Tilting Scales

by Ramelle Kamack

As an expanse of ghastly clouds veiled the light of afternoon, Chicago neared the brink of anarchy. Even the murky sky’s soft drizzle had not extinguished the burning anger of mobbing protestors below. Towering over a frenzy of picket signs and police barricades, the formidable Cook County Courthouse cast a deep shadow that engulfed the neighboring buildings. At the edge of its darkness, a man, bald and with skin as rich as onyx, turned over a wooden crate. His eyes, weary and sullen as the winter, welled with tears as he brought a bullhorn to his lips and faced the crowd.

“No justice!” a gruff voice boomed from the horn. The crowd’s reply resounded in a thunder that seemed to quake the concrete. “No peace!“

“No justice!”

“No peace!”

Inside the courthouse, the elderly Judge Warren Hayes emerged from his chambers cloaked in a black robe and entered a crowded but dreadfully silent courtroom.

“All rise!”

Lean and over six feet tall, he stepped past the court stenographer and nodded toward the bailiff. As one of the few Black judges to preside in this courthouse and with over 25 years of experience, he surmised it a privilege for anyone to have their case heard by him– an honor, even. When the victim’s family discovered who was to preside over the case, their hearts plunged even further. Liberty had to exist somewhere; anywhere other than here. But when their petition with four thousand signatures to change the venue had been denied, they had all but given up.

Judge Hayes strode past the quivering defendant with a glare of omniscient grandeur and sat facing all in attendance. “You may be seated,” he grumbled to a room of people who hadn’t stood for his entrance to begin with.

His deep brown eyes surveyed the pews and adjacent chairs. To the right, the twelve empty seats of the jury box were still littered with ten days’ worth of crumpled notes and shortened pencils. The dismissed jury, composed of eight women and four men, and who had been ethnically composed of six Blacks, four Whites, one Latino, and one man who adamantly identified himself as multi-racial, had fulfilled their duty around noon when they returned with a verdict after only three hours of deliberating. They had left in a hurry and were allowed to use the building’s east exit to avoid the news media.

Directly ahead, those in attendance were divided into three factions: the mostly Black crowd of civilians who demanded fair and swift justice, the crowd of officers donning their crisp police uniforms in support of one of their own, and in the rear, a slew of ravenous news reporters and journalists who would devour each word that would come out of the judge’s mouth. To the left sat the defendant’s counsel–indifferent to the court hearing as if it were a scripted sitcom that she had seen for the hundredth time–and next to her, the defendant, Sergeant Jaret Whatley. Broad shouldered, fair complexion, and in a dark gray suit that clung to his shoulders like a second layer of skin, he stared at the judge in anticipation. His buzz cut had grown out a bit and his once piercing blue eyes now seemed dull and void.

As Judge Hayes opened his mouth to deliver the sergeant’s sentence, he recounted the victim’s impact testimony given by young Kevin’s family and questioned within himself, How could something like this happen in this day and age? To an aspiring athlete with a scholarship? To the valedictorian of his class? He peered into the audience and found the face of the victim’s brother. So young, Black, and full of life. Yet, mounting with anger and grief as well. It was just two days ago when he took the witness stand but the young man’s testimony along with everyone else’s was still fresh, still vivid, and whole. It was a warm summer night, the boy had said, when they entered an empty Foster Park and when the glowing field lights beamed on the grassy baseball diamond. Kevin Franklin stood tall at home plate and smirked while raising a wooden bat high over his shoulder. Though there were no fans or college scouts in the bleachers, no coaches, or umpires to call the game, and no staff to work the scoreboard, the competition was intense, and he was determined not to walk away defeated. His royal blue and gold letterman jacket was covered with stitched patches that displayed four arduous years of athletic achievement. The pride of Simeon High School, destined for greatness and less than two months away from giving the commencement speech at his graduation. Despite the 17-year-old’s grueling regimen of Advanced Placement classes, homework, girls, studying for final exams, girls, baseball practice, tattoos, calisthenics training, and more girls, he managed to squeeze in an hour or so on this night to hang out with his friends and help his brother, a sophomore, work on his two-seam fastball. Underneath his hanging dreadlocks, a bead of sweat dripped from his dark-brown forehead, and he wiped an eyebrow with the back of his hand. He tightened his grip on the bat and eyed his brother, Keon, as he took the pitcher’s mound.

