Stand Your Ground: A Novel (26 page)

And the facts began to roll out the day after Newt told us of his plan.

It was Monday, June 2, three weeks after May 12. And I was sitting in Wyatt’s office with Newt and two other lawyers. These were the men who would actually be representing Wyatt if he was charged since Newt didn’t have a license to practice in Pennsylvania.

I didn’t want to be at the meeting; I didn’t want to hear anything that was going to upset my stomach or my baby. But Wyatt had insisted. Early this morning, he’d awakened me and told me that Newt was coming over for a strategy session and he wanted me to be there.

There was no way for me to protest, so I agreed, and then I made sure that I didn’t eat a thing. The only way to handle all of this was on an empty stomach.

My strategy in their strategy session was to sit as far away as possible, giving myself the illusion that I wasn’t really part of this effort to destroy the Johnsons. I sat by the door that led to our son’s playroom.

“So what do you have?” Wyatt asked once they were all around the circular table that seated four.

“We have plenty,” Newt said, sounding like a kid who was about to tell someone’s secrets. “First, Marquis Johnson was suspended from school back in April.” Newt’s grin became wider when he added, “For possession of marijuana.”

Newt stopped and Wyatt paused, too, as if he were waiting for more. “That’s it?” he finally said. “That’s all you got?” He shook his head as if Newt had failed him. “If every teenager who had a joint on them were suspended right now, America’s schools would be empty. Trust me, I work with these kids. Smoking weed to them is like smoking cigarettes for us.”

Then Newt puffed up his chest. “You must not remember who you’re working with. That’s
the fact
. But
the spin
is going to be that Marquis Johnson was suspended from his upscale private school because he was caught with marijuana
and
because he was suspected of selling drugs to other students. We’re going to say that there is some information that might also connect him to one of Philly’s top drug dealers.”

“Oh, my God.” I pressed my hand against my stomach. “Is that true?”

Their faces, when they looked across the room, made me think they’d forgotten that I was there.

Newt answered me. “No.”

I frowned. “It’s not true?”

“No.”

“So you’re just going to lie?”

“No.”

I think Newt would have left it there if he were only talking to me. But Wyatt had as much of a question on his face as I did, so
Newt continued: “This is what’s called spinning, Meredith. We’re taking the truth—that he was suspended from school for possession of marijuana—and we’re spinning the rest.

“We didn’t say that the other things are facts. We’re saying that he was
suspected
of selling drugs to other students and
there’s information that might
connect him to a drug dealer.”

“Oh, I get it,” Wyatt said, now grinning, too. “This is brilliant.”

Well, I didn’t get it and I thought it was rather stupid. And immoral, and really should have been illegal. No matter what you called it, it was nothing but lying.

But the team went with it, and that night, as I sat with Wyatt in our media room, we saw the spinning begin. Wyatt had the three televisions all tuned to a different news station. And all three stations reported the story. It ran so much on the conservative channel that it felt like this story about Marquis Johnson being suspended from school was the most important news of the day.

The next morning, Newt and his team returned to our home at nine o’clock sharp! With a new report. This time, it was about Marquis’s uncle, Raj Johnson.

That night, the news anchor spoke the words that Newt had read to us that morning.

“We’ve just received new information pertaining to the Marquis Johnson shooting,” the reporter said. “Apparently Marquis’s uncle, Raj Johnson”—a picture of a black man wearing a scowl and a beret flashed onto the screen, and lingered as the anchor continued—“is a member of the Brown Guardians, the motorcycle gang that some call vigilantes and others call terrorists. Johnson, who has been arrested several times for domestic violence, is also a suspect in several unsolved murders in the Philadelphia area. And there are reports that he was grooming his nephew, Marquis, for a role with the motorcycle
gang. Several people inside the Brown Guardians say that Marquis was on his way to a meeting the night that he was shot and killed.”

Then that picture of Marquis flashed next to his uncle’s. It was the same picture of Marquis, and each time that I saw it, he looked more dangerous to me. In that moment, I wondered if maybe Wyatt
had
been terrorized that night.

