No One in the World (2 page)

The police had found him a month ago, hiding in his girlfriend's garage. He had been gangbanging since he was eleven years old and had been picked up several times for truancy and an assortment of other misdemeanors, but nothing ever as serious as this.

The crime had happened on a beautiful Saturday evening. A thirty-two-year-old father and his seven-year-old son were walking down Jeffery Boulevard, when someone wearing a hooded jacket ran up behind them. The assailant pointed a gun at the back of the father's head and pulled the trigger, killing him in front of his son. He then turned the gun on the startled child and shot him twice, killing him as well.

There were eyewitnesses. Four separate individuals identified DeAndré in a lineup as the gunman.

DeAndré Moore's attorney was one of the best in Chicago, a man named Milton Crawford. He was a handsome white-haired gentleman who had once told me he was practicing law when I was still just a dirty thought in my father's head. I wasn't sure of his age, but he looked to be well into his sixties. Since I was thirty-three, Mr. Crawford was probably right.

His firm did pro bono work for the community, often defending violent cases involving the poor and disenfranchised like this one. Most of those cases were losers, but they kept the firm's name in the news and its phones ringing.

Milton Crawford argued that his client had acted in self-defense. Crawford stated that DeAndré had been deprived, destined to fail since birth. His father was absent, his mother a prostitute. DeAndré had cared for himself since he was seven years old, had no guidance, no love, no discipline. He was raised by the streets, taken in by a gang, and treated as a mascot till he became of age. At which point he had to commit a murder to become a member.

During Mr. Crawford's closing argument, he leaned on the jury box's railing. “He was told by one of the gang leaders, and I quote, ‘If you don't do a killing, then we're going to do a killing on you.' My client was only trying to preserve his life by taking another,” Mr. Crawford said.

It was the most ridiculous defense I had heard. All it did was make me angrier and more motivated to put this boy away.

It was my turn now, and as I stood over DeAndré, I shook my head in disgust before walking back toward the jury.

“Kevin Jones and Brandon Jones,” I said. “Those are the names of the father and son that the defendant murdered in cold blood. Kevin has a wife, and two more children—little girls—at home. Kevin and Brandon have been forever taken from their family, from this world by—” I shot a finger at DeAndré “—by him!” I paused to calm myself. “Who or what gave him the right? His circumstances? Yes, he was raised in the streets. He had no father. His mother gave him no attention. He had to fend for himself. But do those facts justify murder?” I paced away from the jury. “Do you know how many children grow up the same way? Does it give them the right to take lives? Does it give them the right to act outside the
law? It does not. DeAndré was given life, and with that life he could've done whatever he wanted, despite his circumstances. I cannot and will not suffer fools who let the hand they've been dealt determine what they will do, and who they will be, and neither should you. DeAndré Moore was given a life, yet he chose to take two others. For that he must be punished,” I said, walking back to the jury box. I took a moment to look each of the jurors in the eye one by one. “For DeAndré Moore, there is no other verdict but guilty.”

N
ot long after lunch, the jury reached a decision. DeAndré Moore was found guilty. He was charged as an adult and sentenced to twenty-five years in a maximum-security prison.

As I drove my Audi S6 home, tension from the day still coursing through my body, I thought about how if it were up to me, I would've put him away for life.

I pulled into the circular drive of the historic brick mansion I lived in with my parents. Work had been hard, but considering what was going on here, I knew that today home would be harder.

Once inside, I went to my mother's bedroom to check on her. I stood outside her door and knocked gently. I didn't want to walk in on her if she was crying again.

“Cobi, is that you? C'mon in.”

My mother was standing next to her bed in front of an open, half-packed suitcase, holding a lavender blouse up to her chest. “Do I need this?” She smiled, although her eyes were red, like she had been crying not long ago.

“Mother,” I said, taking the garment, folding it, and laying it on top of the other neatly folded clothes. “Just take it. You never know.”

