Endangered (11 page)

Chapter Fifteen

THE RINGING OF THE PHONE STARTLED ROGER OUT OF HIS SLEEP. THE papers that had been balanced on his chest slid to the floor.

“Good morning, Roger. Calvin Moore here. Hope I didn't wake you,” he said apologetically.

Roger wriggled himself free from the covers and then sat up in his bed. He looked over at his wife, who was sound asleep. She still had her reading glasses on, while the book
Invisible Man
teetered at the edge of the bed, threatening to fall to the floor.

“Hold it a sec,” Roger said as he gently leaned over her and grabbed the hardbound copy of his wife's favorite book. “Calvin, I was expecting to hear from you. I'm just not sure if four in the morning was how I pictured it.”

“Sorry about that. It's just that . . .”

“No, don't worry about it. I'm usually up around four-thirty anyway. It's just that those last few minutes are always the best ones, it seems.”

Calvin nodded in agreement. “Roger, I've been thinking, and I suspect in the days and weeks to come things are going to get even more intense as you're able to fully get your message out. Though, there is something missing from your case.”

“Really? What?” Roger said curiously.

“Imagery. I admit you've done a good job, making it clear that the crux of your claim is protecting life—protecting the quality of life of African-American boys. The problem is, since there's no urgency it lacks imagery. The murders, and black boys going to prison, that happens case by case, in dribbles. But, don't you readily recall the images of Hurricane Katrina—Air Force One flying over flood-ridden New Orleans, the bloated bodies floating in the murky water, and people begging for help. You need searing images like that.”

“I can see you've given this a lot of thought, and I really appreciate the assessment, but is that why you're calling me at this hour?”

“No, no, no. I called in a favor from one of my friends over at
Good Day America
. She does the programming for the show and she wants to have you on.”

Roger shifted his body so that his back was straighter. “Well, that's really good news. I appreciate that. When was she thinking?”

“At eight.”

“Eight when?” Roger shrilled. He instinctively patted his wife's side to soothe any disturbance he might have caused her.

“Eight this morning.”

“Oh, Calvin”—he looked at the digital clock that was on the nightstand next to the phone's base—“I'm assuming that I would need to get to New York?”

Doing it over the phone or via Skype would create barriers and not be as powerful as in person. They needed to connect with the audience in a meaningful way.

As Roger swung his legs over the side of the bed, he started thinking out loud: “Gotta get Janae on the phone . . . we need to be on the R7 by . . . what? . . . six, at the very latest . . .”

“Rog, I'm online now. There's an Acela express train pulling out of the Thirtieth Street Station at six-fifteen. That'll get you in the city by seven twenty-five. I'll book the tickets. You'll just need to pick them up at customer service.”

“Book three.”

“Three?”

“Yup, you're going with us. I am tired of this pussyfooting. You, my friend, are officially on the case. I won't take no for an answer.”

Chapter Sixteen

THIS WAS JANAE'S FIRST TRIP TO NEW YORK CITY—ANYWHERE OUTSIDE OF Philly, really. Under different circumstances this trip would have been one of the most exciting things that had ever happened to her. She would have taken Malik with her. They could have gone to see the Empire State Building, eaten New York pizza, and maybe checked out Times Square at night with all the lights. Malik would have loved that, and it would have been valuable for him to see something different. When this is over, she promised herself, she would expose Malik—and herself—to more of the world.

Janae shook her head slightly but kept her gaze steadily on what was outside the train. It was still difficult thinking about Malik in the context of crime and court hearings. But it was real. It was really happening.
Baby steps
, she reminded herself, yearning for Malik's freedom.

Janae was quiet the entire train ride. Every once in a while she tuned into the conversation between Roger and the new attorney. Roger would take the lead on the greater humanitarian aspect of the case; Calvin would focus more on Malik's specific legal situation.

The Acela pulled into Penn Station a few minutes ahead of schedule. They needed to catch the number 1 train uptown to Lincoln Center to get to the TV network studios on West Sixty-sixth Street. It was seven seventeen. Calvin's friend at the station, Samantha, had already called. She said they needed to be at the studio by seven forty-five or their segment would be bumped.

They arrived just in time for the interview. Both Roger and Calvin stressed to Janae how crucial it was that she maintain her composure.

“I know. I get it,” she said, showing some irritation in the face of their lack of confidence.

Roger peered at her over his glasses.

“Oh boy. What?” she said.

“Janae, you might not be able to change where you live, or how much education you have or how much money you make—at least not right now—but you do have control over your mouth.” He pointed to it. “I expect you to exercise it.”

Janae put her right hand up as though she was about to make the Girl Scout pledge.

“They can set me on fire and they won't get a reaction out of me.”

Calvin chuckled. “We want you to be poised, not dead.” He touched her arm lightly. It felt sturdy and comforting to Janae, even protective.

“I'm just saying, I'm not going to be any trouble”—she turned to Roger and looked at him regretfully—“I swear.”

“I'm going to hold you to that,” Roger said.

