Endangered (2 page)

Malik was just the opposite of the way the news described him. He was kind, maybe even too kind, and that worried Janae, because the boys in their neighborhood were tough. Malik was soft.

A few weeks ago, he didn't receive the only birthday card that mattered to him, the one from his father. Every year for fourteen years it came, and it always had crisp one-dollar bills in it, equal to his age. Janae thought she had seen a tear in his eye when he asked if this was all the mail? He turned his head so quickly she wasn't sure.

None of the cards had really come from his father, David. All fourteen of them were from David's mother—Malik's grandmother. She never called, never came to see him. To her, Janae was the slut who made her a grandmother at thirty-five years of age. She said she would love her grandson anyway. The card and money were her love.

It had always been just Janae and Malik. Janae's mother helped when she could, but she had five other kids to provide for and raise. At fifteen, Janae was on her own and pregnant.

The local female anchor continued to deliver the story, giving the child psychologist an opportunity to explain his theory:

“If you take a look at all the defendants and their victims from January one to now, really what's happening has been going on for years. There's just been an uptick in the number of murders, but there are some common characteristics among them. They are all males, overwhelmingly black, poor, and almost always live in single-parent households headed by poorly educated black women. Psychologically speaking, this is essentially a recipe for disaster. There's a severe lack of stability and nurturing going on. And as a consequence we are seeing boys who are severely emotionally detached, angry, and violent.”

“I
do
love my son!” Janae exploded as she hurled the remote at the screen. “You don't know how it is. I
do
love him.” Janae clutched her chest. It felt as if some all-powerful fist had reached inside her and wrung her heart like a wet rag.

“Well, Dr. Phelps,” the anchor said, “based on your assessment, I don't know if we are to pity them or demand the criminal justice system lock them up and throw away the key.”

The professor smiled. “Well, then I've done my job. That's the conundrum we find ourselves facing, isn't it? Right now the solution we have is to treat them like adults for committing horrific crimes that, quite frankly, most adults I know couldn't imagine committing on their worst day.”

Janae turned the TV off. Tired and overwhelmed, she stared at the black screen trying to devise a plan to help her son. She sat alone, until the room grew dark. Only the moon's light shone between the blinds' plastic slats. From the change pocket of her wallet she retrieved a folded paper with her boss's cell number written on it.
If I could just get some weekend hours and work nights, too, I could go to every one of Malik's hearings without falling behind on the bills. Maybe with some extra hours I could even raise enough money for an attorney.
Maybe.
She picked up the phone and dialed her boss.

Chapter Three

THE COURTHOUSE AT 1801 VINE STREET WAS BUSTLING WITH ACTIVITY ON Monday morning.

Courtroom B was large with a high ceiling, but it still had a cramped feeling. The wooden bench Janae sat on was hard and splintered in spots. The lighting was depressingly dim.

The room was filled with women in situations similar to hers. They all looked familiar, with their sullen faces. They could have been neighbors or distant relatives. There was one woman in particular whom Janae thought she'd attended elementary school with, or maybe she worked at a store Janae visited.

A few kids, younger than school age, sat restlessly next to their mothers. A little boy no more than three got loose from his frazzled mom and darted toward the bar of the courtroom. She scrambled to catch him before the court clerk did.

“Do you want to go to jail?” she loudly scolded the child.

Obediently, he shook his head.

“Well, do what I tell you to do!” She snatched him by his sticklike arm and hauled him back to their seat.

Two of the mothers were consulting with their private attorneys. The lawyers, in their dark suits, were armed with briefcases thick with files devoted to their clients.

Janae called a half-dozen defense attorneys. The going hourly rate for a criminal defense lawyer for murder charges was, at minimum, $375 an hour—or a flat fee of $20,000. Even if she worked every shift and didn't pay her rent for a year, there was no way she could get her hands on that kind of money.

She was the eighth person in line to speak to the public defender assigned to this courtroom. He had a total of fifteen minutes before the judge took the bench to get through a line of about twenty anxious mothers desperate for a word about their children's welfare.

When it was Janae's turn, the public defender quickly searched for Malik's file in a large accordion folder stuffed with others just like it. The public defender pulled it out and flipped through the flimsy file. He turned a few pages until he reached the one he was searching for. His eyes shifted back and forth across the page quickly.

“This morning is going to be pretty routine,” he said, his eyes still on the file. “The judge will transfer your son's case to criminal court. That means he'll be tried as an adult on murder one charges. From here on out you will go to the Criminal Justice Center for everything involving your son's case. A new PD will be assigned. For now, just wait in the gallery until your son's case is called.”

Janae was screaming inside. Questions exploded in her mind like fireworks. But before she had a chance to ask even one, the public defender already shifted his body from her to the next mother in line. She overheard him use the word
routine
again.

There was nothing routine about this. It was black magic of the highest order. A few days ago, before everything had happened, Malik was a child. Her responsibility. She was responsible for him in every way. Now, all of a sudden, they want to treat him as an adult. Troy was dead, murdered. That was terrible, but what they were doing now to Malik—in the name of justice—was wrong.

Troy and Malik had been friends. They went through fifth, sixth, and seventh grades together. It was only a few weeks ago that Troy was in Janae's home. He and Malik played Xbox together. They were so excited about those damn games that they worked up a sweat playing them.

Troy had a reputation around the neighborhood for being a little wild, but in her home she never saw that side of him. He was always respectful. She knew he had stopped going to school. Otherwise he and Malik would have probably had at least one or two classes together. She didn't stop Malik from being friends with him, though. If she started cutting off his friends based on who was still in school—hell, most of them would have been off limits. As long as he continued to do what he was supposed to do, Malik could be friends with whomever he liked.