Keon, two years younger than Kevin, but nearly his equal in height and speed, gripped the baseball’s inner seams with his index and middle finger like Kevin had shown him and faced his older brother from the mound. With his gloved hand, he lowered his hat’s brim to rest just above his eyebrows and eyed Kevin from underneath its shadow. It was every younger brother’s goal to defeat their older brother in competition, no matter if it were in sports, wrestling, wits, video games, or even tic-tac-toe, and Keon was no different. Kevin would be off to college in a few months and Keon’s opportunities to strike him out at the plate, at least once before he left, were fleeting.

“Don’t let him intimidate you!”

“He’s crowding the plate!” their two friends Q and Timothy called out to Keon from the bleachers behind the chain-link fence and backstop.

Kevin lowered his bat and turned to them. “I thought you guys said you don’t pick sides in our rivalry.” He nodded to the notebooks and index cards on their laps and added, “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be studying for History finals? Don’t come asking me for . . .”

WAM! Just then, the hard ball flew past home plate and struck the wooden backstop. Kevin turned toward the mound.

“That’s strike one!” Keon said while grinning.

Kevin’s forehead furrowed. “That doesn’t count. I lowered my bat and had my head turned!”

“That counts!” Q shouted while standing. “He didn’t call timeout, Keon . . .Strrrrike One!” he growled in ballpark fashion to everyone’s laughter.

“So, you’re umpire now?” said Kevin, his lips curling into a smirk.

Q shrugged his shoulders while laughing. “Don’t worry ’bout me. Keep your eye on the ball.”

“Come on,” Timothy beckoned Q to sit down and then shuffled his History class index cards. “Let’s go over Greek philosophy.”

“Yeah,” Kevin added while tossing the ball back to Keon. He raised the bat once more and faced the mound. He eyed his younger brother carefully and watched his pitching mechanics. Keon raised his front leg, kicked, lunged, and hurled his arm forward. The ball zipped from his hand and sped toward the plate. Kevin watched as the ball appeared to slow . . . Good velocity . . . Excellent rotation . . . Decent arc . . .

WAM!It whirled past him a second time without him even attempting a swing.

“Strrrrrike Two!” Q cheered mockingly.

“Pay attention.” Timothy elbowed him.

Kevin reached down, snatched the ball as it rolled near his shoe, and tossed it back to Keon in time to catch a slight smirk across his face. “Play ball,” Kevin mumbled under his breath. He raised the bat, bent his knees, and grinded his lead foot in the dirt. Behind him, Timothy and Q quizzed each other.

“Aristotle, Plato, Alexander the Great, Socrates . . . List the order of precession,” Timothy said.

“Okay, um,” Q’s eyebrows furrowed as he counted with his fingers. “Socrates, Plato, Alexander . . .”

While he did, Keon reached back and slung the ball with all his might. It soared through the air while strike three was only milliseconds away. The ball whirled and sunk near the plate, then–

BAM! Kevin’s bat whipped around and pummeled the ball deep into the air and high over Keon’s head. It rocketed, flew, and sailed until landing with a few short hops before stopping three-hundred feet from the plate.

Kevin grinned and turned to his two friends. He peered through the chain-link fence, met their wide eyes, and then answered, “Aristotle, then Alexander.”

---

As the night sky darkened, the streetlight’s orange glow cast long stretching shadows behind the four boys as they trekked along the sidewalk and headed home. Keon dragged a few paces behind the others with the bat in hand and sulked in the near victory that was snatched from him. After another block, Kevin glanced over his shoulder, slowed, and strode alongside him. Keon’s eyes were cast on the sidewalk.

“You’re getting better yuh know,” Kevin said.

Keon sighed and grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“I’m serious. Think of it this way–you’re only a sophomore and can still out-pitch varsity seniors and juniors. Just give it some time.” He took the bat from Keon’s hand, swung at an imaginary pitch, and said, “You’re better now than I was as a sophomore.”

The remark brought a smile to his younger brother who quickly challenged, “I’m faster than you are, too.”

“You’re crazy!”

The two glanced down the block toward their house then back to one another. Keon elbowed his older brother and dashed forward. He raced past Q and Timothy. Kevin sprinted and yelled, “That’s not fair. You got a head start!”

