Untitled chapter
Chapter One: Expectations Versus Reality
Jamaal read through the script as fast as possible. For an aspiring actor, New York had enough open auditions and casting calls that Jamaal could spend all day walking from small apartment building hallway to small apartment building hallway, awaiting his turn to give the same delivery of the same one line over and over again.
Jamaal looked up and stared down the hallway. There were thirty versions of the same person sitting all around him, dressed in the same clothes, with the same haircut, and the same general expression. This was a familiar sight. Every series, independent film, commercial, everything, had their one role for Jamaal. He’d peruse the lists of casting calls on Craigslist, Breakdowns and actors’ showcases late at night and make a fat list of all the auditions he could go to.
“Jamaal Russ?” the casting director shouted down the hallway. Jamaal took one last look at his lines in the script. It was time to show his acting chops—the skills he had long honed, to show emotional depth and character.
Jamaal stepped into the audition room and saw three people eating hot pastrami sandwiches behind a small table. All three were overweight, and he could smell the grease and meat from the door.
“Who is this?” one of the casting directors muttered, fumbling through his list. “Oh…Jamaal Russo? No—Russ. Gotcha. Have a seat.”
Jamaal moved over towards a chair in the middle of the room. “Do you want me to stand up to audition or sit down?”
“Whatever is comfortable for you. Whatever you want,” the casting director said.
Jamaal sat down. Immediately, there were hushes of disappointment behind the table. Jamaal always found this to be a trick question. No matter what he did when he entered the room, the powers that be would throw condescending stairs and grimaces his way.
“Alright,” the casting director said. “Let’s run through the script, okay?” As the casting director proceeded to outline the scene, the other people in the room nodded as if he was pontificating the words of God. “Okay. So, you are very…unsettled in this scene. You’re agitated. You’ve seen something that would shake any man to his core, and you are reacting in the way that any man would.”
Jamaal looked down at the page. “It says here I’m calling out to my brother—”
“Friend. Yes.”
“It says brother…Oh. I see.”
“Exactly! You’re furious that yet another friend of yours is having to deal with the hardships of a world pitted against him!”
Jamaal truly enjoyed acting. But, for the life of him, he could never understand these cutting-edge liberal-types. They considered themselves to be social justice warriors, but Jamaal had no idea what war they had fought in, what justice or injustice they had witnessed with their own eyes, or how social and diverse they were truly intent on being.
“Can you give us a read, please?” the casting director said.
Jamaal stood to his feet and emphatically yelled, “Get out of my hood! Get out!”
“Yes!” the casting director seemed quite pleased. “Give us more grit. Show us your anger. This is what made you furious!”
Jamaal called out, again, “Get out! Get out of my hood!”
The casting director turned and whispered to one of his cohorts, “He’s getting improvisational with the material. I like it. A real thespian.”
Jamaal gave one more, rapturous delivery. “Get out of my hood! Get out!”
Everyone in the room clapped. Jamaal had heard this exchange all morning. Through the door, he would hear a young black man shouting followed by applause. It was reminiscent of every iteration of a young black man he saw on TV, in movies, and commercials—so, in many ways, this was far for the course. He was starting to think that, if he wanted a story that truly empowered his talents to shine, he would have to write his own story, himself.
“Wonderful! Wonderful!” the casting director said. “We will be sure to call you if this part is included and not cut out of the script.”
Jamaal exited the audition room and walked down the hall. He made eye contact with many faces waiting to go through the same “jump through the hoop” scenario. He couldn’t believe how many people were waiting just for a chance to shout, “Get out of my hood! Get out!” Jamaal had the fire in his heart to be something greater, and he was going to achieve that greatness no matter what stood in his way.
“You’re late!” Ritch bellowed the moment Jamaal walked in the back of the kitchen. Jamaal looked at his phone screen. He should have been right on time.
Ritch saw him looking at his phone and snapped, “Get off that phone and look at me when I’m talking to you. You’re late!”
