Gotta Find My Way Back

Author

Prologue

Miles frowned as his car idled on the Kennedy Expressway in Chicago. He glanced at the red letters on the dashboard clock of his 2009 Audi A6 and then at his gold Armani watch as if they would read differently. It was 8:45 A.M. by both accounts.

Damn, why didn’t I leave earlier? His appointment with Attorney Nathan Whitaker was at 9:00, and he was more than a half hour away from Nathan’s law office. An accident involving an SUV and truck had brought traffic to a crawl.

Come on, he belted as if someone in the car in front of him could hear. Come on.

Miles loosened his black, diamond-patterned tie and wiped his brow with his hand. Beads of sweat had started forming on his forehead. For weeks, Miles had been waiting to meet with Nathan, a high-profile civil rights attorney. The two had spoken on the phone a few times, but today was their first face-to-face meeting, and he desperately wanted to be on time.

Without notice, Miles slammed his foot on the brakes and squeezed the steering wheel. A young woman applying makeup to her face had veered her white Dodge truck into his lane. He blew his horn and gave her a cold stare. What in the heck is wrong with you, lady?

She looked at him apologetically and mouthed, Sorry.

Miles nodded and then crossed over into the next lane. His thoughts returned to Nathan and the altercation he had with police a few weeks earlier, when as many as ten police officers, with guns and rifles drawn, stopped him and his girlfriend, Shianne, during a late-night arrest. They had been at a concert in Milwaukee and were stopping at a friend’s before returning home.

Miles took a quick look at himself in the rearview mirror, the carmel skin around his dark brown eye showed a slight discoloration from his encounter with police.

Miles had spoken with several attorneys about the incident, but each had said the case would be dismissed in court. The likelihood of him winning a case against a police officer was slim to none, they said, and they suggested he let it go.

But he couldn’t put the night behind him, and he turned to the internet in search of a lawyer. He came across an article Nathan had written on police brutality and contacted him immediately.

Miles grabbed his cell phone from the car’s cup holder. With his eyes roaming between the road and his cell, he called Nathan’s office. A sexy, rich voice answered. Whitaker, White & Jeffries Law Office. Maria Davis speaking. May I help you?

Miles lowered the volume on the radio. Whitney Houston’s I Want to Dance with Somebody was playing. He cleared his throat. Hello, this is Miles Montgomery. I have a 9:00 appointment with Mr. Whitaker.

Yes, Mr. Montgomery, she said. Good morning.

Good morning. I’m sorry, but I’m going to be a little late for my appointment. I’m stuck in traffic, he said, his eyes gazing at a bright-colored NIKE billboard. I hope to be there in about twenty minutes.

I’ll let Mr. Whitaker know that you’ll be late, Maria said. Thanks for calling. We’ll see you soon.

Thank you, he said and ended the call.

Miles reached the law firm sooner than anticipated. A brown UPS truck pulled out of a parking space in front of the white sandstone building as he drove up. He smiled to himself. The parking angels must be on my side.

Miles pulled his car into the space and gave himself a quick look over in the rearview mirror, running his hand over his mustache and fixing his tie. A nervous feeling crept over him as he grabbed his briefcase from the back seat. Come on, Miles, get it together.

He slid out of his car, fed the meter with coins, and rushed inside the building. Whitaker, White & Jeffries appeared in gold letters on two shiny glass doors when he stepped off the elevator onto the 11th floor. A woman, appearing to be in her late thirties with shoulder-length black hair stood watering a plant. She gave Miles a quick look and greeted him. Hello, I’m Maria Davis.

Hi, I’m Miles Montgomery.

She gestured toward the brown leather couch behind him. Please have a seat, Mr. Montgomery. I’ll let Mr. Whitaker know that you’re here.

Thank you. Hmm, Miles thought to himself as he took a whiff of the jasmine fragrance Marla was wearing. His eyes followed her body as she walked to her desk. She wore a peach-colored blouse and fitted black skirt that hinted of the curvy body underneath. She scooted into her chair and picked up the phone.

Mr. Whitaker, Mr. Montgomery is here. She paused. I’ll let him know. She hung up the phone and said, Mr. Whitaker will be out shortly.

He nodded. Thank you.

Miles glanced at a picture of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. hanging on the wall. A quote below the photo read: The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in the moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. Miles felt as if Dr. King was speaking to him. The message was a confirmation that he was doing the right thing.

Nathan’s deep baritone voice interrupted his thoughts. Miles, he called out. How are you doing? I’m Nathan Whitaker. He extended his hand toward Miles.

Miles rose from the couch and gave Nathan a stern handshake. I’m fine, sir.