“Was work good today?”

“It was work, like every day. These things that people do . . .” I
lamented. “And some of them are practically children. I put a sixteen-year-old animal away today for twenty-five years.”

“Don't call them that, Cobi. You don't know what they've been through. Some of them have no fathers. They grew up in foster homes,” my mother said.

“It doesn't matter. It's—”

“Not everyone had it as nice as you growing up. What if that was you out there? What if you were forced to . . .” My mother reached for her box of Kleenex, snatched two, and pressed them to her nose. “You were lucky,” she said, tears rolling from her eyes, her voice trailing off. “There was a chance . . .” my mother started to say but abruptly stopped herself.

“What was that you said, Ma?”

“Nothing, Cobi.” She walked away from me, blowing her nose into the tissue.

Last week, my mother received a call from Alabama. It was from Uncle Carl, my mother's brother in-law. She told me his voice was solemn as he regrettably told her that her sister, Rochelle, had died in her sleep. My mother told me she held the phone to her ear, staring into the space before her, gasping for words that wouldn't come.

“She went peacefully,” my mother said Carl had said.

I loved Aunt Rochelle. She looked just like my mother. They shared the same cornflake-colored complexion, the same sandy brown hair, the same bright smile. The only difference was that Aunt Rochelle was shorter and funnier. When I was a child, whenever she saw me, she would tell a new joke. If I didn't think it was funny, she'd tickle me till I was in tears with laughter.

But I had not seen nor spoken to Aunt Rochelle in five years. She and my mother had fallen out. My mother had never told me why, and whenever I asked, she would simply say, “It's nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

The funeral was to be held tomorrow. My parents intended to fly to Alabama sooner, spend time mourning with the family, but the business demanded that they stay for a meeting held earlier today.

There was trouble with the family business. Profits were down, our competition was gaining, and the future of the company's value was uncertain. Cyrus, my father, had even mentioned the idea of selling. The situation had to have been terribly bad for him to think of such a thing.

Our company, Winslow Products was started by my grandfather, in a single-boarder room he rented back in 1959. Through hard work, dedication, and anticipating the needs of Chicago's African American population, Charles Winslow grew Winslow Products into the most successful and recognized black hair care line in the country. I knew it would've killed my father to sell it.

I lowered the top of the suitcase and zipped it. “That's everything, right?”

My mother pulled another Kleenex from the box and pressed it to her nose, her back to me.

She was starting to cry again. I took a step toward her. She held out a hand, instructing me not to come any closer.

There was something gravely wrong, something my mother was not telling me. I knew she was mourning the loss of her sister, but this seemed like something more.

I stood three feet behind her, looking at our reflections in the mirror. I was tall, six foot, with an athletic build I maintained by going to the gym at least four times a week. My skin was not the color of cornflakes like my mother's and Aunt Rochelle's, but darker, like raisin bran flakes. My facial features were keen, my teeth straight, my nose broad, my eyes jet black beneath thick eyebrows, and my hair buzzed low, razor lined, where just a shadow could be seen.

Other than our difference in skin tone, I looked a great deal like my mother, a miracle, considering I had been adopted when I was three years old.

“Mother . . .” I said, my voice low.

She didn't answer. She pulled away the tissue, and I could see tears in her eyes again.

“Ma.” I felt horrible. All I wanted to do was give her a hug, beg her to please tell me what else was wrong, because I knew it was something. My mother could never keep anything from me. It was she who, against my father's wishes, sat me down when I was eight years old and told me I was adopted.

My father was a quiet man—a man of few words. But when he spoke, everyone listened. He showed very little emotion. I don't remember a single time when he hugged me. He had told me he loved me before, but I could never feel the emotion in his confession. It always just sounded like something he thought he should say.