Jamaal was hesitant to protest, as Ritch had quite a ferocious temper. Indeed, running a restaurant could be strenuous on the nerves, but Jamaal knew he was in the right. It was either take the flack and get fired for Ritch’s mistaken anger, or risk getting fired for speaking up for himself.
“Um…I sent you the email…The one about how I was coming in later today.”
Ritch immediately recognized his mistake and tried to feign ignorance. “Oh. That? You and your little acting career? Dude. When are you going to give that up? You’re too old.”
Ritch spoke as if he was exposing his own personal pain from lost and failed endeavors of his own past, but Jamaal let it go.
“Yeah, well…You saw the email, right?”
“I did. I did. I can’t say I’m super happy about you putting your job with your work family here second. I know you get that, right?”
Jamaal didn’t quite know how to respond. “Yeah, I get…Well, you know, I was trying to make sure you knew what was up?”
Ritch rolled his eyes and walked off. “You millennial people just don’t get it. ‘What was up’? Please. Have some decency. When I was your age, I didn’t have the audacity and arrogance that I could be fifty different things. We all picked a career and stuck to it. Now I own the whole franchise! I’m king!” Ritch laughed himself out of earshot.
Jamaal got to work fixing everything that he was in charge of preparing for the evening.
Hours and hours passed as Jamaal paced back and forth between the hot skillets and stoves and the freezing cold rooms where all the raw meat was haphazardly stacked on top of itself.
Then, right as it neared closing time, Ritch came back to deliver the final blow.
“Hey…Look. I’m willing to let things slide with your lateness, okay? I know you’re a good kid.”
“…Thanks,” Jamaal said. He knew something was coming.
“You just gotta show a little good faith, okay? Our late crew can’t come tonight. I told ’em to take the night off. They’ve been working too hard. Great guys. But they’ve just been really pushing themselves. They’re super dedicated to this restaurant. So, anyway, I digress…”
Jamaal wondered what in the hell Ritch could possibly follow that up with other than:
“I need you to stay and work the night shift—“ Jamaal didn’t mince words. He couldn’t possibly be made to do this. He was already exhausted, and Ritch was just trying to take advantage of him because he could save a buck by pushing employees who actually depended on their paycheck from Ritch off for the night.
“I can’t stay late,” Jamaal said, trying to be firm without being insulting.
“Whoa. Really? After coming in late?”
Jamaal’s patience was wearing thin. He had to help his parents pack up the rest of their belongings. Their family was moving to Atlanta…which was a conversation he’d have to have with Ritch, but tonight was not the night for that. “Ritch, I emailed you, man. I know your guys aren’t coming in, but it’s five minutes until next shift, and I gotta go home and help my parents—“
“So late? Shouldn’t they be in bed? Look—It’s none of my business. I just need someone to stay late, end of story. I trust you to do this. I know you need this paycheck, and an extra shift will give you a nice boost—“
Jamaal knew that even a small restaurant like this had rules on how much lead time Ritch needed to provide employees before demanding they work extra shifts. “I can’t work tonight. It’s too soon of notice.”
“What, you got extra auditions or something?”
What an insulting freak. Ritch had no class. But, the truth was, there were still a few things that Jamaal’s parents had to cover before they moved. Jamaal might be working for two or three more paychecks before they left town. He’d need that money. It was time to bargain with the devil.
“Okay…I’m really sorry, Ritch. You’re right. You’re right. This job is really important to me. I can come in early. Like, 3:00 AM. Super early. And I can do all the cleaning before the morning shift. I promise. I just really gotta help my parents tonight.”
Ritch folded his arms and put on a performance that would easily earn him a part out of most of the auditions Jamaal went to. He knew he couldn’t force Jamaal to work, but his ego didn’t want to look like he was being soft. “You’re really testing my patience, kid. But I’ll let you come in. You can’t come in a touch later than 3:00 AM, okay?” Jamaal sighed, knowing he’d be asleep standing up by then. “You got it, boss.”
