The Shooting (34 page)

Jenny puts a hand on his shoulder. She seems very excited, thrilled. —They don't even know what an upside-down flag means, she says, —they think it's an act of disrespect. You guys okay?

He nods and so does his wife. —It's cool, don't escalate it.

She is holding a video camera up and recording them as they shout, —We're the reason y'all have your damn freedom!

The Justice for Clayton people are chanting louder, to drown them out.

—What do we want?

—
Jus-tice!

—When do we want it?

—
Now!

It is a beautiful thing. He gets goose bumps. All these people, for Clayton. He holds his wife. She is crying. They shout so loud and there are so many of them that now you cannot hear what the gun men are even saying. You can only see their faces contorted, their mouths twisting and screaming but nothing coming out. Jenny holds her camera with one hand, extends her other arm as much as she can, with her old injury. She gestures toward herself to them.
Come on,
she seems to be saying to the gun men.
Come on.
He does not understand.

She puts up the video, hundreds of thousands of people see it in the first few hours. The networks rebroadcast it.
We're the reason y'all have your damn freedom!
Donations to Repeal the Second Amendment hit $400,000 overnight. One hundred thousand new memberships in the first twenty-four hours.

They lie in Clayton's bed, watching the video. He tells her about what Jenny said about them shooting, about the way she gestured with her arm, as if inviting them to shoot. She does not believe him. She says, —Maybe you misunderstood. Why would she do that?

—I don't know. I think maybe she is trouble. She's lost her mind. She is using us to get herself martyred.

His wife looks at him like she does not know who he is. He does not know either. He has never said anything so cynical.

—Jenny is good, she says. —She is the only one here for us. We have to trust her. In the worst times, we must keep believing in people, we must keep living with faith. Like you have always said. Remember?

—I remember. I was wrong.

—Do not say that.

—How can we have faith in anything anymore? In anyone?

—I don't know. The same way we did before. The way we always have. It is what got us through. If not for it, we would not be here.

—Here. Is this what it was all for? To get
here?
To suffer through
this?

—I don't know.

—I don't remember now how I did it, how I had faith. That man seems like another lifetime.

—Please. I need that man. I don't need this one.

—That man is gone. Gone.

—Get him back. Please be that man again. Please.

At the coroner's office the next day, Jenny says that her organization's chief attorney, Howard, has finally extracted information from the NYPD.

—What do they say? he says.

—They say Lee Fisher shot your son, and your son died of those gunshot wounds.

He waits for Jenny to continue but she does not.

—Yes, and?

—That's it.

—But we already know these things.

—I know, it really cracks things open for us, doesn't it? Aren't they unbelievable? Just sit tight and stay tuned. Jesus, look at this, she says, pointing to a pickup truck approaching, large speakers on the back, an eagle painted on the side clutching a black assault rifle in its talons. From the speakers plays a white man's voice, murky with false folksy sincerity.
—This hoodie-wearing thug,
says the voice,
—comes kicking down your door in the middle of the night, dressed like he was, carrying himself in that gangsta kind of way, with that snarling indifference—do you know by the way why they carry themselves like that? Do you? To intimidate you. To show you what a big, dangerous thug they are. They want you to think they might hurt you. That young man—and face it, folks, they use words like
boy
and
child
but this was a six-foot-tall male, 170 pounds, that is a man—that young man was completely enthralled to hip-hop culture, a culture which worships crime, which praises murder, which equates casual, out-of-wedlock sex with masculinity and status... Folks, if you hear a noise in your house at two in the morning with your infant asleep in his crib and you find a guy like this standing in your living room, well, what would you have done? What did he expect? To be greeted with open arms? He messed with the wrong guy that night. Lee Fisher is a hero, and don't forget that. He is a great father and a true American. God bless that man. If everyone were more like Lee Fisher, thugs
might start thinking twice about entering our homes, raping our wives. Violent crime in this country, folks, is rampant, it is out of control, and our politicians do nothing to stop it. But if more of us were man enough to be like Lee Fisher, crime would stop tomorrow. It would stop tomorrow. Please stay vigilant out there, patriots. Be ready. We need you now more than ever...

