Black and White, and Blue Sample

A powerful and deeply relevant story that tackles one of the most divisive and painful issues in contemporary America.

Black and White, and Blue

A Novel By:

James A Sheehan

Copyright, December 2021

PROLOGUE

The Bronx, July 2019

“When do you leave for school?” Darius asked his friend Jamaal as he took a hit on the joint they were passing around. There were concrete tables and benches in the park for people to sit and eat or play games. Darius and Jamaal were sitting on top of one of the tables with their feet on the bench. It was mid July and hot and muggy even though it was eight-thirty at night. The park was empty except for the two of them.

“Three weeks.” Jamaal said, as he took a sip of beer.

“Need to get my shit in order soon.”

“Do they test you when you come to camp?” Darius asked. Jamaal was going to Southwest Oklahoma State on a football scholarship. Neither one of them knew where Southwest Oklahoma State was before the school contacted Jamaal. It didn’t make any difference. It was college; it was free; and it was football— the only scholarship offer Jamaal had.

“Yeah. This is my last night smoking weed.”

“That’s right. I’ll quit too.” Darius said. “We’ll just drink beer, or maybe some hard stuff. I’ve got some Hennessey in the car.” Darius wasn’t going anywhere after high school. He was a good athlete, just not good enough to get an offer, even an offer from someplace neither one of them ever heard of, like Southwest Oklahoma State. They were both undersized, Jamaal at five foot eight, and Darius at five-nine, but Jamaal had that natural talent you couldn’t teach. It was called speed. He could run the forty in under four-four.

“Can’t do any of that either.” Jamaal said. “Gotta start working out. I want to get a starting job.”

“Man, I wish I was going somewhere like you guys.” Darius said. Instead, he had already started his new after high school career in the hood. The reference to you guys included their friend Marcus who was at present headed down the park path toward them.

They could barely see him in the darkness. Marcus was going to the University of South Carolina on a basketball scholarship. Like Jamaal, he was leaving in a few weeks. At six feet two, Marcus had enough height and more than enough athleticism to play Division One basketball and go to a school that everybody had heard of. He’d been a star his entire high school career.

“What’s going on, Man.” Marcus said when he arrived at the table.

“Where you been?” Darius asked handing his buddy a beer. “Want a hit?”

“Hell no. I don’t want to screw up my scholarship. My mother would kill me.”

“Have you gotten that ‘you’re the first one in the family to ever go to college bullshit’?” Jamaal asked.

“Oh yeah. And the ‘there are a lot of talented people from this neighborhood who never went anywhere because of drugs’, routine as well.” They all laughed at that one, although nobody realized at the moment that Darius was the one going nowhere.

“Who bought the beer?” Marcus asked.

“I got it.” Darius said. “Got the weed too. It’s my new gig.”

“What the fuck did you do, Darius?” Marcus said.

“Nothing. You sound like my mother. I just started a new career. That’s all. You guys are leaving the neighborhood. I’ve got to survive.”

“You remember the last time you worked for Latrell two years ago? You screwed up one delivery and he almost killed you. That dude is fucking crazy.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. We’re cool now. He’s paying me a lot more money and I ain’t gonna fuck it up.” Marcus and Jamaal just looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Darius was their life-long friend and a great guy but a total fuck-up. But even they did not understand how serious it was.

“You guys are going to miss this place when you’re gone.” Darius said trying to change the subject. “I mean no more beautiful park right next to the projects where you live.”

Jamaal laughed. “No more hookers on every other corner.”

“No more shots fired in the middle of the night.” Marcus added. They were all laughing again. Darius had successfully steered them away from talking about his new career.

That’s when they heard this deep, angry, voice shouting behind them.

“What the fuck did you do? Where’s my money, you stupid son-of-a-bitch?”

They all turned toward the voice. Everything happened in a heartbeat after that. The man behind the voice raised his arm as he continued walking. He did not wait for an answer, he just pulled the trigger and fired.

Marcus, Jamaal, and Darius were startled by the shouting and the shot. It was something they had witnessed before, but only from a distance. And, like every kid in the hood, they had all played it over in their mind what they would do if the shots were ever aimed at them. Of course, thinking about something in the abstract and doing it were two different things.

In a flash, Jamaal jumped under the concrete table he was sitting on. Marcus headed straight for the shooter. The man got a second shot off, but before he could take aim at the figure moving towards him, Marcus was on him, grabbing his arm and pushing it skyward while taking him down like a linebacker tackling a running back. The man landed hard. Marcus had control of his wrist now with his left hand.