Ritch smirked. Being called boss made his menial existence super special. “Alright. Glad to know you know what’s good for you and your work family.”
Chapter Two: Family Keeps Us Sane
Jamaal arrived home to see the motion-activated light turning on and off as his mother and father lugged heavy boxes into the back of their rented U-haul van.
“Hey, mom,” Jamaal said, stepping in to help her lift a box into the back of the truck.
“Thank you, baby,” his mother said. “You look exhausted…”
Jamaal nodded. “Yeah. Super busy night. But I’m all good to move boxes—”
“How was your audition?” his mother said. She was one of the only people in Jamaal’s life who always knew what to say first.
“It was alright,” Jamaal said, shrugging. “It was, pretty…typical…I guess. Like the others.”
Jamaal’s mother smiled. “Sometimes, to win, you have to play the part…even if it feels like you have to lose while you’re doing it.”
“Sage advice, mom,” Jamaal said.
“I would never mislead you, baby. The world tries to do that enough, already.”
Jamaal’s father stepped outside, and the motion light turned on. “Hey there, son. How was your audition?”
“Good,” Jamaal said. “It was pretty normal.”
Jamaal’s father put a box in the back of the car. “Which one was this?” “The ‘brother’ one,” Jamaal said. His father pressed his lips together.
“You’re gonna have to write your own story, son. These guys are never going to give you the shot you deserve.”
A moment passed between them in silent understanding. “…I know,” Jamaal said. “But I don’t think I’m gonna write that story tonight. What can I carry?”
“Actually,” his father said. “Your mother and I have looked over all the bills for the trek. We can’t take everything. It’s already costing us a fortune to move. Son…” his father said, disliking the next string of words that he had to utter. “Can you please put your clothing in storage. For us? We can drive back up to get it if you put down for a month somewhere. We’ll give you the money, it’ll be cheaper that way—“
“Yeah! Yeah, of course,” Jamaal said. Whatever his parents needed him to do was never a problem. They were some of the only people who had helped him grow into the driven man he was today. “Don’t worry about paying. It’s one month. I got it.”
Jamaal packed up several boxes of his clothing line apparel. As he neatly folded the shirts, he was reminded of just how much Denaro Puro clothing meant to him. In life, his parents had supported him constantly, but in looking out at the greater world, at times, it felt like he’d have to bootstrap everything himself to make his life what he wanted it to be. That’s why he had pursued his own clothing line so feverishly.
It was emotionally confusing for him to pack everything up and put it into storage, however. While he admitted that the apparel for his clothing line wasn’t at the top of his parents’ list, was this an indication that they didn’t have as much faith in the clothing line as they used to? No, that couldn’t be the case.
His mother knocked on the door to his room.
“Hey…Jamaal. We have people coming to see the house, tomorrow. Are you able to take that stuff over to the storage space?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure,” Jamaal said.
His mother knew she was asking a lot, and clarified. “Your father and I are going to drive across town and safely park the U-haul. We can pick you up on the way back on the same bus route if you want to wait for us.”
“Sure—Sure. It’s no problem,” Jamaal said. When Ritch asked favors and told him to stay late, it was one thing. When his parents kindly asked him to help them sell the house by moving a box of his clothes, it was another. “Yeah. I’ll wrap all this up and leave now.”
“Okay, baby…Be careful. You wanna stay on that bus all the way there. No extra walking this time of night.”
“I know, mom,” Jamaal said.
His mother shut the door.
Jamaal looked down at all the apparel left on his floor. Some of this stuff was going to have to get tossed, probably—not because his parents were forcing him to move it out of the house, but because it probably wasn’t going to make the move, anyway.