Timothy and Q joined the race and quickly struggled to keep up. The four boys ran down Halsted Avenue, in the bloom of youth, while bursting in laughter, and oblivious. Just then, a car’s headlights seared through the darkness like two suns and zoomed directly toward them.

---

Sergeant Whatley gripped the steering wheel of the unmarked patrol vehicle and turned northbound down a murky street while scouring the vicinity for the suspected assailants. A District Five veteran for over 13 years, he’d seen it all, from homicides and robberies to domestic abuse and drug busts. As of late, he’d seen the city of Chicago plummet from bad to worse as the murder rate increased for the fifth year in a row. It had been only four minutes since his partner, Officer Guerro, received the incoming from dispatch reporting an assault and strong-armed robbery of a mother on her way home from work. He cruised at a steady pace as his eyes darted back and forth.

“See anything?” Guerro asked.

Whatley peered into the deep shadows that paved the crevices between houses and parked cars. “No,” he said dryly when, suddenly, his eyes locked on something. Fifty feet ahead, four African American males were fleeing southbound on foot. 

“That’s gotta be them.” Whatley leaned forward and peered through the windshield. “They’ve spotted us. That’s why they’re running.” 

Guerro squinted and uttered, “Nah, can’t be. Dispatch reported two adult male suspects, not four. Besides, those look like kids—teenagers.”

“Kids wearing hats, jackets, and hoodies, look like men in the dark,” Whatley snarled. “Besides, one of them is carrying a weapon. He’s got a bat!” The suspects dashed past the cruising car and fled. 

“No, you don’t,” Whatley barked while turning the wheel. The car curved and its wheels screeched while it careened. He pressed the gas pedal and the engine roared. The robbers were distancing and getting away. The vehicle zoomed forward and leaped closer. 

“Slow down,” Guerro warned. “Hit the siren.” 

“Shut up! I’m gonna cut ’em off at the corner.” 

The car lunged ahead as the four robbers weaved down the sidewalk. The corner was less than twenty feet away. Time to act fast. The car’s hood was parallel to the sprinting Black kids when Whatley cut the wheel. 

“Watch it! Watch it! Look out!” Guerro shrieked. 

The car veered to the right before the screeching sound of its tires pierced through the quiet neighborhood. 

---

Keon was in the lead, but Kevin was gaining. Home was less than a quarter of a block away and Keon was not about to lose twice in one night. He hurdled a toppled trashcan and sprinted towards the street corner. Kevin was quick on his heels. The two brothers were neck-and-neck when a growling car engine sounded from behind them, and two bright headlights were the last thing they saw before–

WAM! Kevin flew on top of the hood and his bat shattered the car windshield, sending shards of glass into the officer’s faces. Razor-sharp edges struck Guerro’s eyes. “Aah!!!” he wailed while taking cover. Sergeant Whatley withdrew his nine-millimeter from his holster and aimed toward the shattered glass. He wiped pieces of glass away from his cheeks and eyebrows when the suspect rose and reached his hand toward the bat. 

“Freeze! Don’t touch that weapon.” Whatley ordered. 

Timothy and Q dashed toward their injured and dazed friend and Keon reached for his older brother before the deafening sound of gunshots rang in their ears. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Kevin’s body toppled off the car’s hood and landed on the pavement with a collapsing thud. His bloody hand was still clutching his favorite bat–the bat his varsity coach gifted to their best player. 

---

After the deputy district attorney chose to try the sergeant on the minimum and department-friendly third degree murder charge as opposed to the stiffer first degree or second degree charges the public called for, after hearing the corroborating testimony of the three witnesses, including the deceased victim’s younger brother, and despite the sergeant’s partner, Officer Guerro’s, testimony that at the time he was blinded by glass and had not visually witnessed the details that led to the shooting, the jury convicted former police Sergeant Jaret Whatley as charged, and it was now up to Judge Hayes to deliver a sentence. Scrutinized by the public for his leniency toward officer misconduct and his bureaucratic tyranny over people of color–especially considering that he himself was Black–Judge Hayes diverted his gaze from the many Black and brown faces in attendance. As the authority of this courtroom, he mustn’t submit to their desires or perception of justice but must rely on his own notion. After all, there was no evidence or testimony to prove that Whatley had acted with malice or prejudiced aforethought. Still, he hadn’t allowed the court to hear the sergeant’s history of misconduct and civilian complaints, for he deemed them irrelevant, having nothing in common with the instant case. 

