This Is My America(86)
Mr. Jones opts for a fist bump, then Beverly smiles at Steve. He shakes her hand—the one not in a sling—and I notice how their touch lingers. I look to Quincy to see if he notices. He shakes his head at me, then chuckles.
“I’m assuming you haven’t been watching the news?” Quincy asks.
I shake my head.
“It’s all over,” he says. “Turn on the television.”
I flick it on in the conference room and turn up the volume, flooded by news pouring in. The red BREAKING NEWS headlines scroll across the bottom of the screen:
Breaking News: Innocence X founder Stephen Jones takes high-profile case. Inquiries into Davidson murders and new witnesses.
Breaking News: Jamal Beaumont to be released as suspect in murder of eighteen-year-old Angela Herron.
A Black female reporter stands at the steps of the county jail.
“In a strange turn of events, local white nationalist Richard Brighton will be charged with the murder of Angela Herron. A reliable witness has also come forward with evidence that would connect Brighton to the murders of Mark and Cathy Davidson more than seven years ago, claiming that prosecutors hid the crucial evidence at the time. We’ll be following these cases closely.”
I cover my mouth. I used to dream about this day for Daddy. Replay all the ways that his story would finally be told, but I never thought it would be like this.
“News travels fast.” Mr. Jones turns to Steve. “Good job, son. You went with your gut in taking this case. Tracy, when you get to college, let me know if you’re looking for an internship.”
I nod, still in shock.
“What does this mean now that it’s on the news like this?” I ask.
“It means they can’t hide this story,” Steve says. “It’s on every channel.”
Each moment I’ve held in—twisted up for years of prayer, hope, anguish—all unwind as I let out a cry.
“Daddy’s coming home,” I say. “Daddy’s coming home.” Each time I say the words, they feel more real.
I flick through a few news stations to catch the coverage. All are on Daddy’s case, highlighting Innocence X, who have been working on exoneration cases for decades. Daddy’s story is their most visible case to date.
My fists unclench. How long have I been holding myself ready to fight? I look at the clock on the wall. Time shifting to our side.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Jamal is suited up in the same outfit from The Susan Touric Show. He holds on to Corinne’s hand, who’s shaking next to him. Mama’s got her hand on Jamal’s shoulder. I’m wearing yellow today. A bright-colored dress for what I’m hoping is the best day of my life. My hair blown out, even took the time for makeup.
We take the courthouse steps as a family, fighting through a swarm of news media.
We enter and go through security for the Court of Criminal Appeals, courtroom 8. Judge Vandyne is the presiding judge among the nine judges who have been reviewing Daddy’s appeal. My footsteps make the familiar sound of walking on the marble floors.
As I reach the door, I suck in air to balance the rushing feeling of blood pumping through my body. I’ve learned over time that you have to control yourself in a courtroom. But this one will be like none we’ve faced before. Instead of a row for the jury, it’ll be the judges lined up in two rows. We’ve all been warned not to let it intimidate us. That our focus should be on Daddy. On Judge Vandyne. Jamal, Corinne, and Mama go before me. I wave them ahead as they’re cleared to enter. I need a moment. I’ve dreamed of this day, and I don’t want to forget a second of it.
Once I’m settled, I partially open the left door and slide into the courtroom.
Tasha and her family are seated on the defense side, right behind our row. Daddy Greg’s arms are around Tasha and Monica.
The courtroom is packed. I show my wristband to indicate I’ve got a seat reserved. Near the front of the courtroom, I see the people closest to Daddy’s trial: my family, the Evanses, Mrs. Ridges and Quincy, even Sheriff Brighton and Officer Clyde. It warms my heart to see our community members seated like a shield of protection, with the church members led by Pastor Jenkins and the community center regulars that Dr. Scott gathered. This time we’re not leaving without justice. You can smell it in the air.
This time will be different.
Judge Vandyne’s glasses hang at the tip of his nose; he’s focused on the papers in front of him, not on the eight other judges. He barely looks up at the prosecution or the defense. The courtroom is silent when the side door opens.
Daddy. Not in a white jumper, but in a suit.
Two correction officers at his side, but this time no cuffs. They joke with him, maybe trying to get him to relax, but Daddy is stone-cold serious. His eyes searching for his family. I can see him scanning for me. I slip into the front row behind the defense, where Quincy joins me at the end of the row.
I make sure Daddy knows I’m here before he’s seated. He’s got his long, dark fingers wrapped together to keep from shaking. Stephen Jones Sr. greets him; they shake hands. I watch Daddy glance back every few moments at Mama, then us. He finally lets a smile peek out when Mama mouths, Don’t look so guilty.
The bailiff calls us to rise. It’s starting.