Jamaal had scoured department stores and mom and pop stores for weeks trying to find outlets and brands that would take Denaro Puro seriously. He had packs and packs of media kits and lookbooks detailing his revenue forecasting and plans for expansion. The market had been, tough, however, and many of the managers he spoke to weren’t very friendly. He was close to getting a better deal with one company, however—and if that hit, it could change his life. Atlanta was the only thing standing in the way for him regarding the deal. But, the luck of the deal was left up to the man upstairs at this point. Whatever was about to happen—was about to happen.
That didn’t matter, though.
Denaro Puro was a brand that had been borne from Jamaal’s mind and could live there until he landed safely in Atlanta. From the people who had donned caps and shirts so far, and his incredible effort fueling the clothing line, Denaro Puro was destined to blow up.
When he closed the top of the dumpster, it was quite bittersweet, but he’d live. Throwing away part of something he had worked so hard on was like sacrificing part of his dream. But, so long as he was in control, he could handle it. With the open road ahead of him, he could take Denaro Puro to new heights no matter what setbacks he faced.
Jamaal hoisted the box of the remaining clothes in his arms and walked to the corner.
Chapter Three: An Easy Victim
Jamaal sat on the bus and rode all the way through Brooklyn to the end of the line. It was already well after midnight, and the storage facility was five blocks passed the last stop. This place was going to have the best rate for the month, and it was one of the only places open twenty-four hours.
As he sat in the back, by himself—the bus driver started to move faster and cut corners harder as there was no one else on the bus to offend—Jamaal saw blue and red lights up in the distance.
As the bus whizzed by, Jamaal saw two police officers handcuffing a young, black man on the hood of a squad car. Right as the bus passed the squad car, as if time stopped, the young, black man made eye contact with Jamaal. He looked defeated, hurt, and worn out—but part of his gaze exuded this terrifying note of caution. Jamaal tried to think of what his crime was going to be—if he had indeed committed one. Sometimes, walking around at night was enough for police to stop young black men and ask them questions. The jigsaw puzzle of what to say and what not to say to police officers was a delicate dance—and police loved to make young black men dance by shooting at their feet far too often. Crime was crime, but dissolve the wall of justice only being represented by one side of the law, and you could see that crime was perpetrated by both sides when badges evaporated.
Jamaal had friends who had grown up to become police officers—so they could become forces of good that protected the neighborhood from corruption. But corruption is a deadly disease that infests everything it touches on a long enough timeline.
Jamaal entered the lobby of the storage facility and paid for a month of rent for the smallest space available. There would be more his parents would have to fit in there, for sure, but the smallest space was going to have to do.
“Can I get the key?” Jamaal said.
“What?” the attendant said. He looked like a zombie.
“They key…” Jamaal repeated. “I gotta use a key to get into the space, right?”
“Oh, right,” the attendant said, handing Jamaal a key.
“Thanks…” This would have easily been Jamaal if he had caved to Ritch’s pressure and worked all night cleaning the kitchen. In fact, that wasn’t too far from how he felt at that moment. He didn’t even want to know how late it was.
Jamaal carried his heavy box up the stairs to the second floor and followed the dimly lit rows until he found his number. He unlocked the space and pulled up the door. Inside it looked like a chicken had exploded. Jamaal had to immediately turn his brain off not to think about what had happened in there.
He set the box down and looked at his watch.
3:30 AM. So much for getting a good night’s sleep and making it back to the restaurant by 3:00 AM. But, if he hurried and went straight there, he could make it and hustle to clean as fast as possible before Ritch showed up.
Jamaal stood at the bus stop and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Oh…Damn…, Jamaal realized that this bus route didn’t run this late. Or, rather, this early. He’d have to wait at least another half hour for the bus to start up again. Where were his parents? Had they gotten home safely?
He got out his phone and called the house.
No answer.
Maybe they were still looking for a place to leave the U-Haul. Maybe they were having trouble with…
WHIRRR!!
Blue and red lights flashed as two cop cars sped by. Jamaal took a step back. His heartbeat skyrocketing. Those sirens were so shrill and sharp that they attacked your nervous system when you heard them. It was insane to think that they were designed that way, and then put in the hands of police officers to fire off in otherwise peaceful neighborhoods whenever they wanted.
