And writing about them.

    A lot of my current sparks are linked to the night you asked about (though I definitely have some that are MAD old…like going back to when my dad was arrested). And the more I think and talk about it, the more frustrated I get. Like Doc pushes my ass HARD in these academics. And it’s kind of a weird thing, but him believing I COULD “write a compelling argumentative essay that either supports or refutes the continued use of Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird as a seminal text on American racism” (THIS guy) made me want to prove him right.

    And THEN, every time I DO prove him right, and he hands me something with a “Fantastic job!” scrawled across the top (Bruh, how did you even read this dude’s handwriting??), I feel good for like five minutes…

         But then the buzzer will sound to let a guard in or out, or a cell door will close, or I’ll suddenly notice all the iron and concrete. And where I am—where I’m likely gonna BE for a long-ass time—will hit me. Hard.

    I guess I didn’t realize just how big of a difference it could make to have somebody really believe in you. I been thinking a lot about Trey and Mar and Brad and them. We were all looking for the same things, man—support, protection, family, that type of shit. And we found SOME of it in one another, but we couldn’t really give each other no type of encouragement to do nothing GOOD because nobody was really giving US any. Matter fact, we typically got the opposite. People telling us how “bad” we were. Constantly looking at us like they expected only the worst.

    How the hell’s a person supposed to give something they ain’t never had?

    Do I wish I woulda had more people to point out the good in me after my dad got taken away? That WE, every single dude in my crew, had had that? Yeah. Prolly wouldn’t be sittin’ here in (cell)block three, spilling all my guts out to you in this letter.

    There’s a good chance that if we’d had the kinda support you had—dudes like Doc, for instance, who told us we could really do and be something, and who believed it—none of us woulda been at Tel’s that night.

         Which brings me to your main question: What actually happened the night Tomás Castillo got popped?

    Well, to be honest with you, a lot of the details are lost. When I try to REMEMBER remember, which is something Tay is always tryna get me to do, I have these like vivid flashes blended in with stretches of black.

    That prolly don’t even make sense to your hyper-logical, ivy-leaguing ass.

    What I will say: despite my sorta-off memory of what happened that night, there are two things I can tell you for SURE:

    Number one: under ANY other circumstances, the whole thing would’ve been considered self-defense. Castillo not only had his gun out, he had it aimed. When I was reading that one letter from you where you told me the details of your encounter with him, I was shaking my head the whole time because that was definitely the same shit we were dealing with. He walked up SO certain things were gonna go south, he basically forced them in that direction, you feel me?

    In one of my flashes, he’s got his gun pointed at Martel. I couldn’t really hear much because there was this roaring in my ears like I was standing next to a jet. Fight or flight on infinity. I don’t remember pulling my weapon, but next thing I knew, Castillo’s 9mm Glock was swinging toward US.

    Now according to GA Code O.C.G.A. Sec. 16-3-21(a)—you best believe I looked that shit up and memorized it—“A person is justified in threatening or using force against another when and to the extent that he or she reasonably believes that such threat or force is necessary to defend himself or herself or a third person against such other’s imminent use of unlawful force.”

         The fact that a cop was involved complicates things, obviously, and my lawyer doesn’t think we’ll get very far with the claim “considering the backgrounds of the young men we’d be calling as witnesses.” (His exact words. Which is exactly the shit I was talking about, but whatever.)

    But you best believe I intend to use that shit in court. What I CAN do is stand by my own damn principles. Nobody can take THAT from me. Things went the way they went, and I made the decision I made. I know that because there was a police officer involved and I have a record, this case might as well be closed.

    I’m not going down without at least a little bit of a fight, though. Because this is the second thing I know for sure: I’m not the only one who pulled a gun that night. In fact, there wasn’t only one, but THREE others who did.

    Yes, I felt like I owed a debt because of some stuff that was done to ensure the safety and well-being of my family. So I wound up taking the charge. (That interrogation was the worst thing I’ve ever experienced, by the way. Never wanna go through anything like it ever again.)

    I think I told you before that Doc once asked me if I was a killer. Back then, I couldn’t really answer, but now I can.

         So. I want YOU to know—even though nobody else outside my immediate circle ever will (right?): the answer is no.

    I’m not a killer.

    I pulled my gun, but I never actually fired.

    I’m not the one who killed Tomás Castillo.

          —Q

       P.S.:

    I’m not gonna tell you who did it.

    So don’t even ask.

       Justyce McAllister has a lot on his mind during the almost thirteen-hour drive from New York back to Georgia.

   Finals, obviously. He thinks he did pretty good on everything—though that last “short answer” question on the ethics exam was suspect. He knows he did better than Rosie the Racist Roommate on the Calc II final: dude tossed his paper at the professor as he left the classroom, and was still fuming about “that utter bullshit Calc II exam” as he packed to leave yesterday.

   That’s another thing: while Jus certainly wasn’t sad to see Roosevelt Carothers’s back as he walked out of their shared space for the last time, it was weird to realize there’s a chance he’ll never see the dude again.

   Oddly enough, Justyce has come to pity his roommate just the slightest bit. Yeah, Roosevelt comes from hella money and more or less has the whole world at his fingertips, but homie is the furthest thing from happy Justyce has ever seen. It’s occurred to Justyce how pointless it is to have access to basically everything when you’re a person who’s satisfied by nothing. The more time Jus has spent around the guy, the more he’s realized just how sad and pitiful dude’s life actually is.

   Justyce’s life, though, is rich and full. He joined the BSAY (aka Black Student Alliance at Yale) and was one of eight freshmen selected to the newest class of the Yale Debate Association. He found his people, his grades are solid, and his long-distance relationship with the world’s finest Jewish girl has been working out just…well, fine.