With his right hand, he started smashing the man in the face as hard as he could. In the distance, they heard sirens. It was as if the police had been lying in wait outside the park listening for the signal to pounce.

When they arrived, the man Marcus tackled was unconscious. Marcus was kneeling over him with the gun in his hand. On the ground next to the table where they were all sitting lay the bloody body of Darius. Jamaal was leaning over him trying to desperately stop the bleeding, his eyes filled with tears.

The cops exited their vehicles quickly but cautiously, guns drawn.

“Drop the gun! Drop the gun!” One cop shouted at Marcus like a marine drill sergeant.

“Put your hands up! Put your hands up.” Another one shouted.

Marcus calmly dropped the gun and put his hands up. One of the cops moved towards him.

“Stand up. Stand up. Hands behind your back!”

A few feet away, Jamaal was going through the same drill. He wanted to stay on the ground with Darius, but he wanted to live too.

Once they were handcuffed, Marcus and Jamaal were shoved in the back of separate patrol cars. As they were leaving the scene, they saw the lights of an EMS vehicle approaching.

Mavis Washington had just finished cleaning the kitchen and was getting ready to go to bed. She had put the dishes in the sink earlier but let them soak while she watched television with her son, Isaiah. She sat on the couch next to him in the living room and watched whatever he wanted to watch. When he was younger, she would put her arm around him, but he wouldn’t let her do that now. Isaiah was still gentle and sweet at sixteen, but he wanted to be his own man. He was about to go into his junior year in high school.

Things were about to change for both of them.

Mavis’s older son Marcus was heading off to college on a basketball scholarship. She wondered how Isaiah would survive at Clinton High without Marcus around. Isaiah was small and prone to succumb to any germ that was in the air. He’d been hospitalized several times when he was younger for asthma and pneumonia. Consequently, his mother was very protective. Isaiah was easy prey for those who would and could take advantage. In the past, Marcus had always been there to protect him. Everybody thought twice about messing with Marcus Washington’s little brother.

Mavis’s uncle had just died, and she inherited his house in Florida and was toying with the idea of moving out of the Bronx. Then the call came.

“Ms. Washington?”

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“This is Officer Seth Kranepool at the forty-fourth

precinct, we have your son, Marcus, down here.”

“Why is he there?” Mavis demanded.

“He has not been charged with anything yet,

Ma’am. There has been a shooting, and we are trying to straighten things out. If you want to come down to the station, we can explain everything to you there.”

“Is my son, okay?”

“Yes, Ma’am. He’s fine.”

“T’ll be right there.”

Mavis was at the station in ten minutes. She gave her name to the sergeant at the front desk who asked her to take a seat.

“My son is here somewhere, and I want to see him.”

Mavis demanded

“Ma’am, if you will please take a seat, Officer Kranepool will be out here in a moment to talk to

you.” 

Mavis took a seat although she was fidgeting in the chair. Officer Kranepool emerged from a door leading into the precinct a few minutes later. The desk sergeant motioned him to where Mavis was fidgeting. Officer Kranepool walked over to her.

“Ms. Washington, I’m Officer Seth Kranepool.”

“Where is my son?” She demanded.

“He’s here. May I sit down?”

“This is your place.” Mavis said. She didn’t mean to be rude, but this was not the time to be polite.

“I just want to explain to you what has happened and where we are.” 

Mavis nodded for him to go on.

“There was a shooting tonight. A young man named Darius Evans is dead.”

Mavis closed her eyes. “Darius is one of Marcus’s best friends.” She said.

“There were three other people at the scene: Your son, Jamaal Fielder, and Latrell Jones.” Officer Kranepool continued. 

“Latrell Jones is in the hospital. It looks like he was beaten up pretty bad. Your son was found kneeling over him with a gun in his hand. We believe the gun is the murder weapon.”

Mavis took a long, deep breath. This was serious. Besides one of Marcus’s best friends being dead, everything she had worked for, all the plans she had made for Marcus were about to go up in smoke. This damn neighborhood! She thought.

She stood up, changing the dynamic between herself and Officer Kranepool who was still seated.

“You don’t understand. My son would never do anything to harm his best friend. He loved Darius.

You can’t arrest my son. He has a scholarship to college. He’s leaving in three weeks.”

Officer Kranepool could see she was very agitated. He stood up too, which didn’t give him any leverage since, he, at five foot eight, was two inches shorter than Mavis. 