But there was no time to worry about that.
Jamaal had to run.
He put one foot in front of the other and picked up the pace. If he raced there—and ran like the wind—he could get there early enough to apologize and not lose his job.
Jamaal threw his hood up over his head and ran east, and saw the sun peeking up over the horizon. That meant it had to already be after 4:00 AM. He entered a rougher few blocks of town. There were little pockets of “bad” areas his dad had told him to avoid at almost any hour of the day.
Well, at least he was running.
At least he was—
BANG! BANG!
Jamaal nearly jumped out of his skin.
Immediately, in primal, visceral response, he ducked into a small space between two building and hid.
He poked his head around the corner and saw two police officers firing—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
—off in a direction he couldn’t quite see. He just saw the officers in the power stances, firing round after round.
BANG! BANG! BANG!...
After a few moments, the gunfire stopped.
Jamaal was so overtired and worn down that he could feel his breathing expanding his chest. It was almost as if his breathing had fallen from its involuntary rhythm and he was now in control of making sure he stayed alive.
A thousand thoughts ran through his mind. Was it safe? Would the police leave? Were more police officers on their way? Was it safe to hide? Would it be considered hiding if he stayed where he was?
Mentally drained and out of it, Jamaal contemplated what he could do.
Bottom line, he had nothing to hide.
His father had coached him countless times on dealing with police officers. Stay calm, speak clearly, answer questions without resistance, keep your hands visible, offer to help.
Clearly, the officers had seen the person they were shooting at. If they hadn’t, that would have been a mightily careless waste of bullets.
Jamaal looked down the tiny space between the two buildings. If he tried to sneak out the bad and got caught—that would be suicide.
Then, he thought of his job. If he wasted any more time, he could easily be fired. He needed that money. He needed to hit the ground running in Atlanta and leverage Denaro Puro to new heights.
He couldn’t risk getting fired.
He had nothing to hide—and obviously had nothing to do with whatever the hell the police were doing.
Putting one foot in front of the other, Jamaal stepped out and started to walk down the street. He quickly pulled his hood down. That was a must.
As if part of a reflex, he raised his hands up in the air to show he didn’t have anything with him—in case there were other officers descending upon the scene. All he had to do was make it to the next block, and he would be passed the cop cars and home free.
“THERE HE IS! THAT’S THE GUY! THAT’S THE GUY!”
Jamaal heard a terrifyingly grisly voice scream. He whipped around, and an officer was charging at him.
The words spilled out of his mouth, “Whoa! Whoa!...” He put his hands high in the air. Suddenly, he was overcome with a cessation of energy. This was fight or flight. This was do or die. No matter how much his father had coached him, he wanted to run. He felt his legs itch.
The police officer gripped his gun in his hands.
Jamaal felt his breath inflate like a balloon in his throat.
One.
Two.
Three—
The officer raised his gun, and—
“Stop! Stop! He’s not moving!” By the grace of God, the officer’s partner called after him.
Like a train falling off the tracks, the officer melted his gruesome expression and lowered his gun. He slowed his pace and then raised his gun back up, pointing it right at Jamaal’s face.
“Get down! Get down on the ground! Now!”
He had no choice.
Jamaal knelt down.
“Face down! Stomach on the ground! Now!”
Jamaal laid down on the ground, spread his arms out and felt his cheek and chin press into the gritty, dirty pavement.
The police officer stood over him and pressed his boot into Jamaal’s back.
“Stay down! You got it?”
He had become nothing but an easy victim.
Chapter Four: Trials of the Innocent
Jamaal woke up to the same cold floor; the same cracked ceiling; the same bars.
For as much as he had heard about jail—horror stories, cautionary tales, and what he had read about being behind bars—nothing had prepared him for the reality of being confined.
It was a heavy weight he thought he would never survive.
