Jus looks into the crowd. Mama and Mrs. Friedman both seem on the verge of hopping the rail and smacking Garrett’s attorney.

He reads: “ ‘Above certain levels, noise or noise disturbance is detrimental to the health and welfare of the citizenry and the individual’s right to peaceful and quiet enjoyment. Therefore, it is hereby declared to be the policy of the city to prohibit noise disturbances from all sources.’ ”

“Would you say your loud music was in violation of this ordinance, Mr. McAllister?”

“What does this have to do with your client shooting me and my best friend?”

“Judge, please advise the witness that I am the one asking the questions.”

Now even Doc looks pissed.

“Watch your tone, Mr. McAllister,” the judge says.

“My client is an officer of the law, Mr. McAllister. By refusing to lower the volume of your music, you were in direct opposition to a police order.”

“We didn’t know he was a police officer. He didn’t show us a badge—”

“And yet the ordinance clearly states that noise disturbance violates the rights of others to peace and quiet. But of course you and your friend couldn’t have cared less about anyone else’s rights, could you?”

Jus doesn’t respond.

“Mr. McAllister, did your friend, Emmanuel Rivers, turn the music up when he was asked to turn it down?”

“Yes.”

“Did the music you were listening to contain the line Here comes the fun…wait for the sound of the gun?”

“Yes, but that’s out of contex—”

“Did Mr. Rivers use foul language and make an obscene gesture toward my client that you would’ve perceived as threat?”

“I don’t know what your client thought. I’m not him.”

“Are you aware that my client witnessed the shooting death of his partner by a young man physically similar to yourself?”

“That doesn’t have anything to do with me—”

“Oh, but it does,” she says. “Because you had contact with this young man back in March, didn’t you?”

Jus sighs. Dr. Rivers shuts her eyes and shakes her head.

“Yes, I did, but—”

“And that young man—Quan Banks, I believe his name is—connected you to a group of young men with extensive criminal records and known gang affiliations, yes?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you met with these young men shortly before they deliberately set my client’s house on fire, is that correct?”

“It is, but I didn’t have anything to do with that—”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Garrett Tison: MURDERER?

THE JURY IS STILL OUT

By: Ariel Trejetty

Yesterday morning, a Georgia jury found former Atlanta police officer Garrett Tison guilty on three of the four charges related to the January incident in which he was accused of shooting two teenage boys after an argument over the volume of music.

After 27 hours of deliberation, Tison was convicted of two misdemeanors—disorderly conduct and discharge of a pistol near a public highway—and aggravated assault, the less severe of the two felonies. The jury was unable to reach a consensus regarding the felony murder charge, and a mistrial was declared on that count.

Tison testified that he feared for his life, citing 27 years of law enforcement experience in support of his ability to detect a genuine threat. Though Tison’s claim that the teens had a gun was unsupported by evidence, the surviving teen, Justyce McAllister’s, exposed connection to known gang members, including sixteen-year-old Quan Banks, the young man charged with murdering Tison’s partner last August, cast a considerable pall over the proceedings.

Mr. Tison will be retried on the murder count and sentenced on all convictions at a later date.

It’s been two days.

Two full days, and the words unable to reach a verdict and mistrial and later date are still bouncing around in Jus’s head.

He and SJ have been watching National Geographic pretty much nonstop since they got back from the announcement of the verdict, but every time he blinks, Jus sees the third juror from the right in the back row, eyeing him like he shoulda been on trial for murder.

A hung jury.

No verdict.

No sentence.

Another trial.

SJ sighs like she can read Jus’s mind. She’s stretched out on the couch with her head in his lap, looking at a documentary about the migration of monarch butterflies, but Jus doubts she’s actually watching. Nothing in the world frustrates Sarah-Jane Friedman more than a “miscarriage of justice.”

It’s all so messed up. In two weeks, he and this gorgeous girl are supposed to get into his car and drive up the East Coast together. They’re supposed to go to Yale first and get Jus set up in the dorms—Mama wanted to come, but she can’t get off work, so it’ll be just the two of them. Once Jus is in, they’re supposed to take the train from New Haven to New York, where they’ll meet Mr. and Mrs. Friedman and get SJ settled at Columbia.

They’re supposed to be moving on. Starting the next chapter. Never looking back.

But at some point in the next six months, he’s going to have to come back here. He’s going to have to relive the afternoon he got shot and lost Manny.

Again.

“What are you thinking about?” SJ says.

He could tell her, but from the bags under her eyes, she’s got enough on her mind. “Just the fact that you’re the best thing in my life,” he says.

“Oh god, Jus. Rom-com much? Le barf.”

He laughs, and she smiles, and for a moment, everything’s fine.

Course it doesn’t last.

“Jus, I think I hate everything,” she says. “Why can’t we all get along like butterflies?”

He tucks her hair behind her ear. Tries to shift his focus to the TV, where layer upon layer of monarchs cover the trees in some Mexican forest. While he appreciates her sentiment, Jus wonders if she notices that all those butterflies look exactly alike.

His cell phone rings. It’s Mr. Rentzen.

He declines the call. The longer he can go without having to speak to the DA, the better.

Now all he can think about is how exhausted Mr. Rivers seemed as they said goodbye outside the courtroom. As much as Jus hates that the death of his best friend was minimized by the hung jury, he can’t begin to imagine what Manny’s parents must be going through.

Voice mail notification chimes.

Then a text message: “Justyce, call me ASAP.”

Jus erases it.

The phone rings again.

“Who is that?” SJ asks.

“It’s Rentzen.” Jus declines the second call.

“Oh god,” SJ says. “Can we change your number?”

Mrs. F comes in from the kitchen with a phone to her ear.

“Justyce, Mr. Rentzen is trying to get ahold of you—What’s that?” she says into the phone. Her eyes go wide. “You can’t be serious, Jeff.”

That can’t be good.

SJ sits up. “Mom? What’s the matter?”

Mrs. F holds up her index finger and continues to speak into the phone: “Mmhmm…Oh good lord…This is…And the perpetrators?…I can’t believe this, Jeff….”