Stand Your Ground: A Novel (19 page)

I didn’t want to be here, listening to this again. I’d heard Wyatt’s version before. Twice—right after, and then the next morning when he returned from the police station after his all-night questioning.

I was in such shock on that night from all that had happened. But it was Wyatt’s tale that was the biggest shocker. First, when he’d told it to me, and then when he’d told it to me and my mother. He’d given an account that was so different from the facts that I knew.

And now he was ready to spin his tale again.

“Okay.” My husband placed his palms flat on the table before he started. “I
was sitting in my living room when headlights shined through our window. I peeked out and noticed a car parked right in front. I didn’t recognize the car, so I went outside—”

“Wait,” Newt said, looking up. He glanced at my chest again, then turned his gaze to Wyatt. “Remember you have to say that you weren’t concerned at first.”

“Right. Right.” Another deep breath and Wyatt continued: “I didn’t recognize the car, but I wasn’t concerned at first. It wasn’t until I went into the kitchen, then passed back through the living room.” He stopped.

Newt said, “Let’s say you came back thirty, forty minutes later.”

“Should I say thirty or forty?”

“Say both,” Newt advised. “You don’t want to be too exact. You don’t want to sound like you’re rehearsed.”

Wyatt nodded. “It wasn’t until I went into the kitchen,” my husband continued, sounding like this was rehearsed, “and then passed back through the living room thirty or forty minutes later that I noticed the car again. That’s when I got worried.”

“Don’t say ‘worried,’ say ‘concerned.’ ”

“I got concerned.” My husband corrected himself. “So I stepped out of the house and went down my driveway to the car. I saw a white girl sitting with a black guy.”

“I told you before, don’t mention their race. White people can never talk about race.”

Wyatt sighed as if he thought that was ridiculous, but he nodded as if he knew that was the truth. He said, “I saw a girl sitting in a car with a boy—”

“Don’t call him a boy.”

Wyatt blinked as if this was all getting too complicated. “So I can call her a girl, but I can’t call him a boy?”

Newt nodded. “You’re white, she’s white, you can call her anything you want.”

“But I can’t call a black boy a black boy?”

Newt shrugged his answer and added, “Not one that you just killed.”

Blowing out a long breath, Wyatt continued: “I saw a girl sitting in a car with . . . a guy, but the girl was crying. And so I was worried. I mean, I was concerned, and I knocked on the window.”

My husband paused, but Newt nodded for him to keep going.

“When she rolled down the window, I asked if she was all right. She shook her head, but the boy, I mean, guy wouldn’t let her speak and told me to mind my business. I told him this was my business and I asked the young lady if she wanted to get out of the car. It seemed to me like she was nodding, but that’s when the guy jumped out of the car. I walked toward the back, to meet him, just to calm him down, talk to him a little, but he came at me with a baseball bat.”

I closed my eyes, wondering if there was a way for me to close my ears as well.

But I heard it all as Wyatt kept on. “I got scared. I was fearing for my life and I didn’t have time to think and I shot him.”

Newt nodded. “That’s good. Let’s take out the part about you didn’t have time to think.”

“Why? Isn’t it good that it was a reflex?”

Newt lowered his head and pondered the question for a moment. “I don’t know, it could play either way, and what I have to think about is how these words will sound to a jury.”

Every time Newt mentioned anything about court, my heart leaped. Or my stomach gurgled. This time, I suffered from both.

My husband didn’t like those words either. “But you keep telling me this isn’t going to court.”

“And it isn’t.
But I wouldn’t be a good attorney if I didn’t play this like a chess game and stay seven moves ahead of my opponent. I have to think in the unlikely chance that this goes before a jury, what plays best—did you think about it or not? Is a black boy’s life so valueless to you that you didn’t think or did you give it careful consideration before you decided to shoot him dead? Which is more believable, more salable?”

Wyatt nodded. “So, which way do you want me to go?”

“Leave it all out for now. I’ll decide when Ferguson gets here. It depends on what he says.” He paused, stared at me, and let his eyes rest on my cleavage again.

It wasn’t until I shifted, and tugged at my neckline, that he looked away.