“Calm down, Ms. Washington. Nobody is going to arrest your son now. We are just sorting things out.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. I’ve lived in this neighborhood all my life. I know how you people sort things out. Those who live here always get the short end of the stick. I want to see my son!”

Kranepool knew he was not going to calm this woman down. She was way too upset for that.

“I’m going to get my sergeant, Ma’am. Only he can make the decision to allow you to see your son. Please wait here. It will only be a minute.” 

Officer Kranepool backed away towards the door leading into the precinct.

Mavis did calm down somewhat, realizing that continuing to escalate the situation was not going to get her anywhere. She sat down and waited.

“Sarge, you’ve got to talk to this woman.” Sergeant Kranepool said to his supervisor when he was inside the confines of the precinct where the public was not usually

allowed. “She’s not listening to a word I’m saying.”

“What woman?” Sergeant Thomas asked. 

“Marcus Washington’s mother. She was the first to arrive, and she doesn’t trust me.”

Sergeant Thomas did know that Ms. Washington would not trust Kranepool, and he knew why. He also knew Kranepool was a good cop.

“Did you explain what happened?”

“I did.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to her. Where is she?”

“In the waiting room.”

Minutes later, Mavis observed a middle-aged black man with a pleasant face and an ample frame, dressed in a sergeant’s uniform, emerge from behind the door leading into the precinct. He walked towards her and suddenly stopped short. Mavis was glaring at him.

“Mavis is that you?” He asked.

Mavis just looked at the man not knowing what he was talking about.

“It’s me, Freddie Thomas. I’ve put on a few pounds since high school, but you haven’t changed a bit. Still beautiful. Best female athlete at Clinton High!” 

Mavis looked at the face, trying to see through the years. A picture of the Freddie Thomas she knew in high school came into view in her head. It took a moment before

she could see that picture emerge in this pleasantly plump individual standing before her.

“Freddie, it is you.” Mavis said as she stood up. “I haven’t seen you in years. Are you the sergeant in charge here?”

“I’m the sergeant in charge of this investigation at the moment. Have a seat. Let me tell you what’s going on.” 

Mavis sat down again. Sergeant Thomas sat next to her.

“As you know, Darius Evans is dead. Your son, Marcus, had the gun in his hand when the police when the police arrived. That part doesn’t look good. He was kneeling over Jones at the time and Latrell Jones was unconscious, been beaten to a pulp. That part doesn’t look good ei-ther.” 

“However, Latrell Jones is a known drug dealer and gang member. We know Darius Evans was dealing for him. The way I see it from the crime scene and the boys’ statements, Latrell shot Darius and Marcus went after Latrell and disarmed him, saving both his and Jamaal Fielder’s life. We’re checking out the gun and the fingerprints on the gun and we’re working on a statement from Latrell Jones who apparently is now conscious.”

“He’s facing a murder charge, and he has a lot of information we want. I think we can strike a deal. We won’t be able to release Marcus right away, but I’d say probably tomorrow.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure as I can be. Knowing it’s your son, I won’t leave until that happens.”

“Thanks Freddie.”

“No problem. Boy, it’s good to see you again. How is it we never have run into each other all these years?” 

“We’re all busy with family and things. Can I see Marcus? I just want to make sure he stays calm.” 

“I can get you in right now for a couple of minutes, but I need a favor too.”

Mavis immediately became suspicious all over again.

“What?”

“Can you stay here for a few minutes until Darius and Jamaal’s mothers arrive? This is going to be a very emotional time for Darius’s mom. It would help if people she knew were here.”

It was a thoughtful request and a little surprising.

“Sure.”

“Come on back.”

PART ONE (The Happening)

CHAPTER ONE

Oconee, Florida, October 2019

Mavis sat at the kitchen table and smiled as she listened to the music coming from Isaiah’s bedroom. It was so sweet and pleasant, and unique. Sometimes she heard a violin, sometimes a harp, sometimes even a guitar. Isaiah was creating the music from a beat-up old instrument he had found beside a dumpster. He didn’t even know what the instrument was at first.

He had never seen that shape before. It was broken at the stem when they found it, and the strings were either loose or non-existent. He and Mavis glued it back together, bought some new strings, and learned how to re-string it by watching videos on the internet.

Then Isaiah taught himself to play, again watching videos on the internet. The instrument was something called a mandolin.

