“The court assigned you an attorney.”
“Is that what you call him? He might as well have been called a public pretender. Look, I’m not trying to sound cynical or anything, but that guy was incompetent, and if you do a little research, you’ll see that since my case, he’s been disbarred and is working as a stockbroker or something. Going to law school was something he did to appease his parents. If I would’ve taken his advice, I would’ve gotten the electric chair. So seeing what I was dealing with, I just took the deal.”
“I see that you have the same attitude you had at your trial. Nothing is your fault,” the young white guy said.
Kwame started to say something but caught himself. He took a deep breath and exhaled.
“You don’t have anything to say for yourself?” the same guy asked.
“All I have to say is this system is not perfect. I was seventeen years old when I came in here. I was headed off to my freshman year at the University of South Carolina. For the life of me, I can’t understand why you guys are so hell bent on ruining my life.”
“Try looking in the mirror at the person who is ruining your life. We didn’t put crack cocaine in your possession. We didn’t put two pounds of marijuana in your possession. That was all you,” the other guy on the panel—a black guy—said.
Kwame sighed and shook his head. “All I’m saying is if you guys believe that everyone behind these walls is guilty and not one of them has been wrongfully convicted, then I guess I won’t make parole.”
When Kwame said that, I felt as if my heart were going to fall out of my chest. I wished he would just shut up, or if he insisted on talking, just tell the people what they wanted to hear so we could get out of here.
“The system is not the issue here. We’re talking about you. I’ll tell you right now that your attitude is not helping your cause at all,” the old white lady said as if she were reading my mind.
“I’ve done two years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit. I’m nineteen years old, and all I really want to do is get on with my life. Now, being that you guys are trying to keep me in here has me a little upset, but I understand.”
“You understand what?” the white guy asked.
“What I’m dealing with.”
“Care to elaborate?” the black guy said.
“Guilty or not, this is my first offense. Before this, I never had so much as a traffic ticket, so at the very least, I would be considered a nonviolent offender, yet I’m in here with some of the worst people you could ever imagine. Murderers, rapists, child molesters—people who will never see the streets again as free men. People who will try to sabotage any possibility of release just for the sake of being evil. So, yes, there were times when I had to stand up for myself, but if you read the reports, you’ll see that I was never the aggressor.”
“Have you ever seen a crack baby?” the black man asked.
I wanted to scream, “I’m looking at one,” but I knew Kwame and Mrs. Ross would’ve slapped me silly, so I kept my comments to myself.
“Excuse me?” Kwame asked.
“Have you ever seen a crack baby?” he barked, slamming his hand down on the table.
“I’m sure I have,” Kwame answered quietly.
“Do you realize people like you contribute to that?”
“Sir, that crack was not mine. The car wasn’t mine. I was doing a favor for a friend”—Kwame started, but was cut off.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ve all heard your story and the jury didn’t buy it and I’m sure this board isn’t buying it either. Now”—he rustled through some papers—“you were sentenced to seven years, and you could be, and I stress could be, paroled after two years.”
Kwame looked over to Mrs. Ross, who nodded that everything was okay.
“But I’m not sure you are rehabilitated,” he said.
“Sir, I’m very familiar with drug addicts. I’m not proud of some of the choices I’ve made. Some of the people I chose to hang around. Being in here has given me time to see the things I could’ve done differently to change my situation,” Kwame said.
“What are your plans if—and trust me, it’s a big ‘if’—we were to grant you parole?” the white guy asked.
“I plan to get a job. I plan to be the best role model I can be for my brother. I plan to be the man my grandmother raised me to be.”
“There’s something about you that makes me believe you’re a con artist who’s still trying to get over. I think the minute you see the light of freedom, you will be back to selling drugs,” the black man said with a self-righteous look on his face.
“I can’t go back to selling drugs because I never sold them in the first place,” Kwame said.
“You’re in prison for it,” the black man snapped, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms with a smug look on his face.
“What’s wrong with you?” I screamed, surprising myself with my outburst. I couldn’t sit there quietly anymore.
“Romeo,” Kwame said, shaking his head. He was pleading with his eyes for me to sit down, but my blood had risen to its highest level, and I was about to blow a vessel.
“No,” I snapped. “I wanna know why this man is trying to keep you locked up. You’re acting like he murdered somebody. You just want to keep him locked up so you can make some money off of him. He’s not a slave. He did time in your dumb little prison, now leave him alone!” I yelled.
“Remove him from the hearings,” the black man shouted, pointing his finger at the door. “I’m so sick of these ghetto bastards that I don’t know what to do. If you ask me, we should do our race a favor and exterminate every last one of the little ignorant—” he said before catching himself.
Mrs. Ross stood and stormed toward me. She grabbed my arm and snatched me up like I was an unruly toddler.
“What was that?” she asked once we were in the hallway.
“Did you hear what he said?” My eyes were wide with disbelief.
“What was that?” she snapped again.
“I just couldn’t sit there and listen to that man treat my brother like that.”
“I want you to calm down. That little charade did not help your brother’s cause at all. That’s what they do. It’s all a game to try to provoke him. Kwame is doing fine.”
“And why are you just sitting there? I thought you were his lawyer. You’re not saying anything.”
“Romeo, Kwame is in jail. That means he’s the property of the state. This is not a television show. This is real, and until you take a few classes in criminal law, I suggest you keep your comments to yourself.”
Reality hit me and I felt like a complete idiot. I leaned on the wall and slid down to the floor.
God, I hope I didn’t ruin his chances, I thought.
Mrs. Ross walked over and leaned down to squeeze my shoulder. “Just relax. I know this is very difficult, but we have to stay the course and play by the rules. Okay?”
I nodded my head.
Mrs. Ross walked back toward the room. She paused and gave me a reassuring smile before she entered the room.
I tried to calm myself by standing up and taking a walk. Then I sat down. But I couldn’t sit still, so I stood again and paced the halls. I sat back down and got up again. It seemed like they were taking forever in there. I prayed that I hadn’t hurt Kwame’s chances of coming home, but something