And he had to live with the fact that he didn’t commit a single solitary crime. For the first time in his life, he decided to forsake God. How could this have happened to him? He worked so hard, he was always good. He followed the laws. He loved his parents. He kept good relationships with his friends. He treated everyone in his life well. He never fought back. He never argued. He simply sought the path of least resistance, and yet, he still had become victim to the justice system. What justice was this?
Whatever kind of justice it was, Jamaal suffered justice for fifteen months. His young heart, his young mind, and his aspirations had to fight the stress of fifteen months behind bars on Rikers Island c95.
It took every ounce of strength that Jamaal had to keep his spirits up. In being arrested, Jamaal had gone from pretending to play the part of an angry, young man, to literally being forced to play the part of an angry, young man. Whether on the screen, or in real life, it became wildly apparent that being a criminal was the only way that society wanted to see Jamaal. As much as that hurt, and as much as that pained him, his heart pushed to stay positive. He wanted to be an entrepreneur. He wanted to be a chef. He had the courage and the talent to be an actor. He had a loving family, and so many things that being turned better by prison was never something he was going to let happen without a fight.
Fights, however, would come to him.
Jamaal was a young man who looked far too good to be in prison. Other felons, both real felons, and other young men indicted by the system and forced into a term of duty would try to engage with him and intimidate him into lashing out. Jamaal knew, however, that once he fought—the moment he showed that he could be intimidated into violence, it was all over. He would become an easy target. Other inmates with gang up on him. It was just like the real world, where loaded-gun carrying gym rats with a chip on their shoulder and something to prove could waltz right over and force fresh-faced young men like Jamaal to do whatever they wanted.
Except, in prison, what the other inmates said wasn’t law. If Jamaal had the courage to stand his ground, they couldn’t hurt him.
15 long months.
They slowly began to take their toll.
Then, for the first time, Jamaal cracked his strong veneer and started to smoke marijuana. He called his nerves, and it washed away the endless agony of being locked up like an animal.
Jamaal found solace in another inmate whom he believed to be innocent—Chip. Chip was another young man from Brooklyn, and during late nights, they would smoke and reminisce about Brooklyn. Dreams of freedom, in all the places they could discuss and visit in their imaginations were temporary refuge from the absolute destitution prison had on their souls. At least Jamaal had one friend. They could stick together, and their solidarity would stave off the wolves of the yard who tried to look for easy targets.
Committing a senseless, violent crime, and being guilty is one thing. You can go to prison a guilty man and come out a better man—even with all the danger and baggage that comes along with being incarcerated.
If you go into prison an innocent man, it is almost impossible to survive. Jamaal, in a way, felt like prison was forcing marijuana upon him. It was the only thing that he could do to stop the onslaught of interference in his mind. His thoughts would cry out: You’re innocent. You’re innocent. You’re innocent.
But there was nothing he could do, and the only way to get his thoughts to curb themselves was slip in and out under the influence. Was this some kind of epidemic that the justice system perpetuated; young men going to prison for petty crimes of possession, only to be left with nothing but the means to grow further dependent upon the very vices that had landed them in prison in the first place?
Jamaal’s parents had visited often. They had been locked into moving to Atlanta, but they came straight back to be with Jamaal while he was in prison. His incarceration broke their hearts, and they knew without a shred of doubt that their son was innocent.
The truth was, Jamaal’s story wasn’t uncommon.
Chip had a good heart, in together, they were able to keep their spirits high. When they would talk about Brooklyn, they would dedicate the majority of their conversation to lauding and pumping up everything they would do to contribute to the world once they were free again.
Chip wanted to take over the hip-hop scene and be a positive inspiration for other young men. Jamaal kept all of his endeavors close to his heart, but acting began to grow into something he could see himself doing for the rest of his life. Perhaps it was the fact that he felt like he was playing the part of society wanted him to play, but he wanted to be so much more than just a single-line shouted in anger.
