This Is My America(24)

“Let’s go.” Chris gives me a glare before he exits, breaking out of the hold of the guy with him.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Mama pulls at the cross on her necklace.

“Mrs. Beaumont.” Sheriff Brighton approaches Mama. “I hope you’re here with word about your son.”

Mama goes to answer him, but not before I step in front of her.

“Is focusing on Jamal a personal vendetta on behalf of your son, or do you have any evidence?”

“Excuse me?” Sheriff Brighton’s jaw goes tight.

“You bring the entire force to our home looking for Jamal, holding a warrant. What evidence do you have on Jamal?”

“Tracy.” Mama pulls me closer.

“This is abuse of power,” I say. “You should know this won’t stand in a courtroom, especially the way you barged into the house. When we hear Jamal’s side of things, you’re going to regret—”



“What exactly are you charging my son with?” Mama asks.

“Murder.”

I gasp and Mama rocks back. We heard about Angela from Beverly, knew it was leading up to this, but hearing it from the sheriff makes it more real.

“We have a witness at the crime scene. A 911 call placing him near the victim, and your son’s letterman jacket covering her body. The sooner he comes in, the better chance he has of getting the DA to give him life rather than a death sentence.”

My fingers touch my parted lips. He knows what that threat means to our family.

“Have you heard different from Jamal?” Sheriff Brighton asks. “Seen him at all since the murder?”

I gulp hard because I don’t have an answer about the blood on Jamal. I can’t deny he was jumpy last night.

“Jamal could be injured,” I say. “Have you thought for one second that maybe his life is also in danger? Someone could be after my brother.”

“The facts aren’t adding up that way.”

“Next time you come barging into my home, you better expect our lawyer will be ready to make charges of excessive force,” Mama says as she shifts her purse around. She doesn’t wait for him to respond; instead, she stands and steadily walks out the front door.

Outside, Chris’s red truck drives past with him in the passenger seat; he must trust Mr. USA to drive his car. Hitched to the back of the truck is an American flag that flies in the wind. Something tells me that to him the Stars and Stripes represents the good old days when the American Dream was narrowly defined. Our nightmare.



“I’m sorry, Mama.” I touch her shoulder. “We’re going to find Jamal.”

Mama wraps her arms around me, shaking.

“What should we do about Jamal?” I ask.

“I’m worried we haven’t heard from him yet. I wish—”

Mama doesn’t finish her thought, but I know what she’s thinking. I wish Daddy was home. Having his son be a suspect in the murder of a young white girl isn’t going to help his appeal. I gotta see Daddy. Gotta find Jamal. Before I lose them both. Before I lose Mama.

I know Jamal would be mad, but Mama can’t be engulfed in worry over his disappearance. She needs to know he chose to leave.

“Jamal came home last night.” I pause before telling her what I know about Jamal and Angela, and how I heard him last night. Everything…but the blood I saw. That could be the stake that nails the coffin.

Mama sweeps her trembling hand across her forehand. Her voice catches, and she’s unable to speak.

“He’s safe, Mama.” I stare up at her with hopeful eyes.

“Do we tell someone?”

We both know the answer. Not yet. At least not until we know more.



“Jamal needs a lawyer,” Mama says. “We can’t wait until they find him.” Mama smooths her clothes as Dean approaches us. Like she’s trying to get the wrinkles out to convince herself things are fine.

“I’ve got some things I need to take care of. You gonna be okay with Dean? Let him take you back, so if Jamal comes home, we got someone who can watch out for him.”

“I’ll keep her out of trouble,” Dean says.

“I’m counting on it. I don’t need more on my plate than I already have.”

I nod. Give her a kiss.

When Mama drives away, the tears build, and I can’t stop them. I let them run down my cheeks, biting my bottom lip to keep any sound from escaping. The only thing I can think about is wanting to see Daddy. Like he might have some answer, something he’s learned over time that’ll fix everything. Stop this cycle from repeating itself.

“Why would Angela be with Jamal by the Pike?” Dean asks.

I blink. Stuck on this question and so many others. Angela was alive less than twenty-four hours ago, and now she’s gone. Jamal would never hurt anyone. Couldn’t hurt anyone. I force myself to ignore the blood I saw on Jamal last night, the thing I can’t explain away.

“You don’t—”

“Absolutely not,” Dean says. “It’ll clear itself.”

“Like my daddy?” My eyes get blurry.



“It’s not the same,” Dean says.

His voice is firm. I agree, even though on the inside I feel different. I can’t trust that things will get better.