Within two or three minutes of their arrival, a tall thin woman with long blond hair walked toward them. She reminded Janae of a character from TV or the movies. She didn't seem to have a worry in the world, based on the way she glided down the hallway. Her hair bounced and swirled with each step as if she had a personal fan blower walking in sync with her.

Janae reached to feel her own hair. It was in its usual style—pulled back off her face, and held together by an elastic band. The last time she had flowing hair was over three years ago, when Tameka treated her to the salon for her birthday.

The woman's smile took up her entire face, and as she got closer to them it was clear it was exclusively for Calvin.

“Hey, you! I'm glad you made it,” Samantha Cartwright said to Calvin. She pecked him on the cheek. Calvin's eyes fluttered when her lips made contact. “It's so good to see you again.”

“Good to see you, too.” Calvin beamed. He cleared his throat. “Let me introduce you. Roger, Janae, this is my friend Samantha Cartwright. I called her early this morning. I told her about Malik's case and Roger's argument and she immediately said yes to an interview. We have her to thank for this. She's the boss around here.”

“Well, I know a good story when I hear one.” Samantha extended her hand to Roger. “It is truly an honor to meet you. I almost went to law school after reading about your work with the UN in Africa.”

“Thank you. What a compliment,” Roger said, looking at Calvin approvingly, and then back to Samantha.

“And you must be Janae Williams. It's nice to meet you.” She took Janae's hard in her own long, thin one and shook it firmly.

Janae smiled. The woman towered over her by a good half a foot, if not more. Everything about her seemed picture perfect: not a hair out of place, and her clothes were beautiful, and expensive-looking. The fabrics were thick and luxurious and did not cling awkwardly to her body. Janae could have purchased an entire closet full of clothes at Target for the price of that one tailored wrap dress Samantha was wearing. And there was an energy about her that conveyed confidence. Samantha was certain of the value she added to her work and contributed to the world. Malik had always been Janae's greatest accomplishment.

The women Janae knew had no such lightness to their step. Her coworkers, her mom, even Tameka—all of them were struggling to keep their heads above water, and to keep their kids out of trouble. Most of them, either they were religious fanatics who denied themselves everything or they squeezed too much short-term pleasure, with long-term consequences, out of their lives.
What if she hadn't been a teenage mom and had waited to have a child?
What if she had had the chance to go to college? What if she had a job that meant something to her? Would she have the same sort of confidence that this woman had? Would people immediately feel the energy when she walked into a room?

Janae fidgeted with a button on her coat to avoid staring at Samantha. She eventually unbottoned it and just took the coat off. Underneath, her purple dress hung a little uncomfortably on her frame.

She could feel Calvin's eyes on her. Not meaning to, she let her eyes meet his. She allowed them to linger for a second, then she shifted them back to Samantha, and then back to him. Janae tried but she couldn't quite accomplish a smile.

Calvin spoke to Samantha, though his eyes were still locked on Janae's. “Do you personally greet all of
GDA
's guests?” He turned his full attention back to his friend.

“Only when it's been too long since I've seen them.” She pursed her lips seductively. “Maybe we could do an early lunch or grab a coffee after the interview?” she suggested. It was as if Janae and Roger weren't even there for a moment or two.

Without thinking, Calvin shifted his body toward Janae. “I, um, I would love that. But we're headed back to Philly right after the interview.” His brow creased. “Next time, for sure.”

“I'm going to hold you to it,” Samantha said and pointed playfully at him.

“You better,” Calvin said.

Janae turned her head away to give them some space. No man's face had ever lit up because she entered the room, especially not the face of such a handsome, successful man as Calvin.
That has to be nice.

“Let's get you to set,” Samantha said, crooking her arm around Calvin's and leading the way.

 

JANAE FELT LIKE A SPECIMEN—A SMALL PIG SMELLING OF FORMALDEHYDE—split open, pinned down, and under a microscope about to be dissected. Such was the prospect of having her life examined on television. She was seated on the interview couch in the studio. The TV crew busied themselves around her. It was a big production, with a fancy set and stage lights.

There were multiple crew members behind multiple cameras. A woman with short red hair rushed over to her and clipped a microphone to her dress; she also put mics on Roger and Calvin when they joined Janae on the sofa.

The interviewer, Tiffany Palmer, looked every bit like the second coming of runway model Iman. She was tall and thin, and somewhat athletic. Her mocha complexion had a glow to it. Her short-cropped natural hair with streaks of honey brown was a perfect complement to her easygoing elegance.

Tiffany Palmer sat up taller and fiddled with her earpiece. Janae heard a woman call out, “We're on in five, four, three, two, one.” Before Tiffany Palmer opened her mouth, Janae felt her stomach sink. A rush of nervousness came over her. She tried her best not to show it.

Roger leaned into her. “This is for Malik,” he said.

Just as quickly as the uneasiness came over her, it was gone—for Malik she could do anything.

Tiffany Palmer shifted her body somewhat to her left and smiled into the camera. “Welcome back to
Good Day America
. Today we have a story about murder, race, and politics. Hold on to your seats, guys, because this will either incense you or inform you about what is going on in big cities across America. You decide. We have with us the internationally renowned human rights attorney Roger Whitford.”

