Terrence
April 3, 1942
The courtroom hummed with whispers about the three boys sitting at the front of the room. Every once in a while, bits of conversation jumped out and bit Terrence.
“I think the colored one did it.”
“Doesn’t really matter who did it. The Jap had it coming.”
A sour taste burned on the back of Terrence’s tongue, and he wasn’t sure what made him sicker—sitting next to Joe and Ray or the whispers. Then he figured he didn’t have to decide. The whispering people? Joe and Ray? They all thought the same way: The Jap had it coming.
Heck, he’d felt it, too, that day in the park. At least until he saw that little Japanese girl running toward them and he realized the man huddled on the ground was her daddy.
Blake touched his shoulder. “Doing okay?”
Terrence shrugged, trying to be cool. But inside, he thanked God that at least Mr. Blake believed him.
Joe stared in Terrence’s direction, eyes squinted and hateful.
The court clerk came through a door at the right. “All stand for the Honorable Judge Anderson.”
When the judge entered, the sound of shuffling feet and the moan of chairs scooting across the floor echoed in the room and drowned out the whispers.
“You may be seated,” Judge Anderson said, opening a file before he sat in a big leather chair. He turned each page, seeming unaware of the hundred eyes on him.
Terrence watched. Waited. His pulse pounded in his temples like his brain was about to explode. What kind of man was this judge, the man that would decide his future? He sure hoped the judge wouldn’t see him the same way as he saw Joe and Ray. ’Cause no way was he like those two. No way.
The man in the black robe looked too young to be a judge. Buzzed-short brown hair. Thin lips. Stiff demeanor. Looked more like a drill sergeant than a judge. The man was just a little too stiff-looking, and it gave Terrence an uncomfortable tickle way down in his gut.
More whispers churned in the courtroom, then silence. Then more whispers. Back and forth, like the pant of an invisible demon. Ceiling fans whirred with an irritating click. Hell, it was like a clock ticking his life away.
Finally, the judge spoke. “Joseph Brian Grant. Raymond Dean Morrison. John Terrence Harris Jr. You have each been charged with first-degree murder.” He took off his glasses and looked at the boys. “How do you plead?”
Joe’s attorney stood first, scratching his head as he spoke. “Not guilty, your honor.”
“Not guilty, your honor,” followed Ray’s attorney.
Blake took a breath to speak next.
Terrence held his.
“Your honor, we would like to move for a separate trial for Terrence Harris, based on extenuating circumstances that set the facts of his case apart from Mr. Grant’s and Mr. Morrison’s.” He held up a file. “May I approach the bench?”
“You may,” replied Judge Anderson.
Blake signaled for Terrence to follow.
The judge was even scarier up close, staring down at them like he was God on Judgment Day. He removed his glasses and folded his hands. “Continue, Mr. Blake.”
Blake laid the thick file in front of the judge. Terrence knew it held his report cards, Honor Society certificates, and letters commending his community service. It also contained his father’s naval service record, and the most important document—the one that made Terrence’s story different: the crinkled telegram that informed the Harris family of Daddy’s death at Pearl Harbor.
Terrence studied Judge Anderson’s face as he reviewed each document in the file. Only the sound of shuffling paper broke the room’s silence.
He looked at Blake and Terrence again. “Is there anything you’d like to add?”
“Your honor,” Blake placed his hands on the bench, “most significant is the fact that Terrence and his family received that telegram the day of the beating. A terrible mix of circumstances led to the unfortunate beating and death of Mr. Kimura—Terrence’s emotional state after being notified of his father’s death at Pearl Harbor, and running into Mr. Grant and Mr. Morrison, two boys with previous records who were intent on getting into trouble even before my client came along. As you will note in the file, prior to this event my client had no criminal record. His grades are excellent. Neither can be said about the other two defendants.”
Judge Anderson returned the file to Blake.
“Your honor, it is for these reasons that we request a separate trial for Terrence Harris. The circumstances differ so greatly from the other two boys, we believe it is warranted.”
In the silence between the request and Judge Anderson’s decision, something clutched at Terrence’s throat, squeezing until he felt his heart beat in every part of his body. His knees shook and he needed to sit again. He closed his eyes, thoughts whipping through his head.
Don’t lump me in with those other two. I’m not like them. I’m not like them.
The judge’s face went stiff again. “Please return to your seats.”
As Terrence followed Blake to their seats in front of the courtroom, Momma’s glance gave him silent support.
It’s gonna be okay, son.
But the ice-cold glares of his co-defendants screamed at him. What’re you up to, nigger? You gonna betray us? You’ll be sorry if you do.
The whispers grew louder too, like snakes hissing all around him.
“Mr. Blake,” Judge Anderson began, “Mr. Harris, in further consideration of your request, this court will recess until next Monday morning at nine o’clock.” He pounded the gavel. “Court is adjourned.”
Gasps whipped through the room like a blast of wind. The bailiff took a set of handcuffs off his belt and approached Terrence. With each step the big uniformed man took, he felt a familiar darkness.
The bailiff threw the handcuffs over Terrence’s wrists. Click. The cold hard metal on his skin held him—shamed him. A prisoner. But no more a prisoner than he’d become of feelings he had carried since that day at the park.
“Traitor!” Ray shouted.
“Order!” yelled Judge Anderson. “I’ll not have such outbursts. Order in this court.”
The room quieted, all but the hissing sounds.