His story, for better or worse, was becoming one that he could use to inspire others with. If he could just muster the strength to survive prison, he could inspire other young minds to keep themselves driven and dedicated. He would be the person to show that insurmountable odds could be triumphed over. As an actor, he could build his personality an image into an incredibly positive force.
With each passing day, counting the hours, minutes and seconds, becoming a positive force grew more and more important to Jamaal.
It was the same with his entrepreneurial spirit and Denaro Puro. It was almost as if, upon placing his dream in that storage lockbox, and condemned it to wait for another day, he too, had been condemned to a locked box—destined to wait until his dreams were allowed to soar again.
***
It was time for trial.
While there was no doubt that Jamaal was blessed to have legal aid, the resulting fanfare that ensued felt more like a circus than a legal defense.
Jamaal’s first attorney met with him several times, and with each meeting, seemed to lose interest. Jamaal laid everything out as it had happened, and yet, even though he was being entirely honest, the attorney didn’t believe him.
As the trial neared, Jamaal’s first attorney brought on his partner. Maybe this was because his first attorney wasn’t very interested, but this new attorney—Jamaal’s real attorney—turned everything around.
This attorney took one look at Jamaal and decided that this was going to be the time things happen the way they were supposed to. Maybe this attorney had been wronged by the justice system years before, but he brought new energy to the table.
He also brought his boss—the head boss and partner of the legal aid society in Brooklyn. The attorneys pressed their heads together and devised a shot-by-shot battle strategy to land a win.
With an entire legal team completely invested, Jamaal felt like he had a fighting chance.
But, then, late one night, has he lay awake in his cell, he had a thought. Were these attorneys really motivated by his story? Did they want to win the setting innocent man free? Or, were they motivated to win just to win? They were, after all, being paid by the very same system that had put Jamaal in prison.
Did it really matter? If they won, he was going to be set free. That was all that mattered, right? Jamaal’s case wasn’t going to make a difference and change the entire world, right?
Nevertheless, the situation was still unnerving. Whether his legal team was motivated by his story, or simply motivated to win, his life was on the line with each and every move they made.
When Jamaal entered the courtroom for the first time, he was overcome with emotion. The room was packed. People were interested in what he had to say. As much as this gave value to everything Jamaal had suffered through, the entire situation was still cripplingly defeating. In a grand gesture of unruly irony, for the first time in his life, Jamaal was invited to act. He was invited to act at the stand, and tell his story—a story where an audience would cling on every word, and dismember his performance, trying to cut him down as if he was some phenomenal figure that deserved the harshest of criticism. The only time he had been taking this seriously is when society had forced him to fight for his life.
Was he going to act the part society expected him to play, and be lauded, or would he have the courage to do what he knew was right, and risk the worst of the worst?
Jamaal’s attorneys had done their job and filed a civil suit against the officer that had arrested him. This was dissolved quickly and had a completely opposite effect. Even though it was the right thing to do, prodding the NYPD and the FBI by proxy made them fight back twice as hard. Jamaal’s family moving to Atlanta for a fresh start came to light, and the justice system seemed tuned to do anything that could to tear that hope away.
The attorneys tried every battle plan. Everything from the explicit defense, to the overdramatic portrayal of evidence, exhibits showing where Jamaal had been, witness testimony from his family…nothing seemed to make a dent in the judge’s mind.
Extra credit: guess who was the only one to decline standing up for Jamaal?
You guessed it. Little Ritchie.
As the days waged on, it became clear that Jamaal’s attorneys were only obsessing over the case because they wanted the win. The head of the legal aid society in Brooklyn was beginning to worry about his career.
The days in the courtroom grew longer and longer. Jamaal never even saw the police officer that arrested him face to face ever again. The police kept him hidden, away from danger; in the shadows. His attorneys painted in like some hero who saved lives every single day. A man who loved his family who could never do wrong. Even if some of that was true, they were taking advantage of his family life to try and pin down a scapegoat for a real criminal that got away…
An officer was too embarrassed to admit fault, and Jamaal was expected, as one out of 8 million people in New York City, to give up his life.
