No Reasons to Die E-Book

James Mcenge

• Herausgeber: Spines
• Kategorie: Ratgeber
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

This story is a work of fiction, seen through the eyes of a black individual who has experienced the wrath and witnessed the hate in the eyes of a white officer. In America, there is a pledge to protect and serve all individuals, an oath to uphold the constitution and treat everyone equally. Therefore, I chose to interview ten black men at a bustling stop, waiting for their orders to be served. Among those ten men, two shared positive experiences.

Leseprobe

James Mcenge

No Reasons to Die

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2023 by James Mcenge

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Disclaimer: This book is to bring attention to how Afro Americans’ lives seem to be less valued to law enforcement and our law makers. It's not directing attention to any particular police station but it does give some idea on new policy on how to implement some changes in policing.

Published by Spines

ISBN: 978-965-578-798-6

NO REASONS TO DIE

JAMES MCENGE

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to the diligent police officers who uphold the integrity of their department's policies.

CONTENTS

1. My Dad

2. It's Thirty-Four Years Earlier

3. The Journey to San Quintin Prison

4. We Had to Move to Berkeley

5. San Quintin, Our New Home

6. New Life in Berkeley with my New Friends

7. Prison Starts to Feel Like Home

8. My New Security Guard Job

9. Dwayne Started a Relationship

10. The Good News

11. Back in the Prison

12. Back with Tom

13. Back Behind the Walls

14. Back to the Crime Scene

15. Back Inside these Prison Walls

16. The Results of the Investigation

17. The Big Day: Our First Parole Hearings for me and Lil Wayne

18. Man Down: Office Needs Assistance

19. The Release Date

20. Lil Rob and the Hot Date with the Waitress

21. Helicopter Reporting Suspicious Black Male Spotted in James Kenny Park

22. Lil Wayne Flying Back to Los Angeles Alone without Dangerous Rob

23. Back to the City Hall

24. The Big Bust

25. The Call

26. Keeping my Promise

27. After the Big Bust

1

MY DAD

Being a kid is supposed to be the happiest days in your life – playing catch with your dad, anticipating what's under the Christmas tree, and I'll never forget the police costume on my birthdays almost every year. Most years I got a gun and badge. Once, my dad ordered a remote-control ride-on police car. That was my favorite gift that I remember. We would go down to the local park a few blocks from our house, and using the controller, he controlled the car as I sat in the car, thinking I was driving. I remember it had flashing lights and a siren. All my friends liked it. We had a lot of special moments like that, and those moments will forever be embedded in my memories.

A lot of the kids in my neighborhood really liked my dad, and their parents loved him because he was one of the local police officers that worked in our neighborhood. He knew everyone by name and their children. Sometimes he would take me to school and allow a few of the neighbors' kids to ride with us. I always sat in front with my dad because he was my hero. I remember he would let me click the switch that made the siren roar as we pulled in front of the school. It would stop everyone in their tracks every time. People would stop what they were doing and focus their attention on the roaring sound as it approached. He would only do that when the other neighborhood kids were with us. It made us all so excited. Yes, being a kid really has the best memories.

But for me, most of my memories are mixed with sadness, and when I'm alone, I feel lonely without my dad. Being alone makes me think of him and how good-looking he was and how he had very smooth skin because he shaved every day. Before he took his shower, he would sometimes put that soft shaving cream on my face and pretend to save me. Like me, he had dark brown hair that he kept cut and trimmed. He would part his hair and brush it to the side, faded on the sides. To me, he was very tall. My neck would hurt if I stood and looked up to him for a long period of time. My mom constantly tells me that I look more and more like my dad every day.

Those are the good memories, but they don't last long. The bad visions of his distorted face and all that blood gave me nightmares as a child, and sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat from those horrible images.

2

IT'S THIRTY-FOUR YEARS EARLIER

I'm six years old, riding my big wheel down the driveway at home in Berkeley, California. It's an upper rural neighborhood. My dad works for the Berkeley Police Department. My mom and dad were home talking. My dad asked me to go out and play; dinner will be ready in about an hour. As I turned towards the door to leave, he asked me to give him a hug. It seemed he held me forever. He bent down and kissed me on the cheek and forehead, looked at me, and said, "You know I love you with all of my heart." He asked me, "Do you love me?" I said, "Yes, Dad." He asked, "How much?" I said, "With all my heart." I knew what to say because my mom always asked the same question, but it was rare for my dad to do it, especially when he's home. If he was on his way to work or dropping me off at school, it would be normal. But sitting in his lazy boy with a tee shirt and a bottle of vodka and beer cans on the table next to him, and the look in his eyes were different. He seemed serious, almost afraid of something. I felt his grip on my shoulders loosen as he said, "Don't go in the streets, you hear me?" "Yes, Dad," I replied.

A little time passed as I played outside on my big wheel, pedaling as fast as I could, hoping my dad would come outside and see how fast I could go and how I could make my big wheel slide sideways when I came to a fast stop.

That's when I heard the thundering sound of his service weapon. As I looked up at the living room window, I noticed glass breaking and the screeching screams of my mom's voice. I jumped off my big wheel, running up the four steps, opening the front door, seeing my mom with both hands on her mouth, demanding for me to go back outside. I looked over to my dad, and it was something else. It wasn't my dad; it was something out of a scary movie. My dad's face was purple; his mouth was open with smoke coming out. His head was wide in the back, and there was blood splattered all over the living room curtains with what looked like red mud splatters behind his head, dripping blood slowly moving down the curtains. I felt my mom's hands grab my shoulders, spin me around, look at me. She ordered, "Go back outside and wait for me." I heard her call 911, and while crying, she said to the people on the phone, "Officer down, please send paramedics. My husband, Officer Mike McRyan, was cleaning his service weapon, and it discharged."