His wife says, —Who is that idiot?

Jenny says, —Biggest talk radio host in the country.

The police are making the truck turn off its speakers but it does not matter.

His wife says, —That's not what police think too, is it? That Clayton is a thug? That he is a criminal?

Dread overtakes him when she says this. He feels dizzy.
Yes,
he realizes,
that is exactly what they believe.
He has to sit down. He sits on the curb. Someone gives him water but it does nothing.

They meet with police in an office. —Clayton is not a thug, he tells them.

The police stare back at him blankly and say, —Our investigation is ongoing.

Jenny says, smiling, —Gentlemen, I know you are doing your work, we respect that, but these folks have suffered so deeply, and any information you might offer to help them understand what happened to their son—what Fisher is saying happened, what you think happened—anything to help them in this terrible, confusing time of unspeakable sorrow...

The police say nothing, do not even look at them.

—Have you received the testimonial letters we sent?

—We don't conduct our investigations via what kind of letters we receive.

—But you will talk to these people as part of your investigation? she says.

The detectives kind of roll their eyes and look at each other and start to ask them to leave.

She interrupts them, still smiling. —You know, I'm good at using pressure to get what I want. The spotlight is hot now but this is nothing. Want me to turn it up? Or do you want to talk to
twenty-seven reliable people standing outside right now about the Clayton they knew, the real Clayton, who was a good kid who did not deserve to die.

The detectives ask them to leave. They leave. On the way out, the desk sergeant stops them to fill out a form. There is a manila folder on the counter.

—What's that? Jenny says.

Desk sergeant says, —Property of the NYPD. You touch it, you go to jail.

But the cop walks off, leaving the folder. Jenny takes it. They go outside where all their friends and supporters wait. Jenny opens the folder, looks through it. —It's from the case file. It's Fisher's statement.

—What does it say? he says.

Jenny reads it and says, —Piece of shit.

—What.

—He's claiming self-defense.

—No.

—He says Clayton said he had a gun and that he was there to kill him. She reads it. —This is tight.

—Oh my God. His wife puts her hands to her head.

Jenny says, —Clayton's last words, according to Fisher, were:
I have a gun and I'm going to kill everyone here.

—No, he says, —how can he say it? It's not true.

—Of course it's not, Jenny says. —It doesn't matter if it is, there are no witnesses to contradict it. If I'm La Cuzio, I'm very nervous about taking this to trial. Not with the kind of lawyers Fisher's got.

Dread fills his belly. His wife says, —I don't understand.

—He's going to get away with it, he says.

—Not necessarily, Jenny says. —That's going to be up to a grand jury. It'll be up to the people.

—Yes, he says, his voice flat and vacant, —they will let him go.

His wife looks at him closely, horrified. —
Why?
she says.

—Because they do not want Clayton. They want Fisher.

Jenny says, —Fisher knows the law. Of course he does. All these guys do. They're weasels. He knows what he has to say to escape
responsibility. He's been fantasizing about it for years, killing somebody, shooting a home invader. He has been imagining for years how to handle himself with police in the aftermath, what he has to say to meet the criteria for justifiable homicide.
Fantasizing.
But look, they have him on the unlicensed gun. No way to weasel out of that. He'll serve time for that.

—How much?

—Two years at least.

—Two years, he echoes.

Jenny sighs. —I know. Two years for Clayton's life, right? Unacceptable. That's why what we do now is crank up the heat on La Cuzio not to let up on homicide. A prosecutor has a lot of sway with a grand jury—little things he does will affect the outcome. Who to call as a witness, whether to blow them up or make them look credible on the stand. So we get everyone who knew Clayton to bury La Cuzio with letters, fill his inbox with e-mails, jack up his voice mail with calls, day and night. His phone will not stop. He will never even consider that what Fisher is saying could be true, that Fisher is anything but a cold-blooded murderer. We need to make La Cuzio and the city and the country see Fisher for what he really is: a scared, mean little idiot whose unfettered access to firearms murdered a boy. Make him fear for his job. Make him see that the people who put him in office demand Lee Fisher be tried for murder.