Nathan was a handsome guy, fiftyish, with dark brown skin and a nicely cropped beard on his round face. He oozed success, dressing expensively in a blue pinstripe suit, starched white shirt, and dark tie. His style of dress had Miles taking a quick look at his clothes; he didn’t want to appear lightweight in his black suit and tie.

Nathan patted Miles on the back. Let’s go to my office and talk.

Miles followed Nathan down a long hallway, but not before inhaling another whiff of Maria’s perfume. They entered Nathan’s office and walked over to a round mahogany table. Miles pulled out a chair opposite Nathan and sat down. He placed his briefcase lightly on the table as he viewed the spacious office. Several awards graced the mauve-colored walls along with pictures of Navy Pier, Harlem, New Orleans, and people whom he did not know but suspected to be influential.

Nathan shifted his body toward Miles and stared. So, how are you doing, Miles?

I’m better than I was a few weeks ago. His face soured. I never thought that I would get caught up in something crazy like this.

No?

No.

Why not? Nathan asked.

I just never thought I would. I’ve never been in trouble with the police.

It happens, man. Sometimes to the best of us. Nathan took a drink from a brown mug that read We’re Winners. He swallowed and rested the cup back on the table.

My law firm has handled many cases against police, Nathan said, pulling a group of papers from a manila folder in front of him. What’s troubling about these cases, Miles, is that there is a reluctance to prosecute police officers. I’m sure this is why the attorneys you’ve spoken with refused your case. He took another sip from his cup. Our firm, on the other hand, strongly believes that we have a social and moral obligation to defend individuals when their constitutional rights have been violated. I firmly believe your rights were violated.

Miles swallowed at his words. I just want justice, Mr. Whitaker. No way should they get away with what they did to us. They were so out of pocket.

We’re certainly going to give it a fight, Miles, Nathan said. We have to send a message to that police department that nobody is above the law, not even police officers.

Chapter 1

1998

Miles and his best friends, Raymond Lewis, Andre Summers, and Miles’ cousin, Perry Davis, had spent much of the morning throwing the football around at the neighborhood park. Sweaty, their T-shirts sticking to them like glue, and dying of thirst, they went over to Miles’ house to cool off. Andre and Ray sat on the stoop while Miles and Perry ran inside and grabbed bottles of Gatorade.

Andre and Ray were joking with each other when Miles and Perry returned. Aw, Ray, said Andre, You’re so stupid that you asked the waitress was bacon on a BLT. Andre, a tall, handsome young man with dark curly hair and light brown eyes, wiped his brow with the white T-shirt that he had been wearing around his neck. Miles and Perry laughed.

Dre, you’re the only person that I know whose teeth have a tan, Raymond shot back. A hearty outburst came from the fellas.

All right, man. You got me, Andre said, smiling widely, displaying a small gap between his two front teeth.

Miles handed a Gatorade to Andre and said, Man, I don’t know why you joke around with Ray He shuts you down every time.

Raymond, a tall and burly teen with dark eyes and Hershey-colored skin, lived across the street from Miles in Brentwood, Illinois. He and Miles had gone to school together since first grade at McAlister School. He was the second eldest of five kids—three girls and two boys.

Andre became friends with the two guys in middle school. He, though, was an only child. His family lived in the most affluent section of Brentwood in a neighborhood of stately homes and three-car garages.

Miles wiped the sweat from his brow, rubbed his moist hand against his Cache shorts, and took off his white muscle T-shirt, placing it on his lap. Man, it’s hot out here, he said taking a sip from his drink. I’m going inside. They followed.

The cold air immediately circled them as they walked inside the house. The boys took off their shoes. They knew the drill; they didn’t want Mrs. Montgomery fussing at them about dirtying her golden carpet.

Raymond and Andre spoke to Miles’ mother on the way to his bedroom. She sat on the couch combing Miles’ little sister’s hair. Miles’ mother was an attractive woman in her early 40s with big brown eyes, light brown skin, and short dark hair. She wore a cotton dress in shades of pink and cream. The boys did not speak to Denise, whose face was twisted with pain as her mother combed through her tangled hair. They laughed at her anguish as they passed. She rolled her large eyes at them.

You should stop letting people play in your head, girl... getting it all tangled up like this. Mrs. Montgomery continued brushing through the snarled hair. I don’t want Karen or anyone combing your hair anymore. You hear me?

Yes, Denise said, gritting her teeth. We were just trying to look like the pretty models in the magazines.

Well, the models in the magazines have professional hairstylist doing their hair, Denise. Not amateurs.

Miles closed the door to his bedroom once everyone was inside and turned on the TV. Ray sprawled out on one of the twin beds in his room, while Perry and Andre sat on the other twin bed. Miles quickly got down on all fours on the carpet and pulled a gray shoebox from underneath the bed, placing it gently on the bed.