After she hung up, she called my dad's partner, Officer Tom Fuller. He's my dad's partner and best friend. He's like my uncle; I call him Uncle Tom.

My mom came out and held me tight with my head against her stomach when Uncle Tom's Dodge Charger came blaring with the siren on, coming to a skidding stop. He ran to me, and he replied, "I'm so sorry, Mary. I'm so sorry you had to witness this. This is too much for anyone to endure. Did Little Jimmy see his father's subsidence? No, but he came running in right after." Tom looked at me and said, "Oh my god, Little Jimmy, are you okay?" I replied, "Yes, is my dad dead, Uncle Tom? Will he get better?" Uncle Tom's eyes started watering as he replied, "No, Jimmy, no, not ever," as tears started to drip slowly down his face. He told my mom not to talk to anyone but him and asked if my dad said anything to her before the accident. She said, "Yes, he said there's a note for me and not to let anyone ever see it but you, Tom. It has something to do with getting the murder charges against you guys dropped. I hid it in the backyard." Tom replied, "Okay, we'll get that after all this commotion is over." Tom looked at my mom and said, "Mary, he loved you so much. That's all we talked about when we were taking our breaks. This is something he had to do to take care of you both." My mom looked at Tom with a serious look, "You knew he was going to do this and did nothing to try and stop Tom?" Grave, my mom, looking her straight in her eyes, "No, no, I had no idea. He never even hinted at something like this. He was talking about planning a vacation for you and him to the Caribbean island if we're acquitted from the murder charges. You gotta believe me, Mary, we will know more once we read the note you've hidden. I'm sure he'll explain this. Tom had to be looking out for you and Little Jimmy's best interest. Yeah, and maybe yours too."

Tom placed me and my mother in the back seat of the car and told my mom to talk to no one and to wait until they take her down to the station. He assured her that he would drive us in his car and would not let anyone question her without his presence. My mom shook her head, showing she understood. Tom went into the house for what seemed to be hours. When Tom returned, he asked my mom if my dad said anything about a lot of money he's been keeping. My mom said she knows about that dirty money and that she doesn't want anything to do with it. Tom seemed to sigh with relief, then started the car.

I looked back at the house as Tom's cruiser drove off and saw my dad being carried out in a big black bag. I've seen those on TV many times. Warm tears started to roll down my face and drip off my cheeks onto my tie shirt. My big wheel was still in front of the stairs in the same spot; no one moved it. They all just seemed to walk around it as if it wasn't supposed to be moved. I never knew that would be the last time I ever saw that house again.

Uncle Tom pulled underneath a roll-up door into the police station. There were so many police cars. Tom opened the door for my mom, and I scooted myself on the back seat following my mother. We followed Tom into the station; he opened the door with a card he had on a strap he kept around his neck. He led us to a break room that had vending machines, coffee, donuts, and a microwave, and two refrigerators. I was so hungry; we never got a chance to eat dinner. My stomach felt weird, but I was getting very hungry looking at the donuts and the different candies. I asked my mom, "Can I get a donut?" She said, "Go ahead" and reached into her purse to get some change and told me to bring two bottles of water.

Tom came out and asked my mom to follow him to write a formal statement. I was asked to stay there until they returned. I was glad to see them leave because there were two big donuts I wanted. One was full of red jelly; I really wanted that one. It wasn't long before my mother and Tom came back. That's when Tom asked if we had somewhere we wanted him to take us. My mom said, "Tom offered for us to stay at his apartment for as long as we need." My mother accepted the offer, only until she could make other arrangements. Tom agreed. So we left the station heading to Tom's apartment, my mom crying the whole time.

After a few days passed, Tom picked us up at his apartment and took us to the original Al's Diner in Berkeley on Shattuck Ave. in Berkeley. It's one of my favorite places my dad took me and my mother on Saturdays. Then we would all walk together a half a block away to the AMC movie theater and watch the matinees. I asked Tom if he could take us to the movies after lunch, but he replied, "No, today I'm on a lunch break," and that he and mom had to stop by the house so she could gather some of our personal things, clothes, and other things. I remembered him asking my mother about a letter my dad left. I started to say something about it but decided not to say anything because I don't think they even realized I was in the back seat. There was so much happening at the time.

About a week later, we moved to Los Angeles, California—Southern Cal, as it's called. We moved into an apartment complex with carports and a lot of stairs. Mom wanted an apartment upstairs; she was afraid someone might climb into the bedroom window as we sleep. I had my own room, but mom would call me to her room and hold me until she fell asleep. This was for the first week; things started feeling normal. My mom was mostly afraid because most of the tenants were Black people or Mexicans, mostly Blacks. When we came home and got out of the car, the Black men would approach us and try to start conversations with her. It would scare her, and she would grab my hand tight, hurry upstairs, and lock the door locks. Sometimes they would get mad at her when she wouldn't respond to them and call her bad names. One guy asked as we hurried away, "What's wrong with you, lady? You don't like us N***as?" There were Black kids playing outside, but mom wouldn't let me go out and play with them because she said, "Those people will hurt you. Stay away from Blacks; they don't like us Whites, and they're dangerous people." She stopped me, turned me around, bent down, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Do you understand me?" "Yes," I replied. "Good. You make sure you mind me."

We finally went and enrolled me in school. It was across the street, only a half a block away from the apartment. Mom gave me my first key to the house and instructed me to go straight home after school. Mom would come home about one hour after I got home. She didn't cook much anymore; she almost always brought home takeouts—McDonald's, KFC chicken, or Chinese food. Sometimes she would choose Chicken and Waffle House; that was my favorite.

