Endangered (3 page)

Chapter Four

JANAE CALLED IN SICK AT HER JOB. SHE WAS DEVASTATED BY WHAT SHE'D witnessed at the courthouse. Since leaving the courthouse she could not stop shaking and crying. Noise of any kind pierced through her head and ran down her spine. Every sound resembled a gunshot and caused a burning in her stomach. She paced around her cramped apartment, half thinking about the CPHR's call, but mostly missing Malik.

Janae picked up Malik's Xbox and played with one of the controllers. She held it close to her chest, thinking it was quite possibly one of the last things he'd touched in their home. He had on a few occasions played with it with so much intensity that the tenant below banged on her ceiling to get him to tone it down. It worked for about a minute, if that, and then he was right back to his loud roughhousing. She would tease him that maybe he should get a paycheck for how he played the thing.

One of Malik's jackets was still hanging from a kitchen chair; that's where he would put it when he was just making a pit stop before going out again.

She avoided his bedroom.

The phone finally rang.

“Hello,” she said tentatively.

“Is Janae Williams available?”

“That's me.”

“I am calling from the Center for the Protection of Human Rights. My name is Margaret Banks,” the woman said, then paused. She had a forceful voice, with a slight rattle. “I am calling on behalf of Attorney Roger Whitford. Mr. Whitford would like to get you into our office ASAP to discuss your son's case.”

“I'm sorry, when does he want to see me? And did you say your name was Margaret Banks?”

“Yes, Margaret Banks. You can call me Margaret. I am the office administrator, among other things, here at the Center for the Protection of Human Rights. Mr. Whitford needs to see you ASAP—you know, immediately. Within the next twenty-four hours, preferably.”

Janae's mind was spinning with many questions. “Can you tell me why my son's case was continued today? Why is your office trying to take over his case?”

“Well, Ms. Williams, that's what the appointment is for. Mr. Whitford will explain everything. Do you have pen and paper to write down some info?”

“Oh, oh . . . yes.” She moved quickly to her junk drawer next to the refrigerator. She yanked on it, nearly pulling it off its broken bracket. Janae sighed. Just one more thing the landlord refused to fix. She tossed aside lost game pieces, a scratched-out grocery list, paper clips, and buttons as she searched for a pen. Her eyes fell upon an old photo of Malik. It was half buried under a bundle of receipts. She brushed them aside, completely exposing the picture. It had to be five or six years old. It was worn around the edges, curled at all four ends.

She remembered that day clearly. They had been inside all weekend, messing around because of ceaseless crappy weather. They had a serious attack of giggles that wouldn't quit. Malik's smile was broad and deep. The photo revealed a part of his soul. She brushed over the image lightly, resting her finger on his face.

Chapter Five

BACK AND FORTH JANAE'S FINGERS FLIPPED THE BUSINESS CARD DAVID, Malik's father, had given her over a year ago when he was in town, performing at a local bar.
Would he even answer the call?
She wanted him there with her to meet with the CPHR attorney. Maybe he would know the right questions to ask, to see if this organization could help their son. Maybe his very presence would somehow make this nightmare fixable. She was physically and emotionally exhausted from having to do everything herself. She didn't know how much longer she could keep it up.

She shook her head in regret. There wasn't anyone who could help her through this. She never knew her own father. There were no uncles, brothers, no father figure in her community she could turn to. She stuffed the card back into her coat pocket.

Janae arrived at the CPHR building wishing she were not alone; alone like every other woman she knew.

The CPHR was located inside a huge two-story Victorian house converted into an office building. The trees that surrounded it were bare, with traces of old snow on crooked branches. The sign out front had the letters CPHR painted on it, and a blindfolded woman holding a scale. The words
Lady Justice
were written in smaller letters below the image. Janae's eyes lingered on the word
Justice
.

The chill in the air penetrated her jacket down to her bones. Her gloves and hat offered little protection from the stinging wind. She looked up at the CPHR's door. She took several steps forward and planted her right foot like lead on the first step. Softly, “Malik” escaped her lips. She watched the traces of white breath vanish into the frigid air.

Inside, the CPHR was bright and modern, just the opposite of its Victorian exterior. Almost immediately, an older white woman with fuzzy salt-and-pepper hair approached her, walking at a lively pace that seemed inconsistent with her age.

“You must be Janae,” the woman said, stopping just short of making body contact with her. “I'm Margaret. I spoke with you on the phone.”

“Hi.” Janae rubbed her right hand on her blue jeans and shook Margaret's extended hand.

“Well, aren't you a cute little thing. Sorry, I forgot—I meant to tell you to wear something you would wear to court.”

