Dying in the Dark Read Online Free PDF

Jamal? The paper doesn't say anything about the way he died. He could have been ill or been hit by a car. Why do you think he was murdered?”
    He shrugged again, his defensiveness telling me he didn't want to talk. Don't ask too many questions, Ma. Don't get too close. You walk a thin line when you parent a son alone. You know you can't overprotect him, yet you always want to.
    “So where do you know him from?” I said, my voice unnaturally calm.
    Jamal glanced up at me. “So where do you know him from?” The comment was just this side of fresh, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips, but I chose to ignore it. I choose my battles these days, andthis one wasn't worth an opening shot. “School,” he said after a moment. “I know him from school.” He picked up the sports pages again, a defense against more questions.
    In the last few years, many good things have happened in Newark and East Orange, the small neighboring city where I live. NJPAC, the arts center that they built a couple of years ago, has changed the mood here forever. Despite naysayers who swore that nothing decent could come out of this city, music, art, and poetry are bringing people back. Property values are rising, carjacking is down, and there's pride in people's voices when they say where they live. There are, of course, still those folks who have their doubts. I took it personally when they tried to change the name of Newark Airport, which it had been for years, to Liberty Airport. People raised so much hell, they ended up calling it Newark Liberty Airport. It's a mouthful, and it still rankles. At least we had the power to raise some hell.
    However, there are ominous signs here, too. A few months back, a child's battered body was found in the closet of a filthy basement. His two little brothers, also starved and beaten, had been left for dead. It was a kick in the face of the city, and everybody felt the city's shame. It doesn't say much for a place when children are starved to death and nobody notices. There was a big funeral for the boy, and hundreds of people showed up. Funerals, though, are always for the living, and this one was held to assuage people's guilt. A death like that leaves its mark on a city like mine; it's a reminder that we have a long way to go.
    There is also graffiti on walls and abandoned buildings that remind those who know how to read it, that gangs are back—if they ever left. They were around when I was a kid, and for a hot minute,my brother Johnny belonged to one. But weapons have changed, and a “beef” between boys—or girls—can mean a funeral.
    I can't afford a private school for my son, and there's no controlling who he comes into contact with in the public school he attends. He's the kind of kid who makes friends easily, and his friends run the gamut. Some like sports and are into computers like he is. They're headed for college and know they have a future. But those are the boys who always seem to end up getting shot over nothing, standing in the way at some rally, strolling down the street on a Saturday night. The good ones always seem to be the ones who end up with a bullet in the back.
    There are also kids in Jamal's life who I'd rather he didn't know. He's been friends with some of them since grade school, when they didn't seem too bad. He's always been able to see the good in people, to find gold glimmering in dirt. But that ability, to peer into somebody's soul and see something worth saving, can get you into trouble and for a young black man, trouble will get you dead.
    Some nights I can't sleep for worrying about him. Black boys can't make a false move because second chances are hard as hell to come by. I worry about him knowing kids on their way to jail or the graveyard; I don't want him going along for the ride. Even in death, I didn't want Cecil Jones anywhere near my son.
    It was time to fire that opening shot.
    “So you know Cecil Jones from school? I don't like to hear that, Jamal. Was he