Once I went to the bathroom at the Chicken and Waffle House and recognized this black kid from the apartment building. He was also in my class. As I was entering the bathroom, he was exiting. He looked directly at me, smiled, and said hi. I responded with a reflex reaction, "Hello."

As we ate dinner, I could see him and his mother sitting behind my mother just across the center aisle. Every time I looked over in his direction, he would simply smile. After dinner, mom and I went to Walmart to do some shopping for groceries. I saw him and his mom again at the cash register checking out. I looked over in their direction to wave, but he never looked in my direction.

On the way home, my mom asked, "How was school, and have you met any new friends yet?" I replied, "No," but that black kid came to my mind; his smile kept appearing in my head. He seemed to be nice, not bad like my mother explained to me. He didn't seem to be mean at all.

A few days went by; it was strange walking to school by myself. I missed my dad taking me to school. It was Friday; I walked to school every day. Tomorrow will be Saturday. I hoped my mom would be off work, and we could go to the movies or to the beach for some fun.

As I walked across the street, I noticed two black boys looking in my direction. One was whispering in the other's ear while looking directly at me. So, I decided to walk adjacent from the crosswalk and noticed them walking to head me off. I began to get afraid. That's when one of them put his hand on my shoulder, saying, "Hey, where do you think you're going?" The other kid said, "Yeah, who do you know around here, white boy?" Before I could reply, the black kid from the Chicken and Waffle House walked up and started taking his backpack off while in stride. "He knows me; you niggas leave him alone. He's new around here; he lives in my apartments." I noticed both kids hurriedly stepped away from me, as if they were scared of this black kid. One of them replied, "Okay, man, we didn't know you knew him. It's cool, sorry, bro, my bad." That's when he introduced himself to me as Timothy, but call me Tim. "That's what they call me at school and at the apartments." I introduced myself, "Jimmy. My mom and dad call me Little Jimmy." "I never saw your dad when you and your mom come home. It's always just you two." "Yeah," I replied, "my dad died; he killed himself." "Wow, really?" Tim responded, "That's pretty messed up. He killed himself. Did you see him do it?" "Yeah," I replied, "I saw him and all the blood and stuff." "Wow, man, I'm sorry to hear that. So that's why you and your mom moved here. In this bump, these apartments ain't for white people. You're gonna have to learn to fight if you're gonna live here in these apartments." "Really?" I asked. "Yeah, man, really. You see those two dudes stopping you? They were about to take your lunch and check your pockets for money. And if you would've tried to stop them or tried to run, they would've beaten you up." "Yeah, I believe you. I was scared, Tim."

Tim asked me, "Do you know how to fight?" I shook my head back and forth, revealing that I didn't. Tim said, "That's too bad, man. You're gonna have to learn because they ain't the only blacks you gotta worry about." I looked at Tim and asked, "Can you fight?" "Yeah," he replied, "I've done messed a lot of these guys up. They used to try and bully me, but my big cousin Shamir Price used to show me how to fight. Can your cousin teach me how to fight?" "Naw, he's dead. The police killed him. He went to Walmart, bought a toy gun, and while he was at the bus stop, some white person called the police and reported a man with a gun. When the police arrived, they shot him a whole bunch of times. They didn't even ask any questions; they just pulled up and killed him. He was only 12 years old, just started looking for his first job."

"Wow, the police did that to your cousin?" I was sad to hear that. "That's when I told Tim that my dad was a cop, but he never killed anyone." Tim looked at me and said, "You better not be telling these other kids around here that your dad was a cop, or ain't nobody gonna be able to help you. You're gonna be fighting these guys every day. So you better keep that to yourself, man. They won't want you or your mother around here. Blacks don't like cops; all they do is put us in jail and find a reason to put us blacks in jail or a lot of times kill us. You live around here long enough, you're gonna see; them police hate us blacks. They don't do that to your people; y'all whites got it made."

At that time, I didn't know what he meant, but I knew not to tell people my dad was a cop. As we started to enter the class, I asked Tim if he could teach me to fight and not tell anybody my dad was a cop. He replied, "Yeah, man, I can do that." I asked, "Which one? Teach me or don't tell?" Tim replied, "Both, man. I got you. You're gonna need a friend in this neighborhood." "Thanks, Tim," I replied and offered my hand as if to give a handshake. Tim looked at me and smiled. "You've got a lot to learn." Then he balled up his fist, told me to ball my fist, and lightly hit my fist. "That's how we shake around here. You got that?" "Yep," he shook his head, and said, "It's 'yeah,' not 'yep.'" "Okay," I replied, and we turned and entered the class.

As time went on, Tim and I became close. My mom even accepted Tim and would invite him for dinner when she was cooking one of her favorites. It was rare for her to cook dinner these days with her schedule; she worked a ten-hour shift as a manager at Walmart in Ventura, Calif. It was a long commute for her. She also talked to Tim's mom, Mrs. Sandra; she's one of the nicest women I've ever met, my mom would say. When the black guys approached my mother, she was much more comfortable with the neighborhood. She would usually say something funny, and they would walk away laughing or smiling. As years went by, I gained a lot of respect in my Southern Cal neighborhood. I was white, but blacks knew me; I was considered to be another brother to my peers at school. The white kids would speak and have brief conversations, but wouldn't befriend me.

