Chapter 48
The South Side Community Art Center had become the base of operations for the Hollis Montrose Bail Fund, its organizers, the fund’s leadership, and volunteers. Many nights were spent there counting all the donations.
After two weeks of consistent efforts by Rocky, Beau Lee’s legal team, and the community, the final donation numbers were calculated just before midnight inside the center, where a small group of Hollis’s supporters had gathered.
Beau Lee, Rocky, Capes, and Harpo were all present, awaiting the final tabulation.
At the center of the room, DeShawn Perry, the lead organizer of the bail fund, was hunched over a laptop tallying the last of the donations. He muttered calculations under his breath, the clicking of the keyboard the only sound in the space.
Harpo paced near the edge of a table with his arms crossed. Rocky stood near the door, her hands clenched at her sides.
Beau Lee had been patient for the last few hours, but he couldn’t wait any longer. “What’s the number?” he asked.
DeShawn exhaled and turned the laptop screen toward them. “$28,672.”
The room went still.
Rocky massaged her temples and took a sharp breath.
Capes let out a low whistle. “Man. We worked our asses off.”
Nellie muttered, “Not even close.”
Harpo shook his head, voice tight. “Not enough. Not even close to enough.”
Rocky sat down on a folding chair and stared at the floor.
DeShawn leaned forward, running a hand down his face. “We made a dent. But a dent ain’t bail.”
Silence.
Rocky finally lifted her head, her voice quiet but unshakable.
“Lord, you gotta help us. We’re doing all we can.”
Beau Lee nodded, but the words sat heavy in his chest.
Outside, the city moved on—cars honking, neon lights flickering, laughter spilling from restaurants and bars.
Inside the community center, in a cramped room filled with the weight of despair, the team sat in silence.
They had worked. Fought. Sweat. Pushed.
And it still wasn’t enough.
Hollis wasn’t just waiting for bail anymore—he was running out of time.
And the number on the spreadsheet was more than just short—it was a death sentence.
Suddenly, Jamillah stood up, breaking the silence. Almost hysterical, she screamed, “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening right now!” Tyrone jumped to his feet and said, “J, what is it?”
Rocky saw the puddle at Jamillah’s feet and said, “Oh my God, her water broke!”
DeShawn said, “I’m calling 911. She’s going into labor!”