Janae sighed inwardly, ticking off everything that was wrong with the woman's comment. She wasn't cute. Monkeys are cute. And she wasn't little. Well, actually she was, but there was something about the way this woman said it that just rubbed her the wrong way. She willed a smile to her face anyway, but it ended up being more of an ambitious frown.

Janae had on by far her best-looking jeans. She wore shoes instead of sneakers, and she just pulled the tags off her sweater this morning. The outfit was her best, other than a purple dress and that was strictly for church—when she went.

“Well, it'll just have to do. Would you like some coffee or tea? We have herbal.”

“No thanks.”

“You may as well have something. You're going to be here a while. Tea or coffee?”

Janae stared into space.

“Well, we have five flavors. There's regular of course and Red Zinger. I think we have Passion Fr—”

The words had no meaning for Janae. “Whichever.”

“All right, then. Red Zinger it is. You hang up your coat and I'll be back with your tea in a jiffy.”

Janae's jacket was the only one on the rack. She sat in one of six black-leather-and-stainless-steel chairs, which were arranged in twos. Between each pair was a small table that displayed a few random magazines. She passed over a
Vogue
and a
Town
&
Country
before picking up
Newsweek.
She distractedly flipped through the pages. Quickly bored, she placed the magazine back on the table and then sat on her hands, rocking back and forth.

Margaret reappeared in the doorway, holding a paper cup. She motioned for Janae to follow her. Janae stood up and walked over toward Margaret. Without giving her the tea, the older woman led her to the back of the building. They passed a conference room with a huge glass wall. Inside was a long table with several leather chairs around it. There were two phones at either end. A flat-screen TV hung from the wall. Janae had been saving up to get one for Malik.

At the end of the hall, there was an open area that looked like a small library. There were desks with dividers that offered privacy for anyone who sat at them. Law books covered three walls.

Margaret led Janae up a flight of stairs. The stairway opened up to a dark narrow hallway with three doorways. She knocked on the last door.

Janae could practically hear her heart pounding in her chest. The sound seemed to echo throughout the narrow hallway. Her knees trembled.

The knock was answered by a low, distracted voice. “It's open.”

Margaret turned the glass knob and pushed the door. She handed Janae the Red Zinger. “I get off here. But Mr. Whitford will take good care of you, won't you, Roger?” She lowered her voice so only Janae could hear her. “I know you're nervous, but you're in good hands.” She turned back to the balding white-haired man seated behind the massive desk. “Now you be good,” she warned Roger.

The man winked at her.

Remaining seated, Mr. Whitford peered over his reading glasses and waved Janae into the crammed office. It wasn't a particularly small office, but there were piles of books and papers everywhere. There was barely a place to stand. Even the chair he pointed to for her to sit in had a small stack of folders on it. Janae picked up the folders and looked around her to find a bare spot to lay them. In the end, she decided to hold them on her lap and use them as a resting spot for her tea.

“So you're
Jah-nae
Williams, Malik's mother.”

She nodded, and wondered why the hell he was pronouncing her name as if the first half left a nasty taste in his mouth.

“I see here you completed high school at University City High. And you currently work as a cafeteria
ca-shier
at Thomas Jefferson Hospital. You've been there three years?”

Janae felt completely exposed. It didn't feel good to be reminded that all she had accomplished in thirty years was a diploma and cashier position, especially when now more than ever Malik needed more. A college education surely could have bought them a private attorney.

“Yes,” she said through tight lips.

He looked up from the folder in front of him and made eye contact with her. “So you had Malik when you were, ah, fifteen?”

Janae's nostrils flared and she could feel heat swelling in her chest. She swallowed deeply.

“Yes, yes I am. I mean, I was a teenage mother. I'm still a single mom. Malik's father was never really around.”

“You're very ar-ti-cu-late, aren't you?”

Her eyes rolled.
Okay, this is ridiculous
. She pressed her loosely held fist to her lips as she thought about how to respond to him. Janae reminded herself that he doesn't know her. She'd never missed a day of work before this horrible problem with Malik, and she had trained every single one of her coworkers. Janae prided herself on being her boss's most reliable employee.

“What is this all about? These questions, if you can even call them that, have nothing to do with Malik.”

“Okay,
Jah-nae
, don't you go and blow a gasket.” He held up his hands as white flags. He grinned. There were patches of red on his sunken cheeks. “I just wanted to see how you would handle yourself.”

Bug-eyed, and still quite annoyed, she retorted, “Did I pass?”

“You held your own”—his grin widened into a smile—“especially with everything that you have been through recently.” He looked at Janae knowingly. “Let's start over.” He stood fully from his seat and extended his hand to her. “Hello, my name is Roger Whitford. I'm the attorney who will be handling your son's case. You can call me Roger.”