Mavis and Isaiah had recently moved to Oconee, Florida from the Bronx, which meant Isaiah had to transfer to Oconee High School in his junior year. It was a hard slog right from the get-go. Isaiah was quiet, didn’t mix well and, at five feet five inches tall and barely a hundred forty pounds, he was easy prey for the bullies that wandered the halls of the school. If he had been a scrapper he would have fared better, but Isaiah was not made that way. He had a sweet disposition, and he was somewhat fragile, and, with his history of asthma, and being in and out of hospitals in his younger years for various respiratory issues, fighting was not in his vocabulary.

The only place Isaiah felt comfortable at Oconee High was in the music room. He’d taught himself to play piano when they lived in the Bronx, so he either played the piano or his mandolin. The room was usually deserted except for when the band practiced, although there was one girl who came in rather frequently to practice on the piano. He recognized her from some of his classes. She was real pretty with long dark hair. Isaiah would never have spoken to her outside of the music room; he was much too shy for that. But sometimes he would sit next to her at the piano and show her how to play some chords. Initially, no words were spoken, just smiles and hands-and music.

One day when they were playing a popular tune, she started to sing. It was a Roberta Flack song, Killing Me Softly, and she sang it beautifully. Isaiah didn’t know what love was, but he felt something that day. He was almost tempted to sing along with her, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment. He’d had a decent voice as a kid but once he reached puberty, it changed and became very deep and rough and gravelly. It didn’t fit at all with his slight body, and it assured him that singing was not in his future. He just played and listened as she hit the high notes.

When it was over, they were both so excited. She hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, slightly brushing his lips on the way.

“That was so much fun.” She said. “We have to do it again.”

And they did, almost every day. It was always fun and special but never as wonderful, at least for Isaiah, as that first song.

The music room was Isaiah’s sanctuary from the outside world. The place where he could be himself. Getting there was his biggest problem, however.

“What you got there, boy?” 

His name was Caleb. He was a big white kid, and he was pointing at Isaiah’s mandolin case. It was unusual in that it was small like a violin.

Isaiah might have been a new kid and certainly no match for Caleb but, being a city kid, he could tell from Caleb’s tone that this wasn’t an innocent inquiry. So, he just kept walking, quickening his pace. If I can get to the hallway, he thought. I can lose him in the crowd.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” Caleb shouted as he started to quicken his own pace and move toward Isaiah.

Isaiah transitioned from a walk to a run in an instant.

Caleb might have been big, but he was no match for Isaiah’s nimble feet. In a matter of seconds Isaiah had rounded the corner and melted into the throng of students walking up and down the corridor headed for their classes.

Isaiah smiled to himself as he looked back and saw Caleb, angry and confused, looking all over for him.

“I’ll have to avoid that walkway, he told himself. But he knew simply avoiding the walkway was not going to eliminate this threat.

It had been different for him back home at Clinton High. There he was Marcus Roosevelt’s younger brother. Nobody messed with him. He was like a celebrity. Marcus had not only been a star basketball player, but he was also one of the toughest guys in the whole school. Over the summer, Latrell, a local gang member and drug dealer, shot and killed Marcus’s friend, Darius, and was about to kill Marcus and his other friend Jamaal. They were in the park next to the projects. Marcus didn’t flinch. In a split second, he made the decision to tackle Latrell, disarm him, and beat him until he was unconscious, saving both his life and Jamaal’s. Everybody in the neighborhood knew that story.

But Marcus didn’t make the move with Mavis and Isaiah. He was at the University of South Carolina on a basketball scholarship. The Bronx was a lifetime away and Isaiah was on his own.

In the kitchen, as she continued to listen to the music from Isaiah’s mandolin still flowing from the other room, Mavis, once again, thought about her decision to relocate from the Bronx. She remembered all too well the day Darius was murdered and how close her son came to the same fate. She didn’t process the information the same way as Isaiah and the neighborhood did. As a mother, instead of seeing Marcus as cool and tough, she saw her son coming within seconds of losing his life. If it had been Isaiah, he would have been dead. There was no doubt in her mind.

Her Uncle Harry had died, and she had inherited this house just outside of Oconee, a small city in the southcentral part of Florida. She could have just sold the place but the combination of the weather in New York which played havoc with Isaiah’s asthma and the memory of Darius’s murder and Marcus’s brush with death, made her want to remove Isaiah from the Bronx. Marcus was out of the hood and on his way, hopefully, to a happy and successful life. Now her focus had to be on Isaiah. With her license as a practical nurse, she could get a job anywhere.

It was the perfect time to make the move, at least in theory.

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