TJ Anderson v. A Monster

         As the jury read the verdict, you could feel the divide. Half the room with their jaws dropped, 

sighing whimpers of relief while happy tears fog their vision. The other half… either getting up and 

walking out pissed off or staying in their seats trying their hardest to repress their anger, bottling up their 

fists as you can see the veins bulging from their neck and forehead. What was the verdict? First, we're 

gonna need the backstory. All the info from the trial of TJ Anderson v. A Monster.

May 13th, 1984. Started out like any other day - wake up, play my vinyl while brushing my teeth, get my coffee from the lil corner shop around the block then hop on the subway. Earphones plugged in, coffee in hand, suit all ironed. As the smell of rat piss and body odor fuck up my senses, I take a deep breath in… ahhh New York. 

“Next stop, Wall Street/William Street.” The monotone voice that takes over the bus says as I let go of the handle, bump into approximately 6 people on this crowded bus, and leave the doors. It's a short walk to the firm, but nevertheless a different one every time. Well... I see the same hobo as I usually do, we got a lil routine. 

“Hey Keith, you good today?” I say to a scruffy-looking, skinny and pale man with a smile as wide as Central Park plastered on his face. I handed him his bagel from the coffee shop, “Just how you like it K, toasted onion bagel with chive cream cheese and lox.”

“Cameron! Hi!” Keith responds as he stands up with his gray afro bouncing with every step. He snags the bagel out of my hands and starts immediately devouring it in front of me, “Mmm, it's perfect.”

“Same time next week?” I say jokingly, knowing damn well I'll be back soon. I pat his back as I wave goodbye and continue my walk. Time for my daily news intake, another usual activity, walking past the Radioshack on the corner and spying on the TVs from the outside.

~

BREAKING: New York City mogul, Vernon Barrett, found brutally beaten and murdered in his own penthouse in the Upper East side. Just days after he was diagnosed with the new plague taking the city by storm, AIDS

~

Mhm, what’s new?

After the breaking news, I kept walking until the sign to my right read Romano Law, time to get my day started. I enter and wait for the elevator alongside the “hot one” of the firm, Jazmine Connors. Standing there glistening in the fluorescent broken light of the lobby, she was swaying her long brown wavy hair from side to side, teasing all the men around with her slightly exposed chest.  

Bing! Elevators here.

“Hey Cam,” Jaz says as she plays with her glasses in her mouth and flips her hair to the side. 

I answered unamused, “Hey Jazz, how was your weekend?”

“Oh, you know, the girls went out, got pretty wasted, could've been better though,” she starts stroking my arm while looking up at me with her wide brown eyes,” when you gonna stop playing and come over?”

“Uhhh, soon. Yeah I'll call you soon.”

“Well, why haven't you?”

Cause I’m fucking gay Jazmine… is what I wanted to say, but it's the 80’s so…

“I…just…I'll be seeing you, Jazz.” I finish off the conversation as the ding of the elevator indicates that we've reached the fifth floor.  

“Hope to see you soon Cam.” Jazz flirtatiously states as she grazes my arm once again, gives me the eyes, and struts out of the elevator only to be greeted by stares from all the creepy middle-aged lawyers in here. I pass all the Johns and Richards (I call them Dicks) perving, knowing damn well they all think me and Jaz been fucking, but imma let them believe it, better than the truth. I turn the corner to my boring gray cubicle. Just some gray cotton stretched in the shape of a big ass box.

You see…it's boring on the outside, but the inside? That's my space.  

That's all mine. 

That lamp right there? Bought it from Ikea. That weird file organizer with three papers in it? Bought it from Ikea. My bouncy seat cushion? Surprise, surprise, bought it from Ikea. Not much happens over here, I don't do shit around the office. I mean, yeah I'm young but I'm just as good as the 50-year-olds who were born into this life. It's just hard for a white man to come to terms with the fact that “the black kid” can do his job just as good, if not better. I usually never get cases or my own cases at that. If I wasn’t tasked with calling some heartbroken 80-year-old woman about her “lost husband” who had been dead for years, I was to be the “proof of diversity” on court days. I wouldn't really know shit about the case until I sat there upon a judge and suddenly, BAM! I knew everything like the back of my hand, like I had been on the case for the past 3 years. 

The systems fucked. We all know it. Same shit different year. 