Tim and I shared the same friends, mostly from the hood—Rodney, Little C., and Dwayne was who Tim really cared for. Dwayne often walked with us to school. One day when I was running late for school, two black guys I recognized from school approached me and demanded my new Jordans that I got for my birthday. I was alone, so they knew being a white boy they could just take them. So, I asked the biggest one, "You really want these shoes?" He replied, "Do I want them? I'm gonna take them from your ass." While he was saying those words, he was looking down at them. Before he could even look up into my eyes, I swung with my right, with an immediate left hitting him directly in the eye. The left landed on his nose; he leaned forward with his head down, reaching for my jacket with the intent of obstructing any further blows. Blood started dripping onto the exterior of his jacket. I stepped back two steps; he fell holding his nose, yelling, "I'm bleeding, man! I'm bleeding!" Without hesitation, I was looking to start swinging on the other kid when we made eye contact. He turned and yelled, "It wasn't me, man! It was him!" while turning and running. That's when I noticed Dwayne running up the street. The other was running in his direction and saw Dwayne running towards him; he quickly faked left, then with a quick turn went right, avoiding Dwayne's punch and continued running. He yelled, "When I see your ass again, I'mma fuck your ass up, nigga." Dwayne grabbed my shoulders in disbelief, "Dan, man, I seen the whole thing, man! At first, I thought y'all was just talking, then I seen you hit that big-ass nigga, man, you hella fast. Look across the street at the bus stop; all those guys saw that shit. Ain't nobody gonna want to mess with you, man."

We continued walking with Dwayne recounting the whole fight. He was so excited; me, I was sort of shocked that I wasn't afraid, not for one moment. It was like an animal's natural instinct to protect myself.

Later that afternoon, we got together—me, Dwayne, and Tim. As we walked down the hall, we noticed more girls were speaking to me. Charlotte smiled and said, "Hi, James." Tim and Dwayne started laughing. "James, Charlotte don't speak to no one. She's so fine; she usually just walks by all the fellas and doesn't speak back. When guys do speak, she usually glances at you with her eyes and continues walking. But, 'Hi, James,' wow, you the man. She's one of the prettiest girls in the school." I blushed. "I couldn't believe it either." Tim asked, "So, Jimmy, why does she call you James?" I replied, "Because she's in my sixth-period class, and the teachers are starting to call me James, that's all."

Tim said, "You're always gonna be Jimmy to me." Dwayne added, "Me too. I don't like James. It's cool; just call me Jimmy like y'all always done."

After we finished, Dwayne pulled out a joint of marijuana and asked if we wanted to try some. Tim agreed, so I did too. While we were smoking, Dwayne told us his big brother has a lot of weed and that he sells it. He could sneak some anytime he wants because his brother has so much; it's in big bags. Tim laughed, "He's gonna whoop your ass when he catches you." We all started laughing; the marijuana made everything funny. Soon, we were smoking marijuana every day at lunch and sometimes on the way home.

As weeks and months went by, I began to realize that Tim was very smart. He was an exceptional student in an accelerated math class at our school. It's not something he talks about; I never knew it until one day I walked with him to his math class and saw that it was in the bungalows behind the school. Some of the smarter kids were walking into the class as we stood outside, waiting for it to start. Every student in that class acknowledged Tim as they walked in. Tim was really good at algebra and decimal classification subdivisions. He even knew coding. He's knowledgeable enough to create the kinds of games we play, such as Mortal Kombat and Game of Thrones. He's really smart, even when it comes to spelling and punctuation. Also, history—he has studied his black history and oftentimes challenges our teacher in our history class. He makes our teacher, Mr. Clark, start stuttering when Tim corrects him, like the years and dates of the Emancipation Proclamation. The teacher said 1873, and Tim raised his hand, "Excuse me, Mr. Clark, it was actually 1863, sir." The class always laughs; that's when the teacher gets nervous and starts stuttering.

Everyone in the three classes we shared knew that Tim was very smart. He doesn't talk about it and carries himself as if he's just one of us, regular students. He hangs out at the park, smokes, and hangs with all the kids in the hood, most of whom are in special aid class and have to do makeup classes because of their grades just to pass to the next grade. That's very common with our peers in our neighborhood.

Recently, Tim was asked to join the school's spelling bee contest. He's in the same class as Charlotte, and he has helped her in class a few times. She always comments on how smart Tim is. The teacher in their spelling class approached us during lunch and asked him to join the contest, mentioning that the school would have a much greater chance at winning this year's contest. However, Tim declined, mostly because of stage fright.

After school, Charlotte came to the park and sat with us on the park bench. She asked me if I could convince Tim to join the school's contest. She spoke to me as if Tim wasn't sitting right next to me. She took a quick glance at Tim, hoping to get a response, but Tim just got up and walked away. He looked over to me and said, "I'll be right back, going to holler at Wayne." Charlotte stared at him as he walked away, hoping to get some sort of reaction. Then, she focused her attention back on me, asking me what Tim's problem was. I just lifted my shoulders and said, "He doesn't want to, that's all."

As I looked up at Charlotte, who was now standing directly in front of me, I noticed how pretty she actually was. Her eyes were a light green, almost the same color as money—a soft green shaped like almonds, slightly slanted up at the ends. Her eyebrows were perfectly arched, and she was really beautiful with long dark brown hair. Her skin was the same color as a chocolate candy bar. She was taller than most of the girls in our class because of her long legs. She smiled as I looked into her eyes, sat down next to me, and took my hand into hers. I accepted her hand with a slight squeeze.

Tim and Wayne came back with some weed that he stole from his older brother. Almost every day, he has some after school. When I asked Wayne how he keeps stealing from his brother without getting caught, he started laughing and began to explain how his brother has so much of it in his closet, and that he'll never notice the small amounts that he takes. Tim started laughing at Wayne and said, "Boy, your big brother gonna catch you one day and whoop yo butt." We all agreed and started laughing. The effects of the marijuana always make us laugh; Wayne always pretends to get angry when we laugh at him.

