I laugh with relief. “I’m sorry. I know you said not to.”
“You wrong. This was Jamal’s day today. My baggage don’t need to follow him to college.”
“I know, but we gotta catch Innocence X’s attention.”
“You’re a fighter. I love that about you.” Daddy brushes my hair back. “But you need to start preparing yourself—”
“Never.” I glance away.
A bald-headed, muscular white guard watches us; the way he’s looking at us bothers me. Daddy follows my gaze.
“Don’t pay them no mind.”
Daddy rubs his hands together, callused from the three-hour daily work outside. He gets one hour in the library, another break from his concrete sixty-square-foot cell. In his cell, he reads five hours a day. That’s where Daddy picked up studying the law, after being filled with disappointment with each appeal. This is what we share between us on visits. Our ability to swap facts back and forth and all my letters to Innocence X. Mama tells him everything going on with us kids. Jamal fills the visit with things Daddy likes. Like his working hard, his track practice, Mama, and all the notes Jamal’s left for Corinne that week. Daddy loves that the most.
When I talk to Daddy about his case and get too hopeful, he makes me promise not to be upset if an appeal doesn’t happen. Because getting one grows more unlikely with each day. But Daddy’s also not the type to give up. He could’ve accepted a plea deal, but he said he wouldn’t admit to something he didn’t do. God would be watching over him and set him free. He believed there’d already been tragedy enough with the Davidson couple being murdered, and him and his best friend, Jackson Ridges, being blamed. Mr. Ridges was killed by the police as they tried to take him from his home. Daddy thought God wouldn’t let more pain come from that tragedy. So he pled innocent, and life without parole was off the table. It would be a death sentence if found guilty.
I used to believe that what Daddy said about no more pain was true. Like the Messiah himself would walk right through the courtroom and carry my daddy out. Now I know it’s up to us.
“I didn’t mean to ruin Jamal’s moment.” I watch him with hopeful eyes.
“I see no one else came to make this visit.” Daddy squeezes my hand. “I need you to stay close, not pull apart.”
“I just wish Jamal’d understand what I was trying to do. I couldn’t not talk about you.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to control yourself if you had the chance. I had a bet out here when we watched it, but I didn’t expect you to lie. You don’t know what that does in here.”
I look away. I know I shouldn’t have lied about possible suspects. I only wanted to attract Innocence X’s attention.
“Someone got away with murder, and it’s never been right I had to do the time. Trust me, no one knows that injustice more than me. I feel it every day. But you can’t make stuff up.”
“But if we get someone to look into your trial, they could see they didn’t have any evidence to convict you in the first place. Then they’d find new suspects.”
Daddy pats my hand. I try to let the topic go. We’ve talked about this too many times. I’m preaching to the choir. The fact is, the gun that killed the Davidsons was never found. Daddy never owned a gun. They arrested him anyway.
Next, they went after Mr. Ridges. He paid with his life when he refused to open the doors for the police. Mama had called to warn him that Daddy’d been taken in. Mr. Ridges didn’t want to go out like that. Not in front of his kids. But it was too late. The police shot up the house, hitting Quincy, who was my age, and killing Mr. Ridges with shots through the window. They didn’t wait for a negotiator like they do on TV. They straight-up started shooting.
After he was dead, it was easy to put blame on Mr. Ridges. They needed him to be guilty. Especially when they could’ve killed Quincy. I’ve always believed the police and prosecution were willing to do anything they could to justify killing Mr. Ridges and shooting a ten-year-old. Regardless of whether Mr. Ridges or Daddy owned a gun, they both had alibis. Their fingerprints were found in the office meeting room, along with the prints of multiple other people who’d met with the Davidsons, but it didn’t seem to matter that their prints weren’t found in the back, where the bodies were discovered.
“Don’t think I haven’t thought this through a million times. Sometimes these things happen. Everything kept boiling down to the fact I was about to do business with Mr. Davidson.”
We both look down.
They’d questioned other suspects. Rumors flew around town that Daddy was upset with Mark Davidson. It’s true Daddy and Mark Davidson had gotten into an argument the day before, but it was because Mark didn’t want to join their business venture with Jackson Ridges, just with Daddy.
That’s not worth killing someone over.
Daddy changes subjects, tells me a story about when I was a baby and he’d knew I’d be trouble, but I’ve heard this story a million times. The only thing in my head is what I can do in the next nine months to bring Daddy home. A chance to stall his sentence. Save him before it’s too late.
* * *
When I get back in Tasha’s car, I can’t hold in all the disappointment from The Susan Touric Show and the helplessness from seeing Daddy. Each moment replays in my mind. I hold my mouth closed to stop a cry from escaping.
“Let it out, girl.” Tasha rubs my back. “Don’t hold that shit in.”
“I just don’t know what to do,” I say between cries. “I’ve tried everything.”
“Not everything. You still got something left. I don’t know you to give up. What you did today could’ve worked. You don’t know yet.” Tasha hands me my notepad to finish my letter to Innocence X.
Blurry-eyed, I take the notepad from her, the pain still sitting in me. Tasha drives away as I finish my letter.
I used to plan the letters out more, writing pages and pages on why Innocence X needed to help Daddy, but time is running out. The climate’s changed with a new governor who’s stricter on sentences, filling up for-profit prisons with minor convictions. Increased visibility of racial injustice in policing adds more pressure for Innocence X to respond to cases hitting the media. My fear is they’ll forget the old cases—unplug the chance for those, letting the clock wind down. Because I know the truth is, no one’s excited to look into a seven-year-old case. Attention spans are reserved for big stories and hashtags following the next news cycle.
Innocence X knows who I am, and now it’s the principle of writing. There’s nothing I’ve been able to control about what happened to Daddy. I’m broke. Can’t vote. Can’t afford a lawyer. But I’ve got control of my voice and my mind, and that means I can do at least one thing: write a letter.