s in her bed, folded into a small ball with her arms wrapped around her legs, fully dressed, knowing we’d need to be ready in the morning. It’s a routine of urgency we’ve all mastered. Usually, we can brush away the fear. Today feels different. Today, we don’t know the rules we’re supposed to follow.

“Morning.” I rub my hand on Corinne’s back, then kiss her hair that’s sticking in all directions.

“Jamal back?” Corinne asks.

I shake my head.

“Maybe he’s at work,” Corinne says, getting up.

I run my fingers across the hash marks on her doorway that track her height. When I’ve capped the top of her most recent smudge, I glance out the window.

The road that leads to our house is a quarter mile long, but you can see the unmarked police car parked down by our mailboxes. Beverly no longer there.

The image of blood swirling down the drain comes back to me. Worry fills me that Jamal is hurt, or worse: he did something horrific on accident and he’s too scared to ask for help.



The cops left last night with Jamal’s toothbrush and clippers, but no towel. I have to confirm if it was blood or if my mind was messing with me so late into the night. I search the bathroom for the towel Jamal used. The rack is empty. Then I remember he balled it up before going to bed.

I rummage through every crevice and corner of his room.

“What’s with you?” Mama stops at Jamal’s door.

“I was looking for the bathroom hand towel. You seen it?” My gut churns with dread.