Chapter 27 Roderick Lennox #2
“The hearings are dragging,” I said, and I didn’t soften it.
“Delays keep stacking up. Every time this gets pushed back it feels like my sons’ lives are being treated like a scheduling inconvenience.
This is not another case on a crowded calendar.
My boys are at the center of it, and the court is letting it drift. ”
“The court has to remain impartial,” he said carefully, and his voice had that official weight to it. It was the weight he used when he needed to remind people there were rules.
“I agree,” I replied, and my tone stayed calm, but my anger sat right behind it. “But impartial does not mean letting power stall the process until the public forgets why they were angry. Impartial does not mean pretending the Mensahs are not being handled differently.”
Thomas held my gaze. “You cannot prove that.”
“I don’t need to prove it,” I said, leaning forward more. “I need to stop it.”
He was quiet.
“The judge on this case is stalling,” I continued. “Every hearing turns into another delay. Meanwhile the man who put bullets in my sons is breathing freely, sleeping in his own bed, and living his life like my boys were nothing but a bad day.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened slightly. “So you want the case reassigned.”
“Yes,” I said. “I want her off the case.”
The words sat between us, and I could feel him weighing them, not as a judge, but as a friend deciding what kind of line he was willing to cross.
“She is slowing it down,” I said again. “She is letting it drift. She is giving them time. She is giving them comfort. I am done pretending this pace is acceptable.”
Thomas folded his hands together and looked down for a moment as if he was searching for the correct answer.
“You control assignments. You control the docket. If you decide this case needs a different judge, it happens. You know it happens, and I know it happens.”
“That is not something I can do lightly,” he replied.
“I am not asking you to do it lightly. I am asking you to do it because it is necessary. I am asking you to do it because the law is being bent in front of my face, and you and I both know who is doing the bending.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
I didn’t blink. “Do not make me sit back and watch this become a spectacle where my sons are reduced to talking points and the Mensahs are treated like royalty who deserves endless patience.”
Thomas’s lips pressed together. “Roderick.”
“I stood beside you when you buried your son,” I said, and my voice stayed level, but the words were sharp.
“I watched you show up to work the next week and keep moving even when it felt impossible. I protected you. I protected your family. I made sure the world did not eat you alive when you were most vulnerable.”
I leaned in. “I need you to show up for me now.”
Thomas stared at me, and the silence between us was heavy with all the things we had done for each other over the years, from the favors, the quiet agreements and the decisions made in private that shaped lives in public.
“You are asking me to intervene?” He asked.
“I am asking you to correct it,” I replied. “Move it to someone who can turn this around.”
He sat there for a long moment. His eyes shifted toward the window, then back to me, and I watched the conflict on his face like a shadow passing over a wall. He wanted to be righteous, but righteousness was a luxury men like us stopped believing in a long time ago.
Finally, he nodded. “I will handle it,” he said. “It will be reassigned.”
There was no paperwork on the desk yet and no order signed, but I heard the certainty in his voice, and I knew what it meant. It was done.
Relief didn’t come over me, but satisfaction did because justice wasn’t just a concept to me anymore.
Justice was a result, and I was going to get it.
If the Mensahs believed their influence could outlive my grief, then they didn’t understand what a father becomes when you take his sons and still expect him to play fair.
When I stood to leave, Thomas gripped my shoulder again, tighter this time, and his voice dropped. “Be careful,” he said.
I looked at him, and my mouth formed something close to a smile, but it carried no warmth.
“They should have been careful,” I replied, and I walked out of his house already thinking about the next move.
ONE WEEK LATER…
Now that I had the chief judge’s full support, I was ready to get the ball rolling.
The courtroom was one battlefield, but it wasn’t the only one that mattered.
Public opinion carried weight, and I’d been in this profession long enough to know narratives shaped verdicts just as much as evidence ever did.
If the Mensahs wanted to hide behind influence and money, then I’d use something just as powerful.
I’d use sympathy, outrage, and a grieving family with nothing left to lose.
People loved a story they could feel in their hearts, and they loved it even more when it came with a villain they already wanted to hate.
The production building sat on the edge of a lot in a renovated warehouse that looked ordinary from the outside, but inside it was polished and bright with full of cameras, lights, and staff moving around with headsets and clipboards like this was just another day at work.
It reminded me of the kind of spaces national news programs used when they were building a story they knew would travel far, and that was exactly what we were doing.
We weren’t just doing an interview. We were building a weapon.
Jamie stood beside me near the back wall with her hand tucked into mine while we watched Echo sit in the makeup chair.
Our daughter looked smaller under the lights than she ever had, and it made Jamie’s mouth tighten like she was holding back a sound she didn’t want anybody to hear.
Grief had a way of shrinking people, but it also had a way of sharpening them, and Echo was in the middle of becoming something new.
The stylist dabbed at the corner of Echo’s eyes where mascara had smudged from crying earlier, and Jamie swallowed like her throat was burning.
I tightened my grip around my wife’s fingers just enough for her to feel me here.
She didn’t look at me, but she squeezed back, and that squeeze carried everything she couldn’t say out loud.
Echo had rehearsed her story more than once, and she hadn’t rehearsed it the way a child lies when she’s scared.
She rehearsed it the way someone prepares for war.
I’d given her direction, not on what to say word for word, but on how to deliver it so the world could feel it.
I told her to stay inside her emotion and not rush through it.
I reminded her that people remembered feelings more than details.
I told her to let the pauses live long enough for the audience to lean in, and to let her voice crack when it needed to, because a crack in the voice made people believe you.
The interviewer sat across from her now, a woman with soft eyes and a concerned expression that looked practiced but convincing.
Cameras were positioned at angles that would catch every tremble in Echo’s lip and every tear that slid down her face.
The lights were set to make her skin glow, and the room was arranged so she looked small in the frame.
It was subtle, but it worked, because softness on camera made the public protective, and the public’s protection turned into pressure.
When the red light blinked on, the room shifted into that quiet that always came before something that mattered.
“Echo,” the interviewer began gently, “can you tell us what happened that day?”
Echo looked down at her hands first, twisting her fingers together like she was holding herself in place, and when she looked up again, her eyes were already glassy. She didn’t have to force it. The pain in her was real. The only thing she had to do was aim it.
“I just wanted it to stop,” she said softly. “I wanted him to leave me alone.”
Jamie inhaled beside me, and I felt the tremor in her body like a current. She was crying without making a sound, and I respected her for that because Jamie knew how to perform too when the moment demanded it. My wife had always been elegant, but grief had taught her a different kind of composure.
Echo continued, her voice breaking in the right places.
She spoke about fear and feeling trapped.
She spoke about the way Kay’Lo would show up, the way he wouldn’t let things go and the way she said she felt pressured and cornered.
She talked about his presence like it was something that invaded her life and wouldn’t let her breathe.
She described it like she’d been living under a shadow, and she made the shadow sound heavy enough that anyone watching would want to pull her out from under it.
When the interviewer asked if she believed she’d been sexually assaulted, Echo nodded before she even answered, and tears spilled down her cheeks as her voice dropped lower.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And I didn’t know what to do because I felt like I had no control.”
The room stayed silent except for her voice.
And listen, I wasn’t blind. I knew my daughter had made choices.
I knew she had danced around lines that never should’ve been played with.
I knew she liked attention, and I knew she could be reckless with her mouth and her emotions.
I knew all of that, and if my sons were still alive, maybe I would’ve handled it differently.
Maybe I would’ve made her sit in her mistakes until she learned.
Maybe I would’ve forced her to face what she did wrong, but my sons weren’t alive.
My sons were in the ground, and the man she was describing had pulled the trigger.