This Is My America(23)

“Definitely your daughter.”

I sock Dean lightly on the arm.

“After we done, get back to school. I don’t want you missing a whole day. Get Tracy’s work from teachers. She’ll be out of school the rest of the week.”

“I’m not going back until Jamal gets help,” I say. “He needs a lawyer.”

“You need to be in school.” Mama rests her hand on her hip.

I swallow hard. Being at school won’t be easy. It took years to get people to stop talking about my father’s trial, and even now my circle is still small. I’d rather be absent the last month of school and do my work from home, but Mama won’t have it. I know.



“Stay out here with Dean.”

“I thought I was going with you,” I say.

Mama knows I can help. I might not have been able to help when Daddy was arrested, but I’ve made up for it in working with the lawyers and running Know Your Rights campaigns in the community. I pull out my rights crib sheet from my back pocket.

Mama studies me, then closes her eyes in agreement. As soon as Mama turns toward the station, her face goes stern, like she’s going to put a hurting on anyone who gives her the runaround.

I show a grateful smile as Dean waits by the stairs. I know he’d be out here all day if he needed to, and that helps take away the feeling we’re alone in this.

Following Mama, I clutch my phone before sending another text to Jamal that’ll probably go unanswered. I look back one more time at Dean, then suck in a breath to prepare myself.

This time has to be different. We trusted that the truth would come out in the Davidson murder investigation, but we should’ve known. Daddy was the number one suspect, and nothing else mattered. I won’t forget that. All we’ve been through with Daddy has to have been preparation for fighting for Jamal.

Goose bumps pucker my skin from the cold air in the police station compared with the heat outside. There’s a long hallway to the back, where three offices stand to the right of a small holding cell. A few deputies from last night shuffle back and forth with paperwork. I search for someone who’ll listen. Who’ll want to help. The room is empty of that care. They know who we are and have already made a judgment.



“Sheriff Brighton, please,” Mama says to the desk officer. “You can tell him it’s Mrs. Lillian Beaumont.”

Mama doesn’t wait for a response. She whips around and takes a seat at the bench.

“Let’s do this,” I say under my breath.

“If Jamal don’t come home, we’re going to need to get word to your dad.”

I gulp hard. I know this truth. Daddy’s already been pulling away, pushing me to get prepared for when he’s gone.

Mama closes her eyes and lays her hand over her purse. They must not realize Mama can wait them out all day.

I look past the officer, over at the deputies stopping to talk to each other. Standing with them is Chris Brighton, wearing his orange Texas A&M hat. My heart squeezes; Chris just lost his girlfriend.

The sheriff rests his hand on Chris’s shoulder and says, “It’s gonna be all right, son.”

He gently grabs the back of Chris’s neck. My eyes well at the sweet gesture between father and son. Then I begin to wonder how much it’ll hurt when Chris learns Angela’d been spending time with Jamal. That kind of secret comes out at trials, and I hope it doesn’t make Jamal seem more of a suspect. When Chris turns, his piercing blue eyes are hidden behind a black right eye, his face all splotchy and red.



I squint at him.

The sheriff goes back to his office, and Chris is joined by a guy who looks to be in his forties. He’s wearing a USA hat and a collared shirt with nice dress pants. He makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He puts his arm around Chris, waves at the sheriff, and whispers something to Chris. I see a resemblance between this man and Chris and the sheriff, the same broad build and strawberry-blond hair. Definitely related.

The guy leads Chris down the hallway, without letting go of him. Chris is shook. Part of me is angry with Jamal for messing with Chris’s girlfriend. How stupid do you have to be to run around with someone who’s dating the sheriff’s son? This might be what got the cops after Jamal for Angela’s murder. An easy suspect. That’s the fastest way to jail—don’t stop at go, don’t collect two hundred dollars.

Theories flood my mind: Chris killed Angela. Jamal and Chris got into a fight; Angela died by accident. Whatever the case, it’ll be Chris’s word against Jamal’s. I don’t care about the blood; Jamal couldn’t have killed her. Whatever happened, though, I need to hear it from Jamal.

Chris passes without even noticing me. I can’t say the same for Mr. USA, who stops dead in his tracks by Mama. She must feel his scrutiny, because she opens her eyes. She folds her arms tighter around herself, like she wants to disappear. I’ve never seen Mama show her fear in public. Chris watches Mr. USA, and then he finally recognizes me.



“Your brother’s not getting away with this,” he says.

I tighten my fists at my sides, ready for an altercation with Chris. “He didn’t do this. He could never—”

“Chris! You don’t say a word to anyone,” Sheriff Brighton calls out, then charges toward the front desk.