Stand Your Ground: A Novel Read online

  “Mr. Johnson.” Those were the first words Detective Ferguson spoke since his greeting, and he called my husband’s name in a tone that sounded like he was giving him a warning. “We want to find out what happened as much as you do.”

  A couple of long moments and hard stares passed between the two black men before Tyrone finally sat back and held up his hands. “We’ll answer your questions, and then you answer ours.”

  The detective gave a slow nod. “Fair enough.” He paused, glanced at the white officer, then leaned over. “Okay, so did your son have any guns?” Ferguson asked, taking over the interrogation.

  “No.”

  “Not that you know of?” the other officer said.

  With a glare, my husband repeated, “No.”

  Then, “What about anything else that he had in his car?” Ferguson asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Any kind of weapon?”

  “Look, my son wasn’t like that. Let me answer your next ten questions for you. My son wasn’t violent; he was probably eight the last time he had a fight. He wasn’t in a gang, he didn’t sell drugs, he didn’t carry any weapons of any kind.”

  “What about a baseball bat? Did he carry a bat?” Detective Ferguson asked.

  I squeezed Tyrone’s arm, but this time it was more for me than for him. Because this time, I wanted to stand up and punch somebody.

  Tyrone said, “No, he didn’t carry a bat.”

  “Not that you know of,” the other officer said again.

  Detective Ferguson must’ve known that was all my husband was going to be able to take. “Okay, so let me tell you what we know,” the detective offered. “Your son and Heather were sitting in his car . . . just talking, maybe. And this is where it gets murky. It seems that your son and the man who approached the car exchanged some words, but the man walked away. Apparently, that was when your son got out the car and there was some kind of confrontation that turned into an altercation.” Then the detective stopped as if that were enough of an explanation.

  “So how did my son end up dead?” Tyrone asked.

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “So some guy just shot my son?” I said. “For no reason?”

  “Your son got out of the car, ma’am,” the white officer said as if that were reason enough.

  “And now there’s a death sentence for getting out of your car? That’s why he was murdered?” I cried.

  “As we explained”—Detective Ferguson was back to talking—“we don’t have the full picture yet.”

  “I just want to know one thing,” Tyrone said. He glanced at the men as if he were telling them that they’d better have the right answers. “The boy who killed my son . . . Has he been arrested?”

  “Not yet . . .”

  “Why not?” I screamed, feeling my tears on their way.

  “Because we’re still working on this,” Ferguson said.

  The other added, “He’s claiming self-defense. And if it was self-defense, then . . .”

  I frowned. “Self-defense? But I know my son. He didn’t attack anybody.”

  “He got out of the car and there was a confrontation, ma’am. And if anyone feels as if his life is in danger, he doesn’t have to retreat. He can stay and protect himself.”

  My frown deepened as I thought back to the times when I’d heard words like that, similar ones on the news, with all of the recent killings of young black men. But that was down south. In Florida. That kind of thing couldn’t happen here. Not in the North. In Pennsylvania. And it certainly was never used when one black man shot another.

  “You’re making it sound like . . . like this . . . like he’s saying he was standing his ground or something,” I said.

  The officers nodded together and one said, “Pennsylvania is a stand-your-ground state, ma’am.”

  “But . . . I thought that was just in Florida?” I was doing all the talking now.

  “No, it’s not.”

  I wanted to burst into tears right then. I didn’t know much about self-defense and stand your ground, except that everyone who used it in court seemed to get away with murder. Did this mean that the boy who shot my son was going to walk, too? And that’s just what I asked the officer.

  He shrugged. “We’re going to do our best to find out what happened and to make sure justice is served . . . either way.”

  I sat there, stunned. The way these men were talking—this was just some black-on-black crime to them. They weren’t giving any indication that they would put much effort into this case.

  There was nothing else for me to say, but that was all right because I knew Tyrone would take over now. And this time, I wasn’t even going to try to hold him back. I didn’t care if he started flipping tables or punching walls. Tyrone would demand justice, and by the time my husband finished, these officers would run out of here and arrest whoever had taken the light out of our lives.

  I watched and I waited. Then Tyrone finally opened his mouth, but the only thing he said was, “When can I see my son?”

  Chapter 3

  There was nothing but silence in the car, though actually that wasn’t completely true. There was Tyrone’s silence and my tears. The police had dragged us down to the station, kept us there for hours, asked us questions that had nothing to do with Marquis, and in the end, they still didn’t let me see my son!

  “The body is with the medical examiner,” the detective had said to Tyrone when my husband asked.

  The body? That was no way to describe Marquis.

  “So?” Tyrone had said. “We still want to see our son.”

  The detective had shaken his head. “That’s not possible. Your son will be released to you when the medical examiner completes his report.”

  He’d already reduced my son to just a body, and then he spoke like my son was the property of the state. All I’d wanted to do was stand up and demand that they bring my son to me. But then I saw Tyrone rise up in his seat, and before he turned that prison cell/interrogation room out, I rested my hand on his shoulder, doing my best to hold back his rage.