Andre sprang forward to see what was inside. What’s that, man? he asked, his eyes protruding.

Ray sat up on the bed, fixing his eyes on the box.

Perry leaned curiously forward. Yeah, what’s that?

Miles smiled as if he was keeping the best-kept secret in the world and then slowly uncovered the box, revealing a small black handgun.

Is that real? Andre asked.

Miles looked dumbfounded. Of course, it’s real. He quickly replaced the lid.

The boys gathered around the box in awe. Man, where did you get that? Andre asked, his voice slightly trembling.

I brought it back from Alabama. My grandfather gave it to me.

You stole it from Big Daddy, Perry interjected.

An annoyed look crept across Miles’ face. I did not. Big Daddy gave it to me. He told me not to say anything to anyone—especially you.

Perry sat back down. You stole it. Stop lying.

Miles pulled the gun from the box and pointed it at him. Perry squinted. You’d better stop pointing that gun at me or I’ll—

Or you’ll do what? Miles said, getting up in his face.

Perry launched at Miles, trying to take the gun out of his hand. In an instant, a firecracker-like sound went off, startling everyone. Miles fell to the floor. The boys scattered around the room with Andre bouncing against the bookshelf, knocking books, photos, and trophies to the floor. They rushed over to where Miles was lying. Scarlet oozed from the corner of his lips. Shock and disillusion crept across their faces. They stood frozen.

Miles’ mother and Denise ran into the room. What’s going on? his mother asked, her voice rising. She pushed through Perry and Andre and saw Miles lying on the floor. She screamed. Oh, My God! Call an ambulance, Denise! Hurry! Miles’ mother knelt down beside him and lifted his head. Oh, Jesus.

Denise dashed out of the room. Andre reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Within moments, Miles started giggling. Perry too.

Gotcha, Miles said. He sat up and wiped the red stuff from his mouth.

Denise heard the laughter and raced back into the room. What’s going on?

"Gotcha? Gotcha!" His mother exploded, pushing his body away from her. What in the hell do you mean, gotcha? Her voice reached a high pitch. What are you doing, Miles? Do you think this is funny? Her voice shook, and tears welled in her eyes. She dabbed at the tears and then hit Miles several times across the head.

Ma, I was just playing, Miles said, attempting to dodge her whacks. Let me explain. We were just playing.

Perry’s brown eyes widened and darted from side to side.

I’m sorry, Mama. Sorry.

You don’t play like this, Miles, she said, her voice cracking. She paused to regain her breath and walked toward the door, staring sharply at Perry. Without notice, she bristled to him, And you’re going home. Get your stuff together. I’m putting you on the next train to Alabama.

But, Aunt Diane, Perry said.

But Aunt Diane nothing, she said shifting side to side in the doorway.

Perry’s thin frame stood frozen in the middle of the room. Tears welled in his eyes. Perry had only been at the family’s home for two weeks. He was supposed to spend the entire summer with his relatives. He had visited the family every summer since he was nine years old.

And Miles, I’m calling your father. Let’s see if he thinks your little prank is funny. Miles knew he was in big trouble when his mother got his dad involved. Damn.

Miles lowered his head. By now, tears were streaming down Perry’s face. He looked over at Miles, who returned the gaze.

Andre and Raymond go home, Miles mother yelled over her shoulder. Now! Miles is on punishment for the rest of the summer. You can see him at school this fall.

Yes, ma’am, they said, hurrying out the room toward the front door. Miles and Perry sat down on the bed mumbling to each other.

Do you think she’s really going to send me home? Perry asked.

Miles nodded. Yeah, man. She’s mad. I’ve never seen her this angry.

Miles dropped his head. The room went dead quiet except for the sniffles. Perry finally broke the silence. I’d better start packing. I don’t want Aunt Diane getting any madder. He sighed. Mama is going to be too mad!

Aunt Marilyn is going to go through the roof. I’m glad I won’t be around.

Gee, thanks, Perry huffed. You and your bright ideas.

Miles and Perry had devised the plan on the return trip from Alabama. They had giggled in the back seat of the car as they masterminded their plot.

Five minutes later, Miles was in the kitchen drinking a glass of water when his mother stiffly handed him a piece of paper that said in red letters, Summer Excitement. He was surprised at how fast she’d mapped out his list of summer chores.

Miles took the nicely written list in hand. It read:

Clean the garage, mop the kitchen, and clean the bathroom and your room daily. Wash the cars twice a week. Cut the lawn weekly. Cut Mrs. White’s grass weekly.

Mrs. White was the widow who lived next door.

Miles chuckled to himself as he read each line thinking, this is easy. His eyes widened, though, when he read other duties that included volunteering at a soup kitchen twice a week