Wednesday’s report was about Tyrone Johnson and his auto mechanic shop. Several patrons suspected illegal activity (or so the report said) and an ex-employee (who admitted to being recently fired) said that he’d once bought a gun from Tyrone.

While Newt and Wyatt chuckled over the spinning, I wanted to cry with the Johnsons because I was sure that’s what they were doing. I tried to imagine Janice. What was she thinking, what was she feeling when she heard these “spins” about her husband and son?

And then Thursday came.

It was only because Billy wasn’t feeling well that Wyatt didn’t summon me to the meeting that morning. As I held Billy in my arms, I was grateful to be away from the Think Tank, which was what Wyatt now called their daily meetings.

I didn’t ask Wyatt what the attack was going to be about tonight. But maybe I should have. Or maybe it was better that I saw the report cold—the same way Janice Johnson had to see it.

“It seems that every day there is new information about Marquis Johnson and his family,” the news anchor said on Thursday night as I sat in the media room. “And the latest is that Marquis might
not even be Tyrone Johnson’s son.”

My mouth was wide open when the anchor tossed the story to the reporter in the field.

“Yes, Jefferson,” the reporter began. “According to a friend of the Johnsons, there has long been speculation that Marquis might not even be Tyrone Johnson’s son. Mrs. Johnson is said to have been involved in a long-term affair with her pastor. And there are questions as to whether the pastor is Marquis’s father . . .”

It wasn’t until Wyatt released a whoop that I remembered that I was not alone. My husband leaned back in the recliner and laughed so loud anyone outside would’ve thought we were watching a comedy show.

But if they’d seen my expression, they would have known for sure that this was no comedy—it was fantasy at best, and horror at worst.

For a long time, I sat there, staring at the television, and the reporters went back and forth, one asking questions, the other offering speculation, and then I turned my glare onto my husband.

But Wyatt didn’t notice or even remember that I was there as he got on his cell.

“This is the best one yet,” he said.

I suspected that he was talking to Newt. “And you thought you were going to find something on the husband!” He laughed again. “And these people wanted to come after me?”

I stood and moved like a zombie from the media room around the corner to the staircase then up the steps. I waited until I was in my bedroom, waited until I sat on the edge of my bed, before I cried.

If this was how I was feeling, I couldn’t imagine what Janice Johnson was going through.

From what I’d learned over the past few days, there was always some semblance of truth to these stories, but not enough to go after a family who’d already lost their son.

But no one working for Wyatt cared about that. It was all about winning at any cost.

“Meredith, what’s wrong?”

Tears still rolled down my face when I looked up. I’d forgotten that my mother was here, helping out with Billy today.

She frowned as she walked over to me, dressed in jeans and a top, and not some bikini, for once. She sat next to me and in a mother’s voice asked, “What is going on with you?”

Then she put her arm around me; I laid my head down and sobbed into her shoulder.

“What is it?”

I waited until I could form a few words. “This is all too much.”

“What?”

“Everything. Especially what we’re doing to the Johnsons.”

My mother stood and frowned. “This is about them?” She shook her head. “Have you forgotten that they’re trying to put your husband in prison?” she said, as if the Johnson family didn’t have a reason for wanting that.

“Wyatt killed their son.”

“He had to.”

“No.” I shook my head. “He didn’t!”

My mother’s eyes were wide as she stood there for a moment, then she rushed to close the door. She was silent when she came back and just stood over me as if she were trying to intimidate me with her presence.

“Listen to me,” she hissed, as if I were the one who’d done something wrong. “You better get yourself together. I told you, never say that to me or anyone ever again.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing that I could blink myself to some other place, some other time. Maybe even blink myself back to May 12 so that I could have stopped Wyatt.

My mother said, “Are you willing to give up your life for people you don’t even know?”

She waited for me to answer; I didn’t.

“If you don’t care about anyone else, think about your son, Meredith. Think about Billy and figure out a way to stand by Wyatt’s side without all of these”—she waved her hand in the air as if she were trying to figure out a word—“emotions.”