A camera zoomed in on Roger. He grinned in its direction. Janae could see a monitor that showed the image home viewers received. There was Tiffany Palmer and Roger across from each other. It was an interesting pairing. The vibrant and much younger newswoman and Roger who looked more like a mad scientist than a well-traveled attorney with reading glasses perched below the bridge of his nose.

“He has supported women's rights globally, fighting for economic and educational access and against sexual exploitation and violence in places such as Afghanistan, India, Guatemala, and Mali. During some of the most important events in our recent history, where victims around the world have been voiceless, this man was somewhere on the scene, championing their cause.”

Tiffany Palmer's expression shifted from wide-eyed adoration to the squint of confusion. “And now Mr. Whitford is representing a fifteen-year-old boy who has been charged with the murder of another teen in Philadelphia. This case has been receiving a growing amount of attention, partly because of the astounding number of murders so far in this still-very-young new year. Twenty-nine murders,” she stressed. “What's going on down there in Philadelphia? Let's first take a look at this clip.”

Janae braced herself. She started breathing again when the clip started with the same question that Tiffany Palmer ended with—“What's going on in Philadelphia?” In the background there were flashing police lights and glowing yellow crime-scene tape. Finally, the names of all the victims, including Troy's, crawled up the screen. The voiceover stressed that these homicides had gripped the city, along with a fear of perpetrators as young as fifteen.

Janae squirmed. Malik had been the youngest defendant accused of murder.

The clip continued with the observation that all the victims were young black males, as were all the alleged perpetrators. Philadelphia Police Officer Peter Rhinehold, flanked by local black pastors, demanded a stop to the violence. He said the latest killing in the city amounted to nothing less than local terrorism. He demanded justice for the victims and communities. The clip went black.

Tiffany Palmer turned to Roger. “Why are you jumping into the fray? Have you switched the focus of your practice from human rights to criminal law?”

Roger removed his glasses and took the time to carefully fold and place them in his inner breast pocket. He leaned toward her. “Well, first, Tiffany, I want to thank you for having me on this morning, and also for purposely avoiding any mention of the name of my client, who is a minor. Not every journalist has been as gracious as you. And, no, I have not changed my practice. I have long devoted my practice to human rights, and I continue to do that with this new case.”

“So is it your claim that some human rights violations occurred during the arrest or detention of this defendant?”

“I think the best way to answer that question is to first define what human rights are. They are rights that we are all entitled to by virtue of being human beings. They include the right to be treated with dignity and to have access to justice—for our humanity to be recognized by our fellow citizens and government. Human rights most certainly embrace freedom from discrimination and mistreatment by one's government. It is our position that every single day in this country there are human rights violations in the administration of our criminal justice system, and our education system, that are, quite frankly, endangering an entire group of people.”

“Let me ask you this: Why have you decided to represent the fifteen-year-old boy in this case who is being tried for murder?”

“It's simple. I have taken on his case because the criminal justice system demonstrates a pattern of injustice in how it treats—no, let me say
mistreats
—black boys. And I believe it's so detrimental that there is the real threat of extinction of black boys in our culture.”

Tiffany Palmer's eyebrows leapt up toward her hairline. “Extinction? Well, that's a pretty strong word. Aren't you concerned that people will think your assertions are a bit over-the-top?” She raised her hands as if defending herself from attack. “Full disclosure here: I have a fifteen-year-old son myself who's black. You're not speaking of boys like him, are you? You can't turn the TV on and not see black men. They are thriving in sports, entertainment, they're in every field. In fact, your cocounsel on the case is a successful African-American man.”

The camera zoomed in on Calvin, who nodded in its direction.

Roger smiled with a confidence that comes from years of practice. “
Extinction
is a strong word, and it's exactly what I mean. Those successful black men you are talking about”—his eyes diverted to Calvin briefly before returning to the camera—“are a drop in the bucket compared to the larger group as a whole. If you could put up the statistics I provided your producer . . . ? Already thirteen percent of
all
black males eighteen years old and older have lost their right to vote because they have been tried and convicted of a felony. That means that they can never be fully participating citizens of our society
ever
again
. That number is huge. We know from studies conducted at Princeton, Harvard, and Columbia universities that education—or, more to the point,
lack
of education—is directly linked to crime. The less education you have the more likely you are to be involved in crime. If you take a look at the statistics again, in almost every major metropolitan area in this country—L.A., here in New York, in Detroit, in Chicago—over sixty percent of black boys drop out of school, and the ones who stay are disproportionately placed in special education, or they are suspended, or even expelled. It's not a question of
if
those kids will end up in the criminal justice system, it's a question of
when
. And here's the proof: already, right now, one-third, or roughly thirty-three percent of all black males between the ages of sixteen and twenty-four are either awaiting trial, in prison, or on probation or parole. And if the criminal justice system doesn't get them, homicide will. I can sit here and rattle off countless more statistics that would paint a grim picture of black boys' future . . . the point being, their lives are truly and literally endangered.” Roger paused.