Malik wasn't perfect, she knew that. He occasionally cut classes—but what teenage boy didn't?

She'd caught him once. She came home early, sick with fever from work, and there he was, back home and in his bed at eleven-thirty. Even had the nerve to be snoring, like he didn't have a damn thing better he should be doing. Janae fixed him real good. She doused him with an ice-cold bucket of water and sent him back to school. He went, and he continued to go, as far as she knew.

He was good with the big stuff. Malik didn't use drugs, and he respected her most of the time. There was typical stuff she dealt with. Stuff no parent can escape with a teenage boy—like not coming home on time, usually because of girls.

The public defender's words echoed threateningly in her head: “Today is going to be pretty routine.” This was the worst event of their lives and he's saying it's normal, for women worried over their sons, whose lives and futures were in serious jeopardy.

The gallery was packed. The air in the courtroom was stifling. Janae could feel a quiet hysteria jumping from one mother to the next. It was after eight and the judge still hadn't taken the bench.

Janae leaned into the woman on her right and took in a large gulp of nauseatingly sweet perfume. Instinctively she pinched the tip of her nose. “Um, excuse me,” she whispered to the woman. “I'm going to go out in the hall. Just for a bit. I need some air. Could you keep an ear out for my son, Malik Williams? I'll be just outside the door.”

The woman nodded. Janae darted for the heavy wooden double doors convinced that if the circumstances of the day didn't make her heave, the bowl of cold cereal she forced herself to eat earlier that morning mixed with the lingering scent of the woman's perfume would.

 

JANAE HELD ON TO THE CLOSE WALLS OF THE BATHROOM STALL AND LEANED further into the bowl, forcing herself to work faster at expelling the food her body refused to keep down. Beads of sweat sprouted on her forehead. She wiped at them aimlessly. She remained bent over the bowl until her gag grew dry. She rinsed her mouth and wiped it with the back of her hand. She clutched the sides of the sink and lowered her head to it. Out of the deepest part of her soul she moaned.
How did this happen? Where did I go wrong?

Outside Courtroom B, she sat on a bench, convinced that if she went back inside to wait the fear that was thick in the air would make her fall to pieces. In the hallway, there was more space between her and the other frightened mothers.

Six sets of courtroom doors lined one wall of the corridor. People trickled in and out of every one. A lawyer and his client exited Courtroom C and immediately began dissecting what had happened inside. Janae overheard the wealthy white mother demanding answers regarding her son's case. “Now that he's been released to me, when will his case be resolved?” The teenage boy slouched next to his mother with an aloof look on his face. The attorney leaned in to the mother. “It's happening. There's a meeting with the judge in his chambers. You just need to be prepared with accommodations at a private rehabilitation facility in case the judge orders it. Give me until Friday and this whole mess will disappear,” the attorney promised. The mother smiled, and Janae's gut wrenched with guilt.
No private attorney for Malik
. Three women filed out after the attorney and his client, their eyes and cheeks wet with tears.

Every time Courtroom B's heavy wooden doors opened, Janae's heart quickened. It had opened thirteen times before the public defender finally called, “Janae Williams?”

She pushed through the door and raised her right hand slightly. “That's me.”

He pulled her aside, into a small witness room. There was a table with a phone on it and two chairs. He didn't motion to sit, and she took his cue and remained standing, steadying herself by holding on to the back of one of the chairs.

“There's been a development in your son's case.”

“A development?” she echoed, her empty stomach churning. Her fist pressed at her mouth. She felt a swell of panic inside her. “What kind of development?”

“Apparently the judge received a phone call in chambers. The CPHR plans to file a motion to represent your son. The case has been continued till later this week.”

“Wait, wait. I don't want his case continued. I haven't even seen him! I need to see my son.”

The public defender eyed the door. “Um. Your son. When a case is not called, the defendant is not brought into the courtroom. You're not going to be able to see your son today. Not here. I'm sorry. Okay . . . the CPHR—that stands for Center for the Protection of Human Rights. I don't know their interest in your son's case. I just know the organization has an
excellent
reputation.” The corners of his mouth curled upward into a faint smile. “This is a good development. It's like having a private attorney, but better, because you don't have to pay. They have your home number and they will get in contact with you.” His eyes widened as his shoulders shrugged slightly. “That's all I know. Now, I really have to get back in there.”

“But what if I don't want them involved in my son's case? I think I'd rather have a public defender.”

He turned back to her. He pinched his lips together as he stared into her defiant, black-jeweled eyes. “If I were in your situation—no, if you were my sister—I would tell you not to oppose this. Trust me, you
want
them. This is a good development. It's either the public defender's office or the CPHR. And they have resources way beyond what we have.”

Janae stared straight into the public defender's blue eyes. “This is good?” Her brows furrowed.

He nodded holding her glare. “Yes, it is. I really have to go.”

“Okay, okay,” she said.

As Janae walked toward the elevator, a woman sideswiped her in a rush. Janae steadied her gait.

“She's got a gun!”

Janae turned in the direction of the scream, toward Courtroom B. She could see the public defender she had just spoken to frozen in place through the gaps of people running toward her to get to the exits. To avoid the stampede, Janae dropped to her knees and hid behind a tall metal trash can.

Janae could see the PD's terror-filled eyes fixated on a silver gun brandished by the woman.

The woman's face was wild with rage. Her chest heaved violently. “You don't even remember my son, do you?” the woman screamed at the PD. “How is this for
routine
!” The gun blasted. Blood exploded from the PD's chest as he crashed to the floor. The woman turned the gun on herself, placing the barrel to her right temple. She pulled the trigger.

Before her body had hit the floor, while everyone was still screaming, Janae made a mad dash out of the building. She quickly fought her way through the crowd. The cold air felt good on her face.
Oh my God. Malik
.