Newt made one of those clearing-his-throat sounds again and said, “Okay, I think we’re ready.” The knock on the door made him add, “And, it seems, just in time.”

Newt moved to push his chair back, but Wyatt said, “Let Meredith open the door.”

I didn’t even try to hide the way I shook my head.

“No, I’ll get it,” Newt said.

Wyatt shook his head. “That dude is black, right?” The rest of his explanation he told with his eyes—when his glance roamed over me.

I rolled my shoulders forward and lowered my head, wishing there was a way for me to shrink and eventually disappear.

Newt’s only answer was that he frowned.

Wyatt said, “Meredith, open the door, please.”

Slowly, I stood and walked, taking the tiniest of steps. When I opened the door, the detective and I shared a frozen moment. That
little bit of time when two people are faced with the grand questions: What should I say, what should I do?

I was struck by how handsome this man was. Now, I’d never been one of those white women who is into black men, but I always acknowledged attractiveness, and this man was more than good-looking. I’d only seen him on television, but in person, his features were sharper, his shoulders were broader, his presence was commanding.

I gave him my signature smile, held out my hand, and played my role. “Detective Ferguson. I’m Meredith Spencer.”

He took my hand, but really only touched my fingers as if he thought touching any more of my skin might be a crime, and then he stepped into our hotel suite.

“Hello.” He kept his eyes above my neckline and gave me two quick shakes of my fingers before releasing me.

I didn’t even realize that Wyatt and Newt were behind me until Mr. Ferguson greeted them. I closed the door as they exchanged the social niceties expected from men of a certain age and stature.

As they did that little chat before they sat, I studied the detective.

Many men and women looked at me and assumed that with my blond hair and green eyes I wasn’t very bright.

That was my advantage.

And I had a feeling the same was true for Detective Ferguson. If I didn’t know better, I would have taken him for a twenty-years-past-his-prime jock, who stayed in shape, and fought hard against the pounds that came with age. I would have thought him to be more athletic than intelligent, because he was black.

And there was his advantage.

“Let’s sit down,”
Wyatt said finally.

They all waited until I sat, then they joined me.

The detective started. “I don’t want to take too much of your time. We’re wrapping up our investigation.”

“I’m glad,” my husband said. His voice was so solemn I had to look at him twice. “I really want this to be over. Not just for me, but for that poor lad’s family, too.”

Lad?

I was able to keep a straight face at that ridiculous word, but I guessed it was better than “boy.” Newt did some more of that clearing of his throat.

Detective Ferguson pulled a pad from his pocket, the way policemen did on TV.

“First, thank you, Mr. Spencer,” he said, looking at my husband, “for doing this with me one last time.”

“You’re welcome, although I was surprised, since you have all of this on tape already.”

“Yes, but I have a few questions I can’t ask the tape.” And then the detective chuckled as if this questioning was not a major deal.

My husband and Newt chuckled along. And inside, I smiled. Newt and Wyatt just didn’t know.

“Plus, I want to make sure we have everything before we turn this over to the state prosecutor.”

It was so smooth, the way he said it, that if I hadn’t been listening carefully, I might not have heard it. But I heard it, and Wyatt and Newt did, too.

“What?” my husband said, looking between the detective and Newt. “Turn this over to the prosecutor? For what?”

Newt gave my husband a long look that was meant to shut him
up before he turned to Detective Ferguson. “You’re not saying my client is going to be prosecuted?”

“Oh, no, but you know how this works.” He shrugged a little bit. “There are steps we have to take and procedures we have to follow . . . This is normal.”

Newt stared at the detective before he turned to Wyatt. “This is all procedural,” he said.

“Great! So let’s get started,” Detective Ferguson said. “So tell me again, what happened that night?”

If the detective had meant to take a little bit of my husband’s confidence away, it worked. Because I heard just the slightest bit of unsteadiness when Wyatt began, repeating the story that he’d just rehearsed.

He talked about being concerned, he didn’t mention the “lad’s” or the girl’s race, never said the word “boy,” and he added the “thirty to forty minutes.” He repeated the story verbatim, sounding more like a well-oiled machine than a human, and he paused only when he got to “I was scared. I feared for my life.”