Finally, Jamaal’s attorneys, feeling that they were running out of options, took one last shot: they appealed for a mistrial. A solitary document contained an erroneous error that had the potential power to grant Jamaal his freedom. The attorneys were so feverishly obsessed with winning that they thought they could pull one over the judge.
Like clockwork, the judge denied the mistrial.
Jamaal went days without sleep. Nothing could console him. He stared at the wall, wondering if this was the only existence he was ever going to know. His parents wept for miles, endlessly driving up-and-down the eastern seaboard.
Jamaal’s attorneys had given up. The lead attorney on the case, desperately trying to avoid shame, took an early vacation days before the verdict.
On the morning Jamaal awakened, destined to hear the words that would determine his fate. He walked down the prison hallway, feeling the bars gnawing at his flesh like rotting, black teeth. He was dangling from the jaws of life, inches away from being swallowed whole.
He entered the courtroom and stood behind the bench. His attorney had a sun-kissed tan: a bronze medal for his own lackluster perception of his effort.
“All rise!”
Jamaal turned around and made eye contact with his mother. Tears were already streaming down her face.
Like a game show, the Vanna White of the courtroom walked across the stage and handed the envelope containing Jamaal’s bonus round prize.
In our current day, if there was ever a system fit for reform that it would never get, it’s the criminal justice system. But that would be another story for another day:
“We find the defendant…not guilty.”
Chapter Five: To Those Lucky Enough to See the Future…
It was hard to recall the next few moments.
Jamaal was overcome with a strange euphoria the completely washed out his thoughts. He had never felt so alive, and he never felt so relieved. All he could remember were the times in his childhood when he had felt similar kinds of euphoria from discovery, and experiencing new things.
It was like his body was telling him that he would live to experience life on that kind of level again. Perhaps that was as sign that his soul was not too far away from completely succumbing to bitterness and defeat from the squelching agony of prison.
But that, unlike the reality of this story, would be a life of the time and place that would forever live in fiction.
Jamaal was set free.
Jamaal was set free.
Jamaal was set free.
The words repeated themselves endlessly in his mind.
Jamaal lied on the cement of his parents’ back patio in Atlanta. The hot sun beat down on his face, his arms, and his Denaro Puro shirt, new warming his body. The shirt and logo sheathed his heart and soul once again.
The songs of birds serenaded overhead. Though Jamaal had been innocent all along, there were some things that he realized during his stay in prison that he had taken for granted. Now, by no means is this an endorsement, abdication, justification, or any kind of decree of merit to the criminal justice system, but Jamaal had a renewed sense of purpose.
Jamaal was even more determined to succeed.
Jamaal was even more determined to spread love and prosperity.
Jamaal was even more empowered to achieve his dreams.
Jamaal was set free.
He had a new life in Atlanta, but a life to live at all, and a chance to see the future was a true gift.
His attorneys were already going on the work of private firms and earn greater careers. One of them had even called him to say that he had learned that the judge was livid about the outcome of the trial.
It was like the judge and the police had reduced themselves to one, single punchline: “Get out of my hood! Get out!”
Some things never change.
Wait.
Is that sentiment really true?
“Some things never change” would be a perfect place for this story to end. Our protagonist is vindicated. The “evil” powers that be, if only for a moment, had met their comeuppance. The rebels had fought against the empire and won. And, like always, one, solitary victory was not enough to change the torrential tides.
But we live in a new era of greater understanding. Today can be a different kind of victory. If we have the fortitude and the faith to hold what we know to be true, we can accomplish anything. We are more connected, and more readily available to enact social change than ever before.
It was time for Jamaal to make right on his promises to influence others in a positive way. With his story, Jamaal would be the one to break barriers and be more than just a single punchline. He could dedicate his life to broadening society’s expectations.
May we all have the energy within us to do the same.