Jenny moves to a hotel downtown to be closer to the courts and police and prosecutors. There she establishes the headquarters of Justice for Clayton. Phone banks, letter-writing stations, computer terminals. Every morning Jenny and the Justice for Clayton people show up at La Cuzio's office to dump across the receptionist's desk a new sack of letters begging him to go whole hog toward bringing Lee Fisher to trial for murder.

I had the pleasure of having Clayton as a student in my freshman history class last year... if I could have a classroom full of boys as well behaved, inquisitive, kind, and bright as Clayton...

Clayton was my best friend since 5th grade & I ain't NEVER seen him get mad or get in a fight or NOTHIN, hell NAH, there ain't NO way Clayton woulda had a gun, he wouldn't even know where to get one in the
FIRST place, that dude shot him is LYING, he think just cause he a white dude he get away with it...

As a counselor the last two summers, Clayton has exhibited nothing but the most persistent patience and largeheartedness with the kids who attend our church camp, many of whom come from challenging backgrounds. Those kids looked to Clayton as a role model. They are devastated. The man who took that from these kids deserves to be punished to the full extent of the law...

Clayton AIN'T NO THUG! Ain't no drug dealer! Everyone know that! He made his dollar buying and selling those Jordans, I seen him make five hundred in one afternoon on eBay. He make BANK doing that and he use that bank to buy more shoes. He don't steal shit, he don't sell drugs, he don't use drugs. Everyone know CLAYTON A DORK ASS BUSINESSMAN TYPE DUDE.

I have been a resident of this building for nineteen years and have known Clayton Kabede all his life, as well as his family. As COO of an international headhunting firm, I like to think I have a knack for sizing people up. Clayton was rock solid, a stellar student who was always helpful and friendly. My family and I trusted him with our house key so he could walk our dog. Not only was there never any incident, but Lucy, our spaniel, learned several new tricks, including how to "speak." Lee Fisher was looking for trouble that night, and he found it. I fervently, desperately hope you will put all resources toward charging him with homicide and seek the maximum punishment in our state. He has taken the promise of a stellar young man and broken all of our hearts.

Jenny says she needs them to do a commercial. A blistering ad spot for television, radio, and computers to raise the ire of the people. —Our only hope is to put this to the people, she says. It will be quick. Her production team can shoot it in the Kabedes' home. Show Clayton's bedroom, his yearbook photos, the picture of him in the park. He and his wife will sit on their couch and simply talk about Clayton and how he was murdered. They will mention that Fisher will get away with it and continue to walk the streets unless people watching at home take action. They tell her they will think about it.

That night in Clayton's bed, clinging to each other, her back to his chest, his hand cupping her underarm, her belly, feeling each other breathe in the dark, she says, —We should do it.

—No, he says, —never.

—Why not?

—It does not feel right.

—Jenny says what's not right is how no one talks about it, we need to make people start talking about it.

—Jenny just wants to make money for her organization.

—Money equals votes equals change.

—You sound just like her. I do not like it.

—Good things can come from things we do not like. You said that.

—Don't tell me what I said, I have never said anything true in my life.

—You have said you love me. You have said you love Clayton. Were those things not true?

—Of course they were.

—Then you are wrong, you have said things that are true.

Jenny has them meet with Al Sharpton, Michael Bloomberg. Sharpton pledges the support of his group and says he's already been down there at La Cuzio's office, getting their word that they will do all they can to indict Fisher and bring him to trial. On the way to the Bloomberg meeting, Jenny tells them he might still be mad at her for absorbing his anti-gun group, but what did he expect? It was laughed off Capitol Hill before it even got there. Jenny says, —I told him,
I have ten times your membership and am growing fast, Michael. We need a united front for this war. You're either with me or against me. Do not be against me.