This Is My America(47)

“I just thought about Jamal the last time we were here. How you caught him. So my brain just went there as a cover.” He looks regretful. “But that was a last resort.”

I pull my hair back and let it settle around my burning-hot face.

“Sorry. I should’ve…They opened the door. I acted quickly.”

“It’s fine.” I put my hand up, so he knows there’s no need to talk about it.

Quincy gives an embarrassed chuckle. I’m surprised by his bashfulness. I didn’t think he was capable of being shy about anything.

“Thanks, Quincy.” I look away, now not wanting him to catch that I’m still thinking about his kiss.

I pick up the part of the desk that broke. When I put the frame back on, I feel under the desk. My finger catches on a broken edge that’s not fitting easily.

There’s another small drawer.

I take the corner off, running my fingers along the desk for anything out of the ordinary. I push in the simple lock with the key that swings by the wall.



Inside, I find Jamal’s small notebook, a photo of my family at a visit with my dad on Christmas…and a micro SD memory card for a phone.

“Think this is it?” I flash it in front of Quincy. “We use these at school in the newsroom.”

I take a paper clip and pop out the SD card I have and insert this one into my phone, then wait for it to load in the location folder. Hundreds of files and photos load up.

I scroll through, searching for something that speaks to what Angela and Jamal might have been looking into.

“Think he’ll come back to check on us?”

“Nah. Brian is cool. I caught him smoking weed on the loading dock and never ratted him out. He’s probably just worried he went out for a smoke and didn’t do a full sweep before locking up.”

I search through hundreds of photos while Quincy paces back and forth, standing guard by the production door. I study snapshots of games, pep rallies, and school-year highlights. Typical newspaper images. Then I see it. Photos off campus.

The old tattered sign of the South Seafood Packing building in the background. These were taken at the Pike, weeks before Angela was murdered. A group of about fifteen white guys gathered around a firepit, drinking beer. Two of the dates are in April. I check my calendar, both taken on Tuesdays. The photos are mostly hazy, like it was taken from afar. I zoom in closer. A flash of adrenaline hits me. Chris and Scott, along with a couple of guys from school. They don’t seem to notice they’re being watched.



“Find something?” Quincy leans over my shoulder.

“Bunch of guys from school at the Pike, near the building where I found Angela’s phone.”

Quincy takes my phone and zooms in. “Yip. Nothing weird about a bunch of white guys hanging around a firepit near the Pike.”

I look again. Nod because there’s something to it.

A tingle runs up my spine. I’m not sure what I’ve found, but it feels important.

I let Quincy lead me as we go down the steps.

“Front doors this time?” I ask.

“We should be good now that we’re leaving with nothing obviously taken.” Quincy leaves the keys on the reception desk, before we walk out the main entrance.

“What are you gonna do now?” Quincy asks.

“Ask Dean to keep a lookout for Chris or Scott. Then head home. My mama will be expecting me. I’ve been out way too long and gotta get the car back.”

“What about getting this to Bev?”

“Yeah. I should.” I flip my phone in my hand, back and forth. I know I need to get the SD card and Angela’s phone to Beverly, but then she’d know I didn’t listen to her.

“You should, for real. Doesn’t mean you can’t look into it, but this could help Jamal.”



I nod.

Quincy walks me back to the Evanses’ store, where our cars are parked at the end of their parking lot.

“Next time I’ll ask,” Quincy says when I open the car door. He jogs off to his car without waiting for my response.

“Next time I’ll be ready,” I whisper.





TRUTH SERUM


Dean’s got eyes on Chris. I’m planning to ambush Chris at the worst place possible—Angela’s grave. In texts back and forth with Jamal, it’s clear he wants me to have nothing to do with Chris. I have to know why.

Before we go, Dean helps me carry boxes of my daddy’s evidence to the loft above the Evanses’ antiques store. The collection will no longer be shoved inside closets and under beds, but with Innocence X.

The loft space is cleared out except for stacked-up boxes, a table with a laptop, a heavy-duty printer, and a copier. On the walls, several whiteboards with dates, names, and deadlines. What captures my attention is Steve’s master board laid out with Daddy’s case. Motives and suspects are what I’m mostly caught by: Exculpatory Angles written on the side. That’s the holy grail of death penalty appeal cases. Error in the defense or prosecution often has the most success in identifying innocent clients.



As Steve sorts through boxes, he lets out a low whistle. “I can’t wait to get more familiar with your dad’s case.”

I check out an accordion file about two inches thick with black ink: James Beaumont. A bubbling excitement builds—I’ll finally be able to discuss everything I’ve wanted to tell Innocence X over the years.