The Pentagon had been hit.
It had been six years since she last saw Jax. After Miriam left, fled in the night with their children, Jax had advanced in the Marines. He had made lieutenant colonel. Miriam knew he had been transferred from Camp Lejeune to the Pentagon because of the forwarding address on the divorce papers.
“You all right, chile?” the patient asked, concerned.
Miriam bent to pick up the upturned tray. She did not know how to answer. She honestly did not know if the North house could bear any more loss.
Four years had passed since Derek’s arrest. He had been charged with first-degree murder on two counts. Miriam had sat in the Shelby County Courthouse, her hands tightly intertwined with those of her sister, every day of the trial. They both had worn black.
The courtroom smelled like the hickory benches that lined the small room on two sides. Derek was there in his blue prison jumpsuit, sitting at a long table on the left side of the room, flanked by his public defender.
Three Black boys had entered the courtroom shortly before the call to order and had sat directly across from the North family pew and stared at Derek. They wore sagging jeans and royal-blue T-shirts. Apparently, Kings Gate Mafia had sent troops to monitor the battle playing out in the courtroom. They were there every day of the trial. So were the Douglass Park Bishops, known for their bloodred bandanas tied around still-growing biceps. The guard had stopped many a brawl in the aisles, separating Black child from Black child clawing at each other.
Derek never confirmed his involvement with the Douglass Park Bishops, but he did not have to. The judge, the Honorable Dorothy White, was from the streets of Memphis, knew that a seventeen-year-old boy does not own an AK-47; that weapon had been gifted. She, and the jury, also knew that a boy from North Memphis had no valid, reasonable reason to even be in Orange Mound, much less with an automatic weapon used in warfare, all to kill two people he had never met. The jury took all of thirty minutes to issue a guilty verdict; didn’t even need to break for lunch.
Miriam remembered only letting go of her sister’s hand when she took the stand at Derek’s sentencing. The prosecution was pushing for the death penalty; Derek’s best shot was life without parole. August wore a black cape dress that flared out at her arms so that she looked like some medieval sorceress. A black funeral hat with a lace veil covered most of her shell-shocked face. Her kitten heels clicked on the marble floor as she swung open the saddle doors separating public from judge and took the stand.
“Raise your right hand,” the security guard had bellowed.
August obeyed.
“Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, under penalty of perjury, so help you God?” he asked.
“Yes,” August said.
“Ma’am, we need you to state your full name for the record,” Derek’s defense attorney began. He was a stout, bearded, middle-aged man, and he wore a well-tailored suit, a red carnation at the lapel.
“August Della North.”
“And state your relation to the defendant.”
“He’s my son.”
“Ma’am, what is your occupation?”
“I’m a hair stylist. I have a little shop I run out the back of my home.”
Derek’s attorney paced, nodded his head, and stroked his beard. He spoke slow, pronouncing each syllable so that the courtroom understood the gravity of the situation. “Ma’am, why don’t you begin by telling us a little about your son?”
Miriam remembered seeing her sister take a deep breath, exhale. She had never seen August so utterly spent. She looked like she had been to the underworld and back and could speak the language of the dead and the lost.
At first, it didn’t seem as if August would be able to speak. She sat on the witness stand and Miriam saw her shoulders rise and fall in deep, concentrated breaths. The silence got to the crowd. There were snickers from the Kings Gate Mafia pew.