Summer time eventually came around, and we started getting bored hanging at the park. Lil Wayne started stealing more, and we began to smoke more often. Soon, we started buying some from the guys who sold it for Lil Wayne's big brother. We would find someone who smoked to go buy it for us in return for a small share. Not wanting Wayne's brother to know we were smoking marijuana, and when we couldn't come up with enough money, we would steal a bike from the bike rack by cutting the lock and chain and selling it to get the cash. Sometimes, we'd go shoplifting at the mall and sell the merchandise. It was scary but fun when we got away.

Well, that day finally came when Lil Wayne got caught stealing from his big brother. Big John Wayne asked us to keep a lookout for his brother's car to pull up and to throw some small rocks at the bedroom window if he pulled up so he wouldn't get caught. But to be careful not to break the window. Me and Tim agreed. So, while Wayne was in the house, his brother pulled up and drove straight over to me and Tim. He asked where Wayne was, he had two girls in the car, and parked next to us, going into the house. So, me and Tim couldn't throw the rocks because the girls were right there. Then, Wayne's window opened up, and Big John told us both to bring our tails up there but with a smile on his face. When we entered the room, Big John and Wayne were sitting on the bed with a bag of marijuana that was big as the pillow next to it. Big John told us to sit down and told Wayne to pass the joint. We were speechless. Big John started to explain that he knew that we were stealing his marijuana but didn't mind because it wasn't hurting his pockets. However, he was also aware that we've been shoplifting and that he let us continue to do that. He explained that he's afraid that one of us or all will end up getting hurt or going to jail. So, instead of stealing, he offered a bag of his marijuana and explained how to bag it and how much it sells for and how much profit we would earn if we don't smoke up our profit. He explained that every day, the teenagers hang out at the park, most are smoking it, and that we know most of them. We could turn the park into our very own turf and make good money in return. We all agreed.

He also explained to us how important it was to bring him his share of the money because he works for some big-time dealer that was running the streets from inside the prison walls. He mentioned a guy named Yousef who could have people knocking at your door at any time he chooses. He emphasized that Yousef has people everywhere watching his workers.

Time went by very fast; we weren't bored anymore. We were making good money and being able to go to the shopping center with bankrolls in our pockets. We could buy Nike shoes and Air Force Ones. Once my mom asked me where I got the money for my new Jordans, I lied and told her we had been cutting grass with one of my friend's lawnmowers. Soon, everyone at the school knew we were selling, and they had to come to the park after school. We even set a time to let everyone know when we're finished for the day, and we never sold at home, only at the park. Things seemed to be going really well. We started getting more from Big John and had two brothers selling for us on their block across town. We would meet at the park after school, and Lil Wayne kept them supplied with plenty of it. The money really started coming in, and the other students seemed to look up to us, especially Tim. Everyone spoke to him, and a lot of the girls would offer their phone numbers. They showed us a lot of love. We were all virgins; none of us had ever been with a girl sexually, except in our dreams.

As time went by, Charlotte and her friends didn't approve of the fact that I was a part of a crew that sold weed to most of our school and a large part of our neighborhood. Big John took care of the rest. Eventually, me and Charlotte exchanged phone numbers and started a relationship by calling each other pretty much every night and meeting at lunchtime with anticipation. Tim and Lil Wayne started calling her my girlfriend, which by now was obvious to most. But for the fun of it, I just kept telling them that we're just friends. One day, after we hung out at the park, I walked her home, and she kissed me on the lips. I grabbed her by the waist as she attempted to turn and walk away and looked her in her eyes and told her that she's always going to be my girl. She smiled and said, "I'll see you tomorrow, handsome." I just stood there in disbelief. As I walked back to the park, I started thinking that maybe Lil Wayne and Tim were right about me and Charlotte's relationship.

I got closer to the park, and I started thinking about how much marijuana we've been selling. I was in charge of supplying the weed because we all decided that it was safer for me to keep it at my house. We all agreed that no one would ever think of me keeping that much marijuana, especially my mom. Big John showed us how to seal the marijuana in plastic bags. Lil Wayne's duties were to handle the customers because he knew all the people that smoke, especially after watching his big brother sell weed since he was ten years old. Most of the customers even knew his mother. Some would walk up and give a hug and ask him, "How's Big John and your mom? She doing alright?" "Yeah," Wayne would answer, "I'll tell her you asked about her." "Yeah, do that. What you, man, is what y'all comes next."

With him handling the product, that's what kept everything safe from undercover police and snitches who were known for telling police who's doing what and where in order to stay out of jail. Some of these so-called hustlers ain't good at anything, and when they catch some heat, they tell on the first dealer on these streets. Tim's duties were to handle the money. He was someone we all decided was the best man for this position because he was more like a leader from the start. We would have never attempted to be out here doing this if he weren't involved. The first thing he did when all three of us got together and made this decision was the math. He sat us down at the park bench and picnic table, took out his tablet, and went over the numbers based on what numbers we got from Big John. When we were finished doing the numbers, we all knew exactly what our profit would be divided by three with a smoke allowance divided by three and the amount of money to the penny that we could save in the next three months. Every time it was time for me to go get some more products, he would take the money and stash it in his hiding spot. That would keep us from having too much money and products on us. Things kept moving just as planned. A few years went by, and we had saved enough money and got started on one of our goals, which was to buy a hot dog stand and set it up here on the street in front of the park. This park has a lot of people walking their dogs and jogging, riding on the bike trail, and it's half a block from the school, with only a corner store that only sold chips and cookies, etc., so we invested in a burrito truck. We already have a business partner, one of our neighbors and most loyal customers, to run the stand for a percentage of the gross. Also, his wife took over the burrito truck, and they're good friends of Tim's family that we all trust. Even Big John wanted in on the idea.

