Chapter 42
Word of the appellate court’s ruling—that Hollis Montrose would receive bail—had spread like wildfire through newsrooms across America.
The question everybody was asking, at least those who weren’t present to hear it, was how much it would be.
Outside the courthouse, over twenty cameras crowded the view.
By the time Hollis’s crew exited the building and reached the bottom steps, they’d been ambushed by a barrage of news crews, and they hadn’t yet formulated their message.
A reporter yelled at at Rocky: “Since the appellate court granted your husband a reasonable bail, when will your family be getting him out of jail?”
A reporter yelled out, “Attorney Cooper, does this mean you’re going to appeal Judge Lambert’s new bail order?”
“No, even though we strongly disagree with the ruling, we will not appeal. We believe that would take too long, as Hollis Montrose is in a jail that’s not equipped to provide for medical needs.
He is literally fighting for his life,” Beau Lee said, pure adrenaline and emotion fueling his remarks.
“We will make our appeal to the good people in Chicago and across America to raise this astronomical amount of money. At this moment, the Free Hollis Montrose bail campaign begins. The outcome for Mr. Montrose will be decided by the charity and the goodwill of the people of this country. The justice we are seeking will come from us. We will free Hollis Montrose despite the judge’s ruling. ”
Beau Lee was filled with conviction. The activists started to chant until it reached a fever pitch: “Free Hollis Montrose! Free Hollis Montrose! Free Hollis Montrose!”
Beau Lee, Alvarez, and Capes escorted Rocky from behind the podium and headed to where a professional driver was waiting in an SUV. Tyrone and Jamillah were in close proximity as he clutched his pregnant wife’s hand.
As they entered the vehicle, Rocky asked Beau Lee, “Are you coming by the jail later?”
“I have a few things to see about, but yes, I certainly will.”
“Good,” she said. “I know Hollis might not show it yet, but he’s listening. I’ve been telling him about you and all the work you’ve been doing to help us. I know he’s smiling on the inside.”
“I believe he is, Mrs. Montrose.”
“I already told you, call me Rocky. And something tells me when he gets his wits back and properly meets you, you two are going to be fast friends.”
Beau Lee smiled, then shut the door. The vehicle backed out of the parking space while news crews clamored to snap more photos.
As they drove through the parking lot, a dark-green sedan sped up behind the SUV, then came around on the left side.
The passenger window lowered. Beau Lee felt fear in the pit of his stomach, like he was watching the worst-case scenario unfold in slow motion.
He began running toward the SUV, yelling, “Go! Drive!” fully expecting the barrel of a handgun or rifle to appear.
“Capes! Check the green sedan—it’s about to do something,” he yelled.
Capes and the press saw what was happening and started in that direction as well.
In an instant, arms extended out of the front passenger and back seat windows of the sedan.
“Die, nigger cop killers, die!” They began throwing eggs against the side of the SUV, and the impact was startling enough to force the driver to make an abrupt right turn.
He instinctively jerked the wheel, causing the vehicle to veer into the embankment.
The tires screeched and there was a barrage of horns as the sedan sped through the parking lot in the opposite direction.
Before the journalists and photographers could turn their lenses, Beau Lee started running in the direction of the green sedan.
“Boss, hold up!” Capes shouted. “Stop, wait a minute!”
It was as if Beau Lee couldn’t hear a thing as he continued sprinting after the green sedan.
He didn’t stop running, and with every step, he could feel the anger inside him boiling even more.
His rage had returned, and this time, it had blinded him to danger as he continued sprinting across the parking lot.
He ran another ten yards until he could no longer see the sedan.
Then, he looked back and realized that Capes had been sprinting behind him, and the news crews with their cameras had recorded the entire ordeal.
“They’re gone, boss,” Capes said, breathing hard.
“You get the license plate?”
“Didn’t have one.”
“Damn it.”
“They won’t get away with it,” Beau Lee said. “We will not be intimidated by these racist cowards. I refuse to let them. I won’t let them bury Hollis Montrose.”
The road to justice was fraught with moments like these, which were surreal and haunting and packed with pain.
These were strange days, Beau Lee thought, where a Black man could ascend to the highest office in the land, yet unarmed Black people were still being gunned down in the streets by police, and the families had to suffer further indignities like being pelted with eggs—and sometimes worse.
“People are sick,” Capes said. “No telling who or what might’ve been in that car.”
“Sick and crazy,” Beau Lee responded. “And it’s only going to get worse now that we elected the first Black president.”
“I hear you, boss,” Capes said, pulling him away. “But I gotta get you away from danger. Boss, you gotta remember there are a lot of crazy people out on these streets. My job is to keep you safe. You gotta listen to me. Let’s go!” He continued to pull him away as the news crews started to close in.