“You just don’t know what I know.”

“And I don’t want to know. But I know other things,” she said. “I know that Wyatt Spencer gave you more than a chance, he gave you love. He gave you more than a home, he gave you a life. Think about where you would be without him.”

“And you,” I couldn’t resist saying because I was sure a major part of her concern was what would happen to her life if Wyatt were tried and found guilty.

“Yes, and I don’t mind admitting it. I don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Just because I was smart enough to recognize a great opportunity for you and for me.”

When I shook my head slightly, she sat back down.

“I just don’t know why you can’t see this,” she said, her voice lower now. “Why can’t you see what you have here, what you’re risking by not standing by Wyatt.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You don’t have to say anything, it’s how you’re acting. And if this goes to court . . . you’re not ready. You can’t be standing next to Wyatt weeping for the other side.”

The door busted open and my mother and I looked up. “There you are,” my husband said. “You okay?”

My mother stood and greeted Wyatt at the door.

“She’s okay,” she said.
“Just a little emotional now. You know, female stuff . . .” And then my mother paused, as if she had a thought.

She was still standing next to Wyatt when her eyes asked the question.

I nodded so slightly, and subtly pressed my index finger against my lips.

My mother’s nod back to me was just as subtle. And because Wyatt never paid attention, he didn’t notice our exchange.

“Female stuff, huh?” was all he said, not figuring out what my mother had.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m a woman and I feel sorry for the Johnsons.”

He shrugged. “They started this fight,” he said. “As soon as they back away, and get the DA off my back, we’ll back away, too. But until then . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t think it will be too much longer, though. Newt says all of this stuff is working.”

My mother clapped. “That’s good, isn’t it, Meredith?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, he said public sentiment has definitely shifted our way,” Wyatt said. “I’m going to check on Billy.”

“And I’ll go with you,” my mother said.

Only my mother looked back at me as the two of them stepped out of the room.

Once alone tears burned my eyes again, but not so much for Janice. This time I wanted to cry for myself. There had never been a time in my life when I’d felt more like a hypocrite.

F
or the past ten days, it had been Newt and his team, arriving promptly at nine every morning. Today, Newt stepped into our home alone without a word, without a smile, and my heart stopped beating.

Like always, Wyatt didn’t seem to notice anything unusual. He trotted down the steps and greeted Newt with his buddy hug and loud exclamation: “What’s going on, dude? What do we have today?”

But when Wyatt moved toward this office, Newt said, “Let’s talk in the living room.” And then he turned as if this were his home.

And we followed, as if we were his guests.

How my legs held up I would never know. But my limbs stayed strong enough for me to stagger to the sofa. I sank into the cushions and Wyatt sat beside me.

I knew that my husband finally got it; I knew that he was reading Newt’s unspoken message when he reached for my hand and held me.

I was thankful because I wanted to hold on to him, too.

Newt didn’t waste a moment. In his all-business tone, he said, “The state prosecutor has decided to press charges.” A pause and a blink. “First-degree murder.”

Wyatt gasped and I cried out.

“I’ve arranged for you to turn yourself in tomorrow.” He paused again, this time as if he were waiting for Wyatt to say something.

And I waited, too.

But Wyatt sat as still as I was.

Newt took his silence as permission to continue. “I want to do this first thing in the morning. This way, we have a chance of having bail set tomorrow. Normally, the bond hearing isn’t until the preliminary arraignment, but I’ve already talked to the DA and we may be able to get a few concessions because of who you are.”

All my husband did was nod. I expected more, I expected rage. But then, I realized that Wyatt was shell-shocked. And I understood. Because I’d convinced myself that his and Newt’s strategy, as foul as it was, was going to work.

Now I couldn’t believe that it hadn’t worked. All of that tearing down of Marquis and his parents. For what? For nothing!

As if Newt heard my thoughts, he said, “Now, I don’t want you to think that what we’ve done so far has been in vain. The momentum had totally swung in our favor. It’s just that in this political climate . . . and with Barack Obama as president . . . when in doubt, it goes to the blacks.”