Still (Grip Book 2)(69)

"We're here," she says, studying the line of people crowding the sidewalk. "You ready?"

"Hell no." I bring her knuckles to my lips. "But are you with me?"

"Hell yeah," she whispers, dotting kisses along my chin.

"Then I'm good."

I capture her lips, wanting just a taste to hold me over, but dammit  she's so sweet and I can't stop. Hunger breaks the surface of my control  and makes me sloppy. Deep licks, sharp bites. I'm sucking her chin,  nuzzling her neck. Without my permission, my hand wanders to cup her  breast, to pinch her nipple, her sharply drawn breath making me even  harder. I need it in my mouth. I'm sliding to my knees in front of her  when everything crashes and burns.

"Ahem." Amir, not looking even a little shamefaced, grabs our attention.  "Like your mama always says, if you didn't bring enough for everybody,  put it away."

"You vibe-killing, cock-blocking motherfucker," I say as good-naturedly  as can be expected with a saber poking through my jeans. Bristol's  throaty, unabashed chuckle doesn't help matters. Inhibited, my ass. I  don't care what time she gets home, I'll be up and ready to show her how  uninhibited she still is.         

     



 

"Let's go kick some racist ass," I say, struggling to refocus.

"Kicking racist ass" may be overstating my performance, but I hold my  own against Clem Ford. I'm not Iz. I don't have the epidemiological  substantiation for my responses. I know fewer statistics than Iz does,  and God knows I'm not as polished, but every bullshit reason Ford trots  out for his corrupt system and avaricious worldview, I have an answer  for.

"Are you saying crime shouldn't be punished?" Ford asks after we've been  at it for an hour. "That black men deserve special treatment?"

"Special treat . . ." Disbelief traps the words in my mouth. "You think we get special treatment?"

"It sounds to me like that's what you're asking for, that crime be overlooked."

"No, I'm asking that justice be blind and that punishment fits the crime  the same for everyone," I say, outrage stiffening my voice. "That a  black man with a busted tail light not spend weeks in jail because he  doesn't have bail money when someone snorting coke is given a slap on  the wrist and set free. Prosecute a man for being guilty, not for being  black, brown or poor."

"Oh, not this argument again." He rolls his eyes.

"Which argument are you anticipating exactly?" I demand, heat licking up  my neck in the face of his derision. "The systematic criminalization of  black and brown men in America? Or maybe you think I'll point out that  when crack ravaged communities of color in the nineties it was a crime,  but now when we have widespread opioid abuse in suburbs and rural areas  it's a health crisis? I'm not saying it's not a health crisis, but where  was that perspective, that compassion when drugs eviscerated a  generation of black people and their communities?"

"I'm only saying-"

"Oh, no," I cut in over him. "You probably thought I'd regurgitate facts  about men of color serving three, four times the sentences for  possession of marijuana as other groups for possession of cocaine and  heroin. Are those the arguments you were expecting?"

For a silent second, hatred rears from behind the polite mask covering  Ford's face. His fury is fire, but my composure isn't even signed. And  before he can hide it, I see that my even keel only makes him angrier.

"The courts determine the appropriate punishment for the crime, Mr. James," he finally replies, his voice smooth and restrained.

"And when there is no crime, Mr. Ford?" I ask, not waiting for his  response. "When black men, Hispanic men are pulled over and arrested for  bullshit reasons and then languish in the system for months because  they don't have money for bail for their non-crime? What's their crime?  Their skin color? Their poverty?"

"I don't think-"

"No, you don't have to think about it, do you?" I punch the words for  emphasis. "When corporations like yours set lock-up quotas, demanding  ninety percent prison occupancy rates, securing cheap labor for your  businesses, to do your work, you don't think about the charges the  system has to trump up to meet those quotas, do you?"

"We don't-"

"What if people in certain states start paying attention to the fine  print of their tax bills? How outraged will they be when they realize  they are penalized for fewer prisoners? That they pay for empty beds?  It's outrageous."

"What you call outrageous, we call capitalism," he says, looking into  the audience for understanding, because the word "capitalism" always  works.

"I'm a capitalist," I interject before he can garner much support. "Ask me how much money I made on my last tour."

I look out at the audience, playing into the curiosity on their faces.

"I have no idea." I shrug. "Too much for me to keep up with."

A smattering of laughter emboldens me to finish my point.

"I bleed green like the next American." I look out to the audience  instead of at Ford. "But I won't stand by counting my money while  innocent men sit in jail for months, years because they don't have the  resources to prove their innocence. Men like Khalief Browder. At sixteen  years old, he was wrongfully accused and imprisoned for stealing a  backpack. This innocent young man rotted in jail in Rikers Island for  three years without a conviction-without a trial. Two of those years he  spent in solitary confinement. He was little more than a child himself."

I choke back anger and frustration at the miscarriage of justice. I can  still see him in my mind, his young face and bright, intelligent eyes.         

     



 

"He was never the same," I continue quietly. "And when he was finally  released-after three years, no trial, and no conviction-he later took  his own life."

Quiet descends over the crowded shop.

"I'm not asking for special treatment," I say, looking back to Ford.  "I'm begging for reform, working toward it, so our justice system won't  have the blood of boys like Khalief on its hands."

The applause, loud and spontaneous, startles us both. We've debated for  well over an hour in relative quiet because the moderators requested the  audience hold their response. Red crawls up Ford's neck and jagged  displeasure seeps into his face. I look out, searching for Bristol in  the crowd. She's on her feet, applauding with a smile wider and brighter  than I've seen in months. It was worth it. Sitting in this hot seat,  unprepared and scared pissless that I'd let Iz down-it was all worth it  to see that smile on her face.

"You were amazing," she whispers when I come off the small stage.

"Thank you." I kiss the corner of her mouth, wishing all these eyes weren't trained on us. "You 'bout to bounce? To meet Jimmi?"

"Nope." She shakes her head, eyes locked with mine. "I asked her for a rain check. I wanted to spend time with my husband."

I really hope "spend time" is a euphemism for "screw my husband till we  pass out from exhaustion," but I'll get clarity later. I just nod and  keep her close to me as I sign autographs and take selfies and whatever  else fans and people from the audience come up with for me to do. I  twist our fingers together and pull Bristol into my side. She tends to  wander off for this part, gets impatient and fidgety and wonders how I  put up with this long line of people. I'm a patient man. Waiting on her  taught me to be patient. All those years when I wasn't sure we would  have this life together, that taught me patience.

Feeling this familiar closeness that I've missed, the closeness tragedy  tried to steal from us, I'm not letting her out of my sight. Matter of  fact, I'm tempted to send Amir in the car home ahead of us. Last time,  we walked home from this very bookstore and were engaged by the end of  the night. I'm considering shutting down the long line when someone taps  my shoulder.

I turn to meet the cold calculation in Clem Ford's eyes. Bristol's  fingers tighten around mine, a silent encouragement and warning. I tip  my head slightly in her direction and nod, acknowledging her message:  play it cool.

"Good job tonight, Mr. James," he drawls, looking mighty self-satisfied  for a man who ended the night with most of the room opposing his views.

"Thank you." I can't bring myself to lie and say he did a good job-a  good job doing what? Being an entitled asshole? We'll just leave it  there.

"I didn't want to leave without saying I was sorry," he continues, even though my back is already half turned away.

"Sorry?" I glance at him over my shoulder, one brow lifted. "For?"

"For your loss, of course." His voice pitches too low for the line of  people waiting to hear. "I heard about the condition your daughter  suffered from. It's tragic really, but you know what many have long held  about children from . . ."