The policeman, who’d been jotting down notes, looked up. “That’s it?”

Newt jumped in. “That’s it. As you can see, my client acted only on reflex. It was a fight-or-flight impulse, and in this state, you have a right to stand and fight.”

The detective nodded. “So they say.”

Newt’s eyes narrowed. “Yes . . . they say. This was self-defense.”

Again the detective nodded. But this time he said nothing, which seemed to unnerve Newt more.

Newt added, “Wyatt was standing his ground. And in this state, as long as he saw a weapon and feared for his life, he could protect himself.”

“So the law says,” the detective said.

“Wyatt saw a weapon; that kid came at him with that bat,” Newt said. “And he told you he feared for his life.”

Another nod from the detective, but this time it was accompanied by a bit of a smirk.

My husband didn’t seem to notice that little toe-to-toe exchange between the detective and the attorney. Wyatt said to Detective Ferguson, “So you understand. I had to protect myself.” He reached over and touched my hand. “And my wife and son.”

The detective’s only response was to glance down at his notepad once again. “Well, I think I have everything that I need.”

That was too quick. And clearly, my husband thought so, too.

Wyatt said, “That’s all?”

The detective nodded, moved to stand, but when he was halfway up, he stopped. “One more thing,” he began while he was still slightly bent over, “did Marquis say anything before he swung the bat at you?”

“What?”

“Did Marquis say anything?” the detective repeated.

Wyatt’s eyes turned to Newt, but with the detective having a good view of both of them, Newt wouldn’t be able to play ventriloquist. “Uh, I’m not sure,” Wyatt said. “I think he called me something.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, I kinda remember him saying something.” He glanced at Newt again. “He . . . he called me something.”

“He called you a name? Did he call you
by
your name? Did he recognize you? Did you know him?”

His questions were like rapid fire and I was sure that this was some kind of technique. Especially the way it had my husband shifting from one side of his chair to the other.

“No, I didn’t
recognize him. I didn’t know him. That’s why I shot him.”

“You shot him because you didn’t know him?”

Newt moaned.

“No! I shot him because he threatened me,” my husband shouted.

“With a stick.”

“No, it was a bat! I told you that. He swung that bat and I wasn’t about to get hit in the head.”

“Okay.” The detective’s voice seemed to be several decibels lower than it was before. Or was I just imagining that because Wyatt had raised his voice to one degree below a shout?

Now Detective Ferguson was standing straight and my husband and Newt were sitting down, looking up. “Again, thank you for your time.” He took two steps toward the door and then turned back to me. “Mrs. Spencer, were you the one who called 911?”

“She didn’t call,” Wyatt said, now acting like my ventriloquist. “But you know that already,” he said like he was making an accusation. “You know that I called from my cell phone. When I went back outside.”

The detective frowned as if he didn’t understand. “Back outside?” He let a beat pass. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You had to go back into your house to get your cell. That’s so curious to me.”

My husband’s eyes darted from the policeman to Newt then back to Mr. Ferguson.

“Why?” Wyatt began slowly. “I didn’t have my cell so I had to go into the house to get it to call 911.”

Detective Ferguson nodded.

Then, just when relief filled my husband’s face, the detective asked, “So . . . the first time you left your house, when you went
to see who was sitting in the car, you left your cell inside, but you took your gun?”

“Detective Ferguson,” Newt said, now standing.

“Usually their cell and wallet are the first things someone reaches for,” the detective continued as if Newt hadn’t spoken.

“I wasn’t going anywhere, I was just checking—”

“But you took your gun to check?”

“Because . . . Look, I have the right to carry a gun. I told you I have a license.”

“Yeah, we checked that out.”

“So I did nothing wrong!” Now Wyatt was shouting.

Detective Ferguson was not fazed. “Nothing wrong except that a young boy is dead.”

“That’s not my fault. He deserved—”

“Wyatt!” Newt shouted, his face now crimson. Then he turned to Ferguson.

But the detective continued his questioning. “So back to the phone. You went into the house and where was it?”