This Is My America(21)

Mama pushes her lips out like it means nothing to her, but then she looks down, which makes it harder to study her for the truth. I wait until Mama goes back downstairs, and then I search Jamal’s nightstand.

All he’s got in here are college acceptance letters, a Bible, Chapstick, and a handful of pencils. I flip through a small notebook filled with scribbles of reminders to himself, like school application dates and deadlines. A date: July 14, with Angela’s name, circled. I pause at the writing near her name, then make my way to his window. He rarely lets me in his room, but sometimes when we’re both up on a sleepless night, I get the chance to join him when he climbs out on the roof. I’ve always been a captive audience when he allows me into the world inside his head. We’d talk for hours.

I want to be closer to Jamal, so I push up his window to go out on the roof. It creaks like when Jamal left last night. I extend my leg out, pull my body through, and settle on the roof. Sit in Jamal’s spot. I angle enough, though, so that the cops who are posted on the side of the road can’t see me.



In my head, I sort through what Jamal might be doing. He might not feel safe to come home, but Jamal wouldn’t just run. He’d keep watching out for us. Work on clearing his name. He should also know I’m the best one to help. If I hear from him, I’ll need to persuade him to tell me what happened. For Daddy, for Mama. For me.

Back inside, I go through Jamal’s things one more time. Except this time, it’s to get supplies and clothes for Jamal. Make it easy if he ever decides to come home quick. On my way back downstairs, the television catches my attention when BREAKING NEWS flashes at the bottom of The Wendy Williams Show. Susan Touric comes on the screen. I step closer to study her reaction. She’ll influence the media coverage of Angela, and if she does, Jamal could feel safe enough to come home and tell his story.

We interrupt this program to share a breaking news development in the case of our production assistant, eighteen-year-old Angela Herron, who was murdered last night. The Galveston County sheriff’s office has identified a suspect.

Angela’s homecoming photo flashes on the screen. She’s smiling bright, her hair in those rolling blond waves. They do a close-up on her face, angelic precision, the way they highlight the photo with doctored light around her face.



I’m jarred into reality when Jamal’s picture flashes on the screen. The word suspect stamped under his name. They didn’t use his footage from her show last week. Not his homecoming picture, a school photo, or a picture from the countless track meets and fund-raising banquet dinners.

Instead, they use a photo of Jamal with a red cup in his hand, middle finger up, a big grin on his face. I remember it from his Instagram. They have it cropped close around him, but if you saw the rest of the photo, you’d see the entire track team. A unity shot of everyone flipping off Coach Curry for scheduling an early-morning run the day after homecoming.

They’ve got Jamal painted like a thug, standing between two other Black team members with blurred-out headshots, Dean and the other white teammates conveniently cropped out of the original photo. All Jamal was doing was being a teenager at a party, no harm. He was the designated driver that night, but the red cup sticks out. Now it don’t matter he was hydrating with water before the early-morning run.

My breath catches when Angela’s photo lines up next to Jamal’s. The words suspect, on the run, last seen flash in front of me. I’m sick, wanting to heave. They can’t set him up like this. We can’t go through this again.

My phone pings and I get a text from Tasha.

You see this! The news is a mess. Jamal had no business with Angela. This is stupid.



I know. I’m watching Susan Touric.

Turn it off, it’s trash!!

I can’t help it. I need to know more.

You going to school?

No. Heading to the police station with Mama. Let me know if you hear anything at school.

I’m on it…Jamal still gone?

Yip…See if you can corner Quincy. He was real short with me on the phone.

Oh, I’d be happy to corner Quincy.

Ummm…Never mind. I’ll call him again.

Hater. Let me know if you want me to come through.

K. Love you.



I should turn the TV off, but I can’t help myself. I turn up the volume. Susan plays footage of Jamal’s interview. They replay Mama saying Daddy is innocent, then Jamal smiling onstage. The words The calculated act of a killer? flash up on the screen.

The news continues, except this time Susan’s talking about Daddy. His mug shot goes up with sketches from the courtroom. It’s been so long since I’ve seen his story on the news. Flashes of old memories run through my mind. Déjà vu.



Jamal Beaumont is the son of convicted killer James Beaumont. Cathy and Mark Davidson were killed by gunshot in their downtown Galveston County office. A second suspected shooter, Jackson Ridges, barricaded himself in his home and died when police attempted to bring him in for questioning. James Beaumont stood trial. Upon conviction, he was the only one to pay for the crime in the Davidson family massacre.

“Jackson was murdered, too,” I say to the television.

The district attorney wanted Daddy to take a plea deal, say it was self-defense, anything to get the death penalty off the table. Daddy’s attorney thought he should take the deal because of the way the case was building against them. But Daddy wouldn’t do it. Not when he was innocent. He also believed if he took a deal, then he wouldn’t just be pleading guilty for himself; he’d be claiming that for Jackson, too. He couldn’t help justify Jackson’s murder, so Daddy didn’t take a plea deal.