Now, he eyed defendant Whatley while contemplating an appropriate length of sentence. He opened his mouth and spoke in a sturdy and confident tone, “Sergeant—.”  He cleared his throat and tried once more. “Mr. Whatley, you’ve been found guilty of third-degree murder.” Whatley gulped and quivered as the judge spoke further. “And the court sentences you to a term of . . . ten years in the state penitentiary.” 

Whatley exhaled and the courtroom erupted in mayhem. 

“Ten years!?” A young Black man stood and pointed. “If that was one of us you would’ve gave us fifty-years-to Life!” 

“Order!” Judge Hayes slammed his gavel repeatedly. It sounded over the roaring audience and the bailiff rushed to calm the courtroom. 

One of Whatley’s fellow officers called to him. “You’ll be out in six, bud, with good behavior. Don’t worry.” 

The noisy crowd lowered to a murmur as Judge Hayes continued. “Mr. Whatley, you have a right to appeal this sentence. If you wish to appeal it, and you are unable to hire a lawyer, the appellate court will appoint a lawyer to represent you on appeal free of charge. Do you have any questions?” 

Whatley dabbed his sweaty forehead with a napkin. “No, Your Honor. Thank you.” 

Another man rose from the audience. “Where’s the justice?!” 

The court erupted again as Judge Hayes spoke over them. “With that, the defendant is remanded to the custody of the sheriff to be transferred forthwith to the department of corrections to serve his term. Good luck to you.” 

With the slam of the gavel, Keon’s heart felt like it gained a pound. Q and Timothy gathered beside him as the bailiff handcuffed Whatley and rushed him toward a side door. Kevin’s surviving family and friends shouted obscenities toward the disgraced former sergeant and stomped away in wailing disbelief and outrage. Ahead, the judge’s platform was now empty. He had escaped swiftly and without anyone’s notice. 

---

It was evening when Judge Hayes lugged his briefcase and strode through a murky courthouse tunnel wearing a brown tweed suit. With his black robe removed, his daunting stature had withered to a thin and fragile frame that hung below scrawny shoulders. Nevertheless, those shoulders bore the weight of responsibility and a dignified civic servitude. After all, justice is served, as some say. He paced through the tunnel that led to the building’s east exit–a less conspicuous and quiet exit. His Buick sedan wasn’t parked far from it, and he yearned for a quick retreat when he approached the exit door. He whistled a jazzy tune, twisted the brass knob, and stepped through the door frame when–

“Judge Hayes! Judge Hayes!” 

The door shut behind him and a hoard of flashing media cameras, shouting news reporters, and frantic paparazzi swarmed him. He raised a hand to shield himself from the blinding flashes when a woman’s voice rose. “Judge Hayes, do you think the trial was fair?” 

“No comment.” 

“Judge Hayes! Judge Hayes!” 

He stepped through the mayhem and the crowd pressed further, staggering him when someone yelled, “Judge Hayes, how does it feel to disgrace your own community?” 

“No comment! Move!” He shoved through two cameras and was pushed backward. “Please,” he begged the relentless mob. He was shoved again and stumbled to a knee. 

“Judge Hayes! Judge Hayes! What about the reported threats from the public?” a reporter asked. 

“Are you concerned about your safety?” said another. 

“Judge Hayes, what about the evening news report of your own grandson, Brandon Hayes, being the latest victim of injustice and racial profiling? Have you had a chance to contact the coroner’s office yet?” 

Brandon? Coroner’s? His voice shook as he rose from the ground. “That’s a lie. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He reached in his pants pocket, pulled out his phone, and eyed the screen . . . 16 missed calls, 2 voicemails, 30 texts. The last text was from his wife. He opened it: 

They killed our grandbaby! 

“No,” he gasped. “It – It can’t be.” 

Just then, a flashing camera seared his retinas, and he swayed throughout the pushing frenzy. “Please! Please!” he whimpered once more. “I just found out that I lost my grandson… please!” 

Amongst the ravenous mouths of the news media, their fangs needn’t yield to the whims of bias, prejudice, leniency, or even compassion. His tearful pleas went unheard, and his once commanding voice sunk below the shouting mob and drained within the relentless calls of the calloused reporters.