The next day I walked Charlotte home after school then headed to the park. As I continued walking back to the park, I could see Lil Wayne and Tim, but not the other two guys with them. I didn't recognize them; one was a tall, thin-built black guy, and his partner was a short, muscular Mexican guy. Neither one of them noticed me as I got closer and approached them from an angle. I noticed a gun hidden in the back of the short one's belt. As I got within four feet, the Mexican guy pulled out his gun and aimed it directly at Lil Wayne, yelling out, "Break yourselves! Give me all that shit!"

Lil Wayne threw up his hands, but unintentionally he glanced in my direction, which caused both of them to look in my direction. Lil Wayne reacted swiftly, diving with all the force of his legs right into the Mexican's midsection, causing him to hit the ground with a jarring force. The sound of the gun going off roared, and the gun flew from the grip of his hand.

Without thinking, I reacted, using instincts coming from a family of law enforcement. I dove for the gun, and as I grabbed it, I fell into a roll, coming up on one knee, aiming the gun at the Mexican as he attempted to get up. Right at that moment, Tim screamed, "Jimmy, watch out!" I turned and looked over towards the tall black guy, and he was pulling something from his back. Right as I directed my aim towards him, I saw the gun and fired the gun in my hands, striking him in the middle of his chest. The look of disbelief appeared on his face, and then was the look of fear. He looked down at his chest, then placed his hand on the gaping hole and looked over to his Mexican friend, whispering, "He shot me," and slowly fell backward, hitting his head on the picnic table, cracking the back of his skull. The sound of his head hitting the table sounded like a watermelon falling hard onto the table.

Looking down at the dead guy's body, I noticed the fear of death becoming a reality. It brought horrible memories of my dead father's body sitting at the table with his eyes still open. Tim whispered softly in my ear, "We gotta get outta here, Jimmy. Oh shit, I just killed him. He's dead." In sheer disbelief, I repeated, "I killed him." At that moment, the Mexican guy began running and yelling, "Y'all dead! Y'all dead! I'm going to get his brothers. We'll be back. I know where y'all live."

I looked at Tim and Wayne, hoping that they would say something. Knowing Tim would have the right answer, they stood there for what seemed to be forever. Then Lil Wayne broke the silence and said, "Yeah, man, I'm outta here. Police gonna be coming any minute." At that moment, they just started running. I was in shock; I just couldn't move my feet. Instead of running, I started looking at the dead man's expression on his face. His eyes were still open, like my dad's eyes were at the time of his death. The dead man's face started losing color, a dark blue. I was amazed that I wasn't shaking or nervous; death didn't seem to bother me. It truly seemed to have amazed me.

I heard voices, then looked up and noticed a couple yelling and pointing in my direction from across the park, from quite a distance. I realized that they couldn't quite get a good description from that distance. At that moment, I seemed to have gathered my senses and realized that I was not supposed to be standing here over a dead man's body with a gun in my hand. It felt as if I was stuck in a daydream. I placed the gun in my waistband and ran straight home, passing neighbors and taking the stairs to our apartment two steps at a time.

As I got to my front door, I started fumbling for my house keys and dropped them. As I bent down to pick them up, I could hear from a distance the sounds of police sirens coming from a distance and approaching fast. I began to hear voices from the front of our apartment right outside of my living room window. As I peeked out the front, a police cruiser was coming to a screeching halt, pulling out his gun and pointing it at two of my neighbors and yelling, "Where are those lil youngsters that be selling that shit in the park to high school kids?" They looked directly up at my apartment and pointed. As the police officer looked up, I closed the curtains as fast as I could, hoping he didn't notice the curtains moving. At that moment, I felt as if I had to take a crap. As I sat there wishing my mom was home, I heard the pounding of footsteps coming up the stairs and the jingle of many keys, and then the pounding on the door. "Open the door! This is the Los Angeles police! Open the door! I know you're in there!" The knocking continued but louder and with the use of a billy club.

"Open the door! This is the Los Angeles police! I have witnesses that seen you run in here, Jimmy. Maryann!"

The sounds made my body shake, and I could feel the tears beginning to fill my eyes. I got up and opened the door, and a tall police officer grabbed my arm and asked, "What did you do? Did you have anything to do with that man being shot in that park?"

"No," I replied while wiping my eyes and nose, clearing the tears.

"Where's your parents?"

"My mom's at work. Where's your dad?"

"My dad died accidentally cleaning his service revolver."

"Did you say service revolver?" he repeated.

"Yes, my dad was a cop in Berkeley, California."

"Okay, kid. You've got to come with me down to the station and tell me what happened, because you're the only one that was close enough to have seen what happened. Witnesses said there were two black kids and one white kid, and I'm thinking that was you, and that you saw what those two black boys did."

He closed and locked my front door, grabbed my left arm, and said, "This is the kind of thing that can ruin your life, boy."

We walked down the stairs in silence, and it looked like the whole police station was in front of my apartment. I could see my neighbors looking at me and whispering; everyone's eyes were on me. I made eye contact with Lil Wayne's mom, and she yelled, "Jimmy, where is Wayne?" I lifted my shoulders, indicating that I didn't know.

The police officer opened the door and ordered me into the back seat. He looked over to Wayne's mom and asked, "Is that one of them boys' moms?" I shook my head in agreement. As he closed the door, he walked over to Lil Wayne's mom and said, "Bring that son of yours down to the station house before we find him because he's wanted for murder. We got two witnesses that can place him at the park; they seen him and his friend running away."

