This Is My America(35)

I point toward the student assistant desk.

“Anywhere else she used…stored things?” Mandy pauses, her hands shaking. “I told her parents I’d pick up her things.” She doesn’t move, just stares at me. I can’t tell if she’s another person who blames Jamal or if she’s just in a state of grieving disbelief. I know I should get up and go, that maybe she’s waiting for me to leave, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. Nowhere else has been a place of comfort for me at school.

I shake my head, then look away, out the windows, to give her privacy. I can hear Mandy finally move to Angela’s desk. I sneak a peek. She carefully places Angela’s things in a backpack. First a book, some notebooks, photos, then she throws away some papers. My eyes well.

As Mandy goes through Angela’s things, I think about the exposé Angela wanted to include me in. I wish I could go back and ask her more about it.

The announcement speaker comes on to say the assembly is beginning. Mandy jumps and then leaves without a backward glance.



I stand, praying no one else enters. A few minutes go by and I make my way to Angela’s desk. I don’t know what I’m looking for, just something to help me sort out what could’ve happened to Angela. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the garbage bin where Mandy tossed some of her crumpled papers. I pull the bin out and grab the papers. Most are draft copies of older articles, but mixed among them are a few pages from Angela’s calendar. Last Tuesday is circled.

Tuesday: PIKE—underground rally

Wednesday: Meet w/ Tracy: Exposé!!!

Underground rally? There’s something here. At ten, I’ll try to reach Jamal and ask him about this. Something had to be going down at the Pike related to her exposé. This might be something the police are keeping from the public, because the news stories are portraying Jamal as having lured Angela there and attacked her. But this shows she already had it on her calendar.

I have to go to the Pike. See it for myself.





Monday, May 10

Stephen Jones, Esq.

Innocence X Headquarters





1111 Justice Road


Birmingham, Alabama 35005

Re: Death Penalty—Intake Department Dear Mr. Jones, Four percent of defendants sent to death row are supposedly innocent. Do you think my daddy could be among them? What are the chances for my brother?

It doesn’t look like I’m going to get any help from you. I’m going to keep taking things into my own hands, looking for my brother, searching for Angela’s killer. I can keep sitting around waiting and writing letters, but that hasn’t done much. I’ve got to do this myself. Prove my brother didn’t do it and find out what happened to Angela. I’m going to start my own investigation and I’ll start at the location she was found.

The day she died, she wanted me to work on an exposé with her. Now I’m not on the newspaper anymore, but I’m going to find out what she was working on. Maybe it’s nothing; maybe it can explain what really happened to her.

I’m hoping you’ll take my daddy’s case, so I can focus on this, but I’m thinking you won’t. I wish you the best. I hope whatever cases you’re working on come out with a positive result. Bring back someone’s daddy for me. Tell them you couldn’t take my case, but I’m happy Innocence X took theirs.

Respectfully,





Tracy Beaumont





VIGILANTES GET ISH DONE


I ditch the assembly and head fifteen miles east toward the Pike. The isolated drive sends alarm bells ringing in my head. I ignore them.

I pull into a deserted parking lot and leave my car away from the main entrance so I can explore. As I step out, it’s eerie, only the sound of birds flying above.

The dry grass stands tall around me, except a path twenty feet away where it’s been trampled flat, a clear sign that cars and teens have come here and traipsed all over. The hallowed ground of parties. Past this space are the wetlands that go out to Galveston Bay, where the loading dock stands.

On the other side of the parking lot, about a hundred feet away, there’s an abandoned warehouse with a weathered sign: SOUTH SEAFOOD PACKING. The dock and the immediate surrounding grass still have yellow crime-scene tape. No other cars in sight, no lingering officers. Angela was found on that dock, strewn out, helpless.



My stomach swirls, uneasy. Most of my reporting is opinion based from the safety of my computer. I’ve never been to a murder scene. Never imagined I ever would.

I note how from here you’d only be able to see Angela from the dock if you got past the brush. I know I’ve got to get closer, but my body is rigid, wanting to wait safely in the car and watch from there. I swallow hard. Jamal needs my help, and stopping isn’t an option.

My heart races as I approach. I study all the access points to the dock. Three locations stand out: the parking lot; the walking trails; and the path leading to the South Seafood Packing building.

When I move in a little closer, I have a better view of the old building. On the other side is a small parking lot that’s so overgrown you almost can’t tell it used to be a lot. I scan to see if there’s anyone else around me. It’s a ghost town so early in the morning.

If someone attacked Angela, there’s not many ways to get in and out of the Pike. This gives me hope other witnesses could come forward to tell the full story. New suspects to interview.