  My touch settled him. Or maybe it was my tears that made Tyrone turn his attention to me. Either way, instead of grabbing one or both of the detectives, all my husband did was take my hand and lead me out of there. Neither one of us looked back, nor did we utter a word.

  But now that we were in the car, I was so close to telling Tyrone to turn back. Maybe we could plead with the police, convince them somehow that we had to see Marquis.

  Or maybe I was just stalling because I didn’t want to face my house without my son.

  “I don’t want to go home,” I said.

  Tyrone kept his eyes on the road, the muscle in his temple throbbing. After a moment, he asked, “Where do you want to go?”

  I wanted to tell him that I would go anywhere except where we lived in West Philly. But when I opened my mouth, “I want to see Heather” came out.

  He shook his head and I explained, “I want to know what happened.”

  It didn’t take more than a moment before he said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “But she was the last one to see Marquis alive. I want to know, I have to know what happened.”

  He gave it more thought, but still said, “No. We need to go home. We need to make . . .”

  I completed his incomplete thought. He wanted us to start making plans for the rest of our lives without our son. But I couldn’t do that. Not yet . . . not until I found a way to understand this. Not until I saw my son myself and got my brain to convince my heart what I still didn’t want to believe.

  And Heather could help.

  “Don’t you want to talk to her?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  “I know everything that I need to know.”

  Well, I needed to know more. I needed to know what happened between yesterday when Marquis kissed me before he dashed out of the house and thi
s moment when I had to live with the truth that I would never again feel my son’s touch against my cheek.

  I didn’t say that to Tyrone, though, because in the best of circumstances, I couldn’t change his mind. So I just let him drive as the sun began its slow ascent, bringing the light and hope of a new day.

  But there would never be light, there would never be hope in my life again.

  Tyrone rolled our car to a stop in our driveway, but even when he turned off the ignition, neither of us moved. And even though I didn’t turn to look at my husband, I knew that he was taking in the same view that I was.

  Our home.

  The second floor.

  The window to Marquis’s room.

  Tyrone blew out a long breath, then slid out of the car. As always, he came around, opened my door, and held my hand as I got out. And then, with slow steps that were as heavy as my heart, I followed him.

  I watched every move that Tyrone made, how he put the key in the lock, turned it, pushed the door open, then stepped into our home. He looked back at me and then frowned as I just stood outside. I wanted to follow him in, I really did.

  But I couldn’t.

  “Come on, Jan,” Tyrone whispered. He held out his hand, knowing that I needed a little extra help. And I wanted to take his hand, I really did.

  But I didn’t.

  Instead, I turned and ran.

  “Janice!”

  I jumped into the car, grabbed my keys from my purse, and revved up the engine. By now, I expected Tyrone to be by my side. But he was still standing in the doorway. With tears in his eyes that matched mine.

  I put the car in reverse, but I didn’t pull out until Tyrone did what he always did before I drove away. He pressed the tips of his fingers to his lips, then blew me a kiss.

  I wanted to give him a smile, but the corners of my lips were permanently fixed downward. So I just nodded, backed out, and drove away.

  I never liked Heather Nelson. I mean, she was only a teenager and probably okay as a person, I guess. I didn’t really know her like that. Even though she and Marquis had been dating for a year, I spent as little time as I could with the two of them.

  That was my way of protesting, of letting my son know that I didn’t approve. But now, Lord Jesus, what I would do to get back those moments. To just have a little bit more time with Marquis, even if Heather was with him.

  I was parked in front of the imposing two-story brick home, but I still hadn’t turned off the ignition. Instead, I sat and listened to Marquis’s voice in my head.

  “Mama, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  By his tone, his excitement, I knew he wasn’t talking about introducing me to some guy. As I stood at that stove preparing dinner, I couldn’t help but smile. My little boy was growing up and that tickled me.

  I had already made the promise to myself that I wasn’t going to be one of those women who didn’t like any girl her son brought home. No, I was going to be accepting so that Marquis would always know that he could come to me about anything.

  But then he walked into the kitchen, and when I looked up from the pan of onions I’d been sautéing, I had to use Herculean strength to stiffen my face and hide my shock. Or maybe it wasn’t shock, maybe it was horror that I felt.

  “Mama, this is Heather. Heather, this is my mom, the best mother in the world.”

  I said hello, and nothing else to the blond, blue-eyed, thin-lipped, no-butt girl. After all, what else could I say in front of her since I only had one question for Marquis: What the hell?

  Since those were the only words I could think of, I kept them to myself and just smiled. I didn’t say another word until Heather left.

  Then I went in. “Really, Marquis, a white girl?”

  “Mama, I never knew you didn’t like white people.”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m saying that I don’t like you dating a white girl.”

  “Why you gotta be prejudiced?”

  “And why can’t you like one of those pretty black girls in your school?”

  “ ’Cause none of them are like Heather. None of them will do the things for me that she’ll do.”

  I was too afraid to ask him what that meant.