He reached into his upper front pocket, handed her a business card, and told her to tell the other boy's mom what I said. Before he put the car in gear, he looked back at me and said, "I don't want to get you mixed up in this because this is a very serious matter you got yourself into, and I know you couldn't do something like this. So it's important that you tell me everything you saw."

He put the car in gear and continued talking as we drove down towards the station. We got to the stoplight, and I saw Tim and Lil Wayne sitting at the bus stop, talking. Lil Wayne was wiping tears from his eyes; he never looked up, but Tim looked directly into my eyes. As the police cruiser began to pull off, I couldn't help but look back at them. The officer never looked in their direction; he just kept talking. He glanced back at me and said, "Don't lie to me because I know you be hanging out with them two, and they ain't nothing but trouble. One of them boys' older brothers is a known drug dealer, and he belongs to them crips. And them two friends of yours, they gonna grow to be crips just like his big brother. Hell, they are already wanted for a possible murder charge, and they're still juveniles."

We arrived at the police station. He got out, opened the door for me, and ordered me to follow him. We walked through a back door that led to the parking lot, then into the station house. He took me to a room and told me to sit down. He reached over and grabbed a notepad, placed it in front of me, and told me to write down my mother's work number and cellphone number. As I started writing the numbers, he placed his hand on my shoulder and asked if I wanted something to eat. He offered to grab a burger from a nearby joint, and I accepted his offer.

As he began to walk out, he placed handcuffs on one of my wrists, and the other end of the cuffs was placed into a bracket mounted on the table. As he left the room, he turned and said, "You know you aren't going anywhere until your mom gets here, boy, so you might as well make yourself comfortable because when she gets here, you've got some questions to answer, being a minor and all."

When he turned and closed the door, half of the door was glass, and I noticed all the police officers going about their way. Everyone seemed to be concentrating on different projects on their desks. No one paid me any attention. About fifteen minutes passed, and my arresting officer, Big John, walked back into the room. That's what I heard the other officers call him on the way into the station house. As he handed me the bag of food, one of his fellow officers knocked on the door window and said, "Big John, come check out what's on the news." Big John turned and walked out to join him, leaving the door cracked. I noticed more officers joining; they sort of gathered around the television hanging on the wall. I could see and hear the news reporter reporting an unarmed black man being shot and killed at the Fruitvale BART station in Oakland, California, by a BART police officer.

I heard one of the officers say, "He must have tried to run," as the news continued reporting that he was ordered to sit down but didn't follow the officer's demands. He continued to engage in a confrontation with another individual on the BART platform. They reached for his taser but, mistakenly, he pulled his service weapon and fired one fatal shot that killed the unarmed black man. Most of the witnesses were his friends that witnessed the whole confrontation. Another officer made a comment with anger in his voice, "The fucker should have sat his ass down like he was told. Motherfuckers been taught in preschool how to do what Simon says. These motherfuckers can't figure out that these badges allow us to be Simon says and that they have to do what Simon says. That's why he's laying there dead; he should have done what he was told."

Two other officers shook their heads in agreement. Big John turned and returned back into the room and asked me, "Wasn't I from that area, Oakland?" "Yes," I replied, "Oakland is right next to Berkeley, and my mom and I have gotten off the BART at that station many times." Big John continued to talk; he said, "You see how them black men are, you see how they don't listen or respect police officers?" "Yeah," I replied, "mostly because they're afraid of most police. Everyone knows police are always chasing blacks, especially black teenagers. One of those boys you're looking for had a cousin; he was just twelve years old playing in the park with his toy gun he had just gotten as a gift. And two of your fellow officers drove up and killed him without asking questions. Anyone in their right mind could see he was just a kid and that it was a toy because it had one of those orange tips on the front of the gun. But I guess y'all cops ain't in your right mind when it comes to black people. But y'all always arrest white criminals; everyone knows that's the way it is, even I know, and I'm just a kid. And while you're looking for my two friends that were at the park, I'm telling you now they ain't did nothing."

"What the hell did you say?" he interrupted. Big John started getting mad and stood over me. While pointing his finger at me, he said, "You keep hanging with them black boys; you're gonna end up just like them." The sound of my mom's voice caught my attention, and then she came rushing into the room with another officer. My mother yelled to me, "Jimmy, don't you say another word." She turned and pointed her finger at Big John, "And what are you doing interrogating my son without my presence?" she yelled. "If you try and use anything that my son said without my presence, I'll sue this police station. Now, I'm taking him home and calling my attorney. We will contact y'all for an interview with my son with me and my lawyer. Let's get out of here, Jimmy."

"Wait just a moment, Ms. McRyan. I never tried to question your son. I know the law; we know he's a minor. We would never do that, ma'am. And we know your late husband was a cop, ma'am." "How do you know that?" she asked. "Because your son told me," he replied. "That's exactly what I'm talking about, talking to my son without my presence. Good day, gentlemen. I'll see y'all first thing in the morning, and with my lawyer. Let's go." She grabbed me by the arm, pulling me along as we walked away. While walking down the hallway, I saw Lil Wayne in a room talking to two police officers; he was crying. One of the officers was leaning over his shoulder while Lil Wayne was writing something down on a piece of paper. Tim was in a room just across the hall with a female officer and Big John; they both were staring at Tim. The female officer was writing something down as he talked. My mom said, "You see what they're doing to your friends? They're in there talking to them without their parents. Those boys are in a lot of trouble. We're getting you an attorney, and you're going to tell me exactly what happened in that park before we talk to anybody."