I sit back in my cushy black Ikea chair, wrap up my walkman, and get my 2nd cup of coffee ready. Time to relax, leaning back with my hands locked behind my head, but then I hear a hefty slam on my desk and feel a nice gust of air grazing through my Jheri curls. As I look to my right towards the mysterious “slam”, I take a double-take from my coffee mug to the slam then back to my coffee, then back to the slam. There was just no way. Was there something in my coffee? Was I seeing shit? In front of me lay a skinny little file with big red letters pasted reading “confidential” on the front. Immediately I set down my coffee and grabbed the file. I had so many questions but the temptation to just rip open the file was too immense to think about anything else.  

TJ Anderson, 19, Brownsville, NY - Victim Report.  

The cocky British voice that lives in my head takes over. Why is this my first and only bloody case? I keep reading and soon realize why. Nobody in my office knew that I “liked my own kind” so that wasn't why I got this case. I didn't get this case because the victim was gay and I was gay, no no no. I got this case because no one else wanted it. A case of a gay man, and on top of that a gay black man in New York? You kidding? In the ’80s? Of course, they would give it to the “water boy” of the firm, the kid who gets used and doesn't get to actually prove himself, the kid who's never even had a case before. Well then, lets take a look. 

Okay TJ, you dropped out in your sophomore year of high school, never got your GED. 

You've been working at an underground gay club, Swinging Richard’s, interesting name. You've been there for the past three years.

You have been associated with sex trafficking and prostitution.

You have an armed robbery charge from when you were 16.  

You got no trace of family, no emergency contacts.

You have no boyfriend or friends, that we know of.

You are in a coma right now with blunt force trauma to the head. 

You got facial and skull fractures, a broken left cheekbone, a broken right eye socket, a few teeth knocked out, and a fractured nose. An acute hematoma.

You got a broken rib, you bruised most of ‘em too. A fractured collarbone, bruises, and scars smothering your body. 

Method most likely used… good old punch, maybe some brass knuckles, kicking, curb-stomping, this one felt personal. A few hits could've been caused by a Glock, no shots but you were struck with it. The bruises on your body, they weren't done without purpose, someone aimed for you, someone was coming for you. Did you owe somebody money? Did you blow off the wrong guy?

As I continue reading about Tj’s case, I reach the photos of the crime scene. An alley, plain old concrete and brick walls, with a chalk outline and “caution” tape laying all over. A trail of blood spatters lead to the place where, ultimately, TJ’s numb body lay. The place where TJ was left to die, hurting and in insufferable pain. A trash can, imprinted with the face of a transformer, at the time, that was the logo for The Decepticons. He was found stuffed in a cold, rusty, rodent-infested freaking trash can!? My heart suddenly drops, my skin goes pale, and I collapse back as my past never hesitates to haunt me…

Suddenly I'm not in my office anymore, hell I'm not even a lawyer anymore! I'm back in my hometown, back in West Harlem. Back to my little nine-year-old self with my oversized sweats that gave my lil’ body a hard time walking without tripping. 

I’m sitting on our dark brown cushy couch in between two big grease stains. The left one from pizza, the right one from fries and ice cream. I look down at my dangling feet and my beat-up red Puma Clydes with holes at the little toe. I gazed around, it was like a movie. Everyone just bobbing their heads to “Sir Duke” by the man himself, Stevie Wonder. The bright colors of everyone's outfits - the strong and beautiful grown women in their bell-bottom light-wash jeans, a cute little halter top with their hair all blown out, then adorned with big pearl earrings making their smiles glisten even more. The men with their baby blue pant-shirt combo, of course with the ruffles down the middle and their staches just as bushy as their brows. The older folks sitting down with a beer in their right hand while fighting the urge to fall asleep on the couch, cause, after all, it was 8 pm. Then the younger adults get blackout drunk, just chatting and rambling as parents do. 

I was way too young to drink and way too old to be going to bed at 8 frickin o'clock, so what was I to do? I was inspired by some of the outfits that people had on tonight, I mean damn. I decide to hop off the couch, squeeze my way through crowds of drunk people grooving and head upstairs. I walk into my parent's room, gliding my hand across the paisley wallpaper that was peeling off from the corners on my journey to the closet. I find myself ignoring the button-up shirts, the loafers, and suits. My body gravitates towards the dresses, the pearls, the makeup, Mama’s side. 

 The timing was impeccable. I grabbed the pumps just as the next song on the radio came on and suddenly the Queen herself filled my senses with “A Natural Woman” and I got to work. 