  Then Marquis went on to tell me, “Mama, I can’t help my heart.”

  “Boy, you’re sixteen. You don’t have a heart yet.”

  He had laughed; I didn’t, because there was nothing funny about facts. After that meeting, my only hope had been that my son would be like every other teenage boy and drop his new girl after two weeks.

  But that had been a year ago, and even though I’d made a dozen attempts to set him up with a girl I approved of and could be proud of, Heather Nelson was still the love of his young life.

  So my hope had switched to college. I prayed that when he enrolled at the University of Pennsylvania and when Heather was three hundred miles away at MIT (yes, I had looked up the distance between the two schools), their relationship would fizzle.

  Those had been yesterday’s worries.

  Pushing myself out of the car, I looked up at the grand house that was like so many of the other houses in Haverford. I’d never been here, but from the moment I met Heather, I’d made it my business to know everything about her, including where she lived. Because I was that mother—involved in every part of my son’s life.

  That mother. Now that my only child was dead, was I still a mother? Or was I a motherless child who was now a childless mother?

  My heart contracted, forcing a moan through my lips, but I didn’t let it stay there. I wouldn’t be able to talk to Heather if I were sprawled out, bawling in the middle of the street.

  So I sucked it up, then trudged up the long driveway until I stood in front of the door that looked like it had been made for a giant. I pressed the bell; the chime echoed through the door. Made me want to raise my hand and press the bell again just to hear the first few notes of the Mozart sonata, the piece that Marquis had played at his piano recital last year. But if I rang the bell and heard it again, Heather and her family would open their door and find me on this step buckled over in grief. So I stood there and tried not to cry. And then the door opened.

  I wasn’t sure what I expected. It wasn’t like I had the strength of mind to think this encounter all the way through. But I didn’t expect to be looking into the eyes of Agnes Nelson.

  Her eyes were bright blue, and matched the silk blouse that she wore along with her tan pants. But not at all welcoming. Not that I expected the roll-out-of-any-color-of-carpet, but it wasn’t like she didn’t know me. We’d met at various programs at our children’s school and we’d always been cordial, though we’d never shared a genuine smile.

  Agnes Nelson didn’t care for me, not that it was personal. I was just the mother of the black boy that her daughter was dating. So our disdain and the reason for it was mutual.

  But even if our children had never met, Agnes and I would never have been friends. How could we be when we were from worlds that were so far apart we could’ve been living in different galaxies?

  She’d been born and raised right here in Haverford, one the most affluent neighborhoods in Philadelphia. I was from the heart of Philly. Her allowance as a child had probably rivaled what I earned now as an adult. And don’t even start me on our politics. I’d read that she’d hosted a Mitt Romney fund-raiser at her home. Of course, I was on the other side.

  “Mrs. Johnson,” she said softly. She spoke to me through a sliver of a crack in her door. As if she didn’t want me to see or even think about coming inside.

  “Please call me Janice.”

  She nodded and then waited for me to say more.

  She had to know why I was here, so I waited. But when she said no more, I continued: “Is Heather home?”

  And then for the first time, I thought about time and space. What day was this? What time? Was this a school day? Had Heather already left for school?

  Again Agnes nodded. “Heather’s home, but she’s resting
,” she said, not opening the door even a few more inches.

  “I need to talk to her—about last night.”

  “I’m really sorry,” she said, finally acknowledging my sorrow, “but I don’t want her involved.”

  I frowned. “But she was there. She has to tell me—”

  “She already spoke to the police,” Agnes said. “They brought her home and they were here for hours. She didn’t get to bed until very, very late.”

  “Please,” I said. “She was the last person”—I swallowed—“to see my son alive.”

  If this woman had liked me, this would’ve been the moment when she opened her door and her heart and let me in.

  But Agnes didn’t make any kind of move like that. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for Heather to talk to anyone,” she said. “The police—”

  Then, from behind her, I heard, “Mom, let her in.”

  Still, more than a couple of seconds passed before Agnes stepped away from the door. And in her place, there was Heather. She looked normal enough, in a white T-shirt and rolled-up-to-her-knees gray sweatpants. But her eyes told me part of the story. I could hardly see the blue of her eyes for all the red that was there. She opened the door wider and the moment I moved beyond the threshold, she pulled me into her arms, holding me tight.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Johnson,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  I closed my eyes and held on to her, feeling every tremble of her body. To this moment, I didn’t think anyone’s grief could match mine. Not even Tyrone’s. Because I was the mother.

  But as I held Heather, I learned in her embrace that my sorrow was shared.

  Finally pulling back, I asked Heather, “Can we talk?”

  “Of course.”

  She led me into the living room, which had three walls of glass and looked as if it could hold the entire first floor of Tyrone’s and my home. But I didn’t have time to marvel at the extravagance of a lifestyle that I had never known. Instead, I sat on the brocade sofa and reached for Heather’s hand when she sat beside me.

  Tears were still rolling down her cheeks when she said, “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe that he’s gone.”