As we walked to the car, she continued, "Because you ain't going to no jail, not no son of mine." When we got in the car, I closed my door and said to my mother, "It was me." She stopped talking and stared at me for what seemed to be forever. I broke the silence and repeated my statement, "It was me. I shot that man; he was robbing Lil Wayne with that gun. So I grabbed it, and we struggled, and then it went off. I didn't mean it; I didn't mean to kill him."

My mom looked at me with that look that would scare anyone and said, "Don't you ever repeat that story again to anyone. Do you hear me? Not ever, boy. They don't want you; they want them black boys. That's why they're in there talking to them without their parents." She paused and grabbed me by both of my shoulders, looked me in the eyes, and asked, "Did you tell those police what happened? Did you tell them that you killed that man?"

"No, don't lie to me!" she yelled. "This is very serious stuff you've done got yourself into. Now be truthful."

"No," I yelled back. My eyes began to fill with tears.

"Good," she replied. "Don't ever repeat that again to anyone. They can always come back and charge you with murder even when you're grown up. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I answered. "We gotta call your Uncle Tom. He'll know how to fix this. He owes me a favor, and I'm going to need to collect." She pulled the car over to the shoulder and began to dial his number. I could hear the phone ringing and then Tom's voice, "Hello?"

"Tom, I need help. We're down outside the Los Angeles police station and just got Jimmy out of there before they try to implicate him in a homicide."

"What?" I could hear Tom's voice. "Sara, slow down and repeat that."

"You heard them. Two black friends of his were out there at the park where they hang out every day after school. A black man approached them and tried to rob his friends at gunpoint, and one of them wrestled for the gun, and it went off. I gotta get an attorney and bring Jimmy in to make a statement. They feel as if he's a witness."

"Okay, but why did you say they're trying to implicate him when he's only a witness?"

"Tom, just do what I asked," she roared.

"Okay, Tom agreed. I'm on it. You'll be getting a call within an hour."

"And Sara, don't worry." He hung up the phone.

My mom looked at me and said, "Don't you talk to anyone about what happened that day. Not even that girlfriend you've been hanging with. Once we get an attorney, he'll know exactly what we should do."

As the days passed, I couldn't get the images of the dead man's head out of my mind—how it split wide open as if it were a watermelon, cracked wide open. I could see what looked like his brains, and there were bubbles mixed with his blood. His eyes looked like someone had just scared him. It was the scariest thing I ever saw in my life.

As I walked to school, I thought of Tim and Lil Wayne. I wondered if I'll ever get to see them again after this court case is over. I felt guilty that they were still in that jail and being charged with capital murder. I don't really know what capital murder means, but my mom says they'll never get out because the illegal sales of marijuana make the accidental shooting a felony murder, and that it carries some special circumstances. Most likely, they'll never get a chance again, even when this court case is over. Besides, my mom started to prepare to move back to the Bay Area as soon as we're finished with this court business.

While walking to school and once in the lunch cafeteria, I've been threatened and approached by a few of the kids on the block whispering "snitch," but they wouldn't say it directly to my face or approach me in the wrong way because everyone at the school knew that I could defend myself pretty good.

When we got home from school, a big guy drove up in a Mercedes 500 and knocked on the door, introducing himself as John Borrows, attorney at law.

The big day finally came. It was my court day. My mother was so nervous she couldn't find anything – her shoes, then her keys. She was a wreck. I wasn't really too afraid because the attorney told me what to say and what to do. I was told that I might not even have to testify, just follow his lead and do exactly what we've practiced, and only answer the questions with two or three words, saying as little as possible.

As my mom and I walked up the stairs of the court, my heart started beating fast. I was scared. Our attorney joined us, calling out, "Hey guys, Mrs. McRyan, good morning. I've spoken to the arresting officer, and they're considering dropping the charges on Jimmy. It's up to the prosecuting attorney. I've tried to reach their offices and left a few messages, but they never responded. So we'll have to play our cards with the judge and the D/A office."

As we entered the courtroom, my attorney had my mother sit in front of the court right behind the defendant's table. Soon, Tim, Tim, and little Wayne were brought out. They were in orange jumpsuits and had handcuffs from their wrists shackled down to their ankles. There was that brief moment of eye contact with Tim, but there was no attempt to speak. It was as if we were never friends.

And then the judge entered the courtroom from his chambers, and the bailiffs roared out, "Everyone rise! Judge Kramer is presiding." The judge ordered everyone to please be seated. As I sat, I looked to make eye contact with little Wayne, but his full attention was on the judge. I looked back to find my mother; she was right behind us. It felt better seeing her, and then I saw Tim's and Wayne's mothers. Tim's mom looked right at me as she cried. It made me want to cry. My mother motioned for me to turn around and pay attention.

The judge called out, "First case, docket #12890, People vs. James Banks." As soon as he said my name, my attorney introduced himself, and two more lawyers joined my lawyer, asking the judge for permission to approach the bench. He agreed. The three lawyers started speaking quietly to make sure their conversation was private, and then the judge looked over the three lawyers and asked for the prosecuting attorney to please approach the bench. It didn't seem to be enough room with all those lawyers up there. I could hear all the whispers behind me; everyone knew this was something big. And then the judge ordered everyone to go back to their seats.

I looked back at my mom, but she kept her eyes on the judge, and then the judge began to speak. "In the case of #12890, the city of Los Angeles has decided to drop all charges against the People vs. Jimmy Banks." My mom grabbed me and said, "Oh Jesus, thank God." And then, as the courtroom started mixed conversation, the judge slammed his gavel on his desk. "Next case!" The whispers lowered but continued. My attorney grabbed my hand. "Come, Jimmy, let's go."