“Mr. Roger, I don't know—”

“No, no, no. Roger. Just plain ol' Roger will do,” he said in a casual tone as though they just met at a party. Tears welled in her dark eyes.

“Here, take one of these,” he said and handed her a dented box of tissues. She took several. “I know you want to jump right into it,
Jah-nae
, but that's not how I do it. Your son is in some serious hot water.” He had a thick southern drawl, which gave her doubts about his skills. “And he is going to stay that way unless we can come up with a foolproof plan to derail the train wreck he is headed toward. You hear me?”

“My son is innocent,” she insisted.

“We're not in the business of innocence or guilt. Our job here at the CPHR is justice.”

“What's the difference?”

“Ah . . . glad you asked.” He handed her a pamphlet with the organization's acronym on it as he continued: “Our main focus is to bring about change in a larger, and in a more systemic, way. We don't generally focus much on individuals but on how laws, policies, and practices affect groups of people.”

“What does all this have to do with Malik? My son needs an attorney. The public defender said you would be his attorney.”

“Let me
fin-ish, Jah-nae
. . . Uh, have you heard of, let me see—open that pamphlet you have right there. On the inside of the front flap is a list of some of the cases we've handled.”

Janae studied the list. They represented Hurricane Katrina victims—something about suing the government for its negligence in failing to reinforce the levees and for subsequent substandard housing. The CPHR was also the lawyer for a group of people living in the Appalachian Mountains involving “the unacceptable Third World living conditions” in parts of eastern Kentucky. There were a few international cases as well. There were more than five cases listed with pictures that memorialized some aspect of each one. Roger was in a few, hugging people, and everyone was smiling.

“I don't see what you can do for Malik. They want to try him as an adult for murder. His case is nothing like the ones listed here.”

Roger smiled, which annoyed Janae. “I know the facts of your son's case,
Jah-nae
.” He flipped the pages that were in Malik's file. “I know the details of the case, his life, and yours, and it's perfect. I want to use your son's case to change the laws.”

“I still don't see how this will help Malik.”

“Well, maybe you just have to trust me,
Jah-nae
.”

She frowned. “I don't even know you.” She looked down at her watch. It had been forty-five minutes and still nothing. She shook her head, disappointed.

“You still just want to jump right into it, huh?”

“That's why I'm here.”

He peered at her from over his reading glasses. After several seconds he said, “Okay, okay. I believe we can make a solid argument that African-American boys ought to be deemed legally endangered. Their very lives are threatened with extinction, or at least any meaningful existence, and thereby ought to be afforded certain protections based on their classification as such.” Without taking a breath or giving Janae time to absorb any of it, he said, “Here's how Malik is helped. If we pull this off, he would fall within this protected group. The big unknown, however, is what
kind
of protections there will be for the boys, for Malik.”

“Wait! Endangered? I'm not following you. How will Malik get out of jail? How is this going to help my son? I haven't even seen him. He is counting on me to help him. The
dan-ger
, the real danger, is in him being in jail, which is not where he belongs.”

Roger pecked his finger at her as though she was the enthusiastic student at one of his guest lectures. “That's exactly my point! He doesn't deserve to be there, and neither do so many boys like him.
Jah-nae
, are you familiar with the Endangered Species Act? That's the act that protects animals—”

“Animals!” she snapped. She jumped out of her seat. Red Zinger splashed. “My son is not a damn animal. Are you trying to compare my son to an animal?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Consider yourself not hired!” She tossed the folders she'd been holding back onto the seat and headed for the door.

“
Jah-nae
, wait.” He followed after her. “
Jah-nae
, at least hear me out.”

She stopped cold. Without turning to even look at him, she said, “I don't owe you anything.”

“I want to help you, and Malik. But I also want to help other black boys who are in the same situation as Malik.”

She turned to him, overcome with frustration. “So, what are you, the great white hope? What are you going to do—save all the black boys because their parents are too ignorant to do it themselves?” She chuckled. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Wait a minute! Stop,
Jah-nae
! You've got this all wrong. I am on your side. The other day, when you sat at the courthouse waiting for your son's hearing, the same day I called the judge's chambers about representing you . . . what did you think it would take to get him off?”

She didn't respond, but his words stopped her in her tracks.

“Did you think it would take you telling the judge, ‘
He's innocent
'? I'm sure that you have seen too much and know too much to believe that that would have worked. So what did you think it would take,
Jah-nae
?”

She stayed silent. A flashback of the courtroom shooting sparked in her mind.

“We both know the answer. It would take a miracle. Maybe this is that miracle. The same kind of miracle that got you out of the courthouse safely.”

Janae looked at him confused.

“Yes, I called the courthouse as soon as I heard about the shooting.”