To tell the truth, I wouldn't have been surprised if my father didn't love me at all. We had a few issues, like any father and son. But I was sure, one day, we were going to work them out. I had actually told myself that when my parents returned home from Aunt Rochelle's funeral, I was going to sit Cyrus down, whether the man liked it or not, and have a good father-and-son talk with him.

Now my mother finally turned to me. “Sit,” she said. “Your Aunt Rochelle—five years ago, we argued over some money. It was a thousand dollars or something. She said she gave it back to me. I said she didn't. This family is rich . . .” My mother chuckled sadly. “But I haven't spoken to my sister in all that time for a lousy thousand dollars. It was the principle of the matter, I kept telling myself. But now she's dead and . . .” My mother tightened her grip on my hands and wept loudly.

“Ma, don't—”

“I loved her. Your aunt . . . she was so wonderful.”

“I know, and I know you loved her,” I said, hugging my mother, feeling as though I was about to start crying myself. “She knows you did.”

“But she's gone.”

“She's with God, Ma. She's in a better place.”

“I haven't spoken to her in years. I didn't say good-bye. And now she's gone,” my mother said, pulling away from my embrace. “I don't want the same thing to happen to you.”

I leaned away from her. “What are you talking about?”

She pulled more Kleenex from the box on the nightstand, dried her face, and looked deeply into my eyes. “Your father didn't think you should ever know this, but I don't want you to go through life without ever . . . without . . .”

“Mother, what are you talking about?”

“I begged your father. It wasn't right to separate you. I wanted to take you both.”

“Mother, please. What are you saying to me?”

“Forgive me, Cobi, for what we've done,” my mother said, smearing tears from her eyes with the tissue. “But when we adopted you, there was someone else. Cobi . . . you have a twin brother.”

I
marched down the long halls of my parents' mansion, my heels clicking loudly against the black-and-white tiles, the sound echoing up to the high ceilings.

My mother told me not to bring this to my father. “This is between us,” my mother said, trying to hold me in her room. “He never wanted you to know.”

In front of the door to his study, I raised my fist and prepared to knock but grabbed the knob instead and pushed through the door unannounced.

My father, the great Cyrus Winslow, president and CEO of Winslow Products, looked up from his computer monitor. His reading glasses sat low on his nose.

“Why didn't you knock?”

My father was a big man with broad shoulders. His skin was the color of peanut butter. His dark, wavy hair receded from his lined forehead. His face was clean shaven, and although very distinguished looking, he appeared much younger than his seventy years.

“Mother told me,” I said, infuriated.

“Told you what?”

“About my brother. I have a twin brother and you never told me!”

“Don't you raise your voice in my house,” my father said, taking off his glasses, tossing them aside on his desk.

“I'll do whatever the hell I want,” I said, no longer caring if he chose not to speak to me for days because he disapproved of me, like he had so many times in the past. “You kept this from me. Why would you do that?” I was on the verge of tears.

My father stood, all six foot three inches of him. He walked around the big oak desk. “Sit down.”

“I don't want to sit.”

The room was mostly dark, except for the lamp burning dimly on his desk. The ceilings were high. The hardwood floor was covered with an expensive Persian rug. The room smelled of the old leather-bound books stacked on the shelves lining his office walls. I stood before him, my arms crossed over my chest.

“Your mother and I had already adopted your sister,” my father said, leaning on the edge of his antique desk. “We wanted a little boy. We chose you.”

“But there were two of us.”

“Like I said, we chose you.”

“Why not both of us?” I said, my voice high pitched. “Or neither?”

My father scoffed. “Is that what you really would've wanted? Do you know how most people live? Do you know what's out there? We've given you everything. A top-tier education, the freedom to pursue a career as an attorney. You have a twenty-million-dollar trust, and you're about to receive shares of this company on your next birthday, and you question me? Do you know the kind of life you would be living right now if we hadn't adopted you? You could've been the scum you're putting behind bars every day.”

“I've worked hard to get to where I am today, to achieve what I have. It wasn't just about what you provided me.”