First step? Makeup. Put some blush on, a little mascara, nice red lip. Now… we have the shoes - a chunky heel, about three inches, thick strap all in a decadent gold. How about a nice black dress? I sifted through the hangers and pulled out a nice fluffy dark gown, plopped her on, and made my way over to the vanity for the most important part…accessories. I use Mama’s fake gold hoop clip-ons to complement my twinkling smile and her diamond-filled chain to tie everything together. I pucker up, put on her ruby red gloss, and throw on some extra bronzer and blush anywhere that wasn't touched. Staring in the mirror, I give myself a wink, blow myself a kiss and head downstairs to show everyone my new look. I steadily creep down the stairs, trying my hardest not to fall in these damn pumps. 

My effort wasn't good enough, as I got to the last four steps…and ate shit. The thud was so loud that everyone stopped their conversations, put down their wine glasses and bud light cans, and rushed to the stairs.  

A gasp filled the air as I was in the spotlight, looking fucking fantastic if you ask me. Everyone seemed like it was all fine, trying to make me feel better, but as Auntie Tasha was helping me up, Pops burst through the crowd of people, picked me up by Mama’s necklace, and dragged me. Out the house, down the front steps into the freezing cold snow as he threw me in this frigid metal box.

“Fuck you doing wearing yo Mama’s clothes huh?” He says while he smacks me “You wanna be like your Mama, huh?”   

Mama came rushing out, “Khiyon! No! What the hell are you doing to my baby?” trying to push pops off of me, Mama was useless. With my hurting body in his right-hand grip, he used his left hand and shoulder to brush her off and back her down. “It's just dress-up Khi, calm down!” ignoring Mama, he continues badgering me with his words and his fists. Tears begin to stream down her face as he starts to pick up the lid of the can and smush me deeper into the bin. I fought back, hard…until I gave up and gave in to the bin. As I was trapped, I could hear muffled screaming from my parents. 

“You want our son to be gay huh? You want our son to be a fucking f*****?”

“He's our baby boy, Khiyon! He's eight fucking years old, he don't know who he is yet.” 

My mama's voice fades out as the photos of the crime scene fade in. back at my desk, I can't stop rifling through this case, through TJ’s pain. As I looked out the window to clear my mind, the skyline was non-existent as the sun had gone down and I had spent my whole day reading about you, TJ. 

Feeling tired enough to get cozy in my bed but not tired enough to sleep, I pack up TJ’s files, plop them in my “suitcase”, AKA my old high school backpack, and head out the building.

Past the TV’s, past Keith, past the coffee shop, onto the train, and back to Crown Heights. I get my keys from my bag and jiggle them in the keyhole for a good 45 seconds, my door's kinda broken. I enter and realize my day has come to an end as the creaking of every step follows me into my apartment. Immediately, I swing off my loafers, unzip and whip off my coat, then collapse onto my bed, file in hand.  

Where could I find you now, TJ? I ponder as I re-open the file. Ah, there you are, Kings County Hospital, huh… looks like you'll be meeting your representation tomorrow. Get ready Mr.Anderson, cause we ain't losing.

All I remember was reading about TJ, then all of the sudden, the deadly sound of my alarm goes off and I wake up from my slumber. As I attempt to open my eyes, I stretch my half-dreaming body but hear crinkles. The file? All its content was scattered all over me and my bed. I quickly get up, swipe the drool off my face, gather all the files, and get ready to head off. Head off, not to the office, but to the hospital. 

Lucky for me, King’s County was close, so I walked over there with the sounds of beeping cars and hobos yelling and hollering, a classic “Good Morning” from the Concrete Jungle, per usual. I entered through the glass double doors and marched up to the concierge.

“Hi, um I’m looking for TJ Anderson, what room is he in?” I asked Cynthia, the lady at the service desk, but she was hesitant. As she was about to ask if I was “Friends or family” I showed her the case file and she let me through. 

“Room 347 in the east wing.”

Okay… 343, 345, here we go 347. Before I walk into the unknown, I glance through the glass shutters that surround TJ. There he was, smothered in a cast, body stiff, head wrapped. Alone… no flowers, no teddy bears or balloons, just the day-old vanilla pudding and boxed orange juice from the hospital pantry. I knock, wait a second then open the door. 

“TJ?” I hear nothing, “TJ?”

“Oh!” leaping up from his seat in shock, “Yeah, I'm here. Who the hell are you?”

“I'm, um, I’m Cameron, Cameron Cooper, your attorney?”

“Attorney? Attorney, oh yeah. So, what am I supposed to do here?”

“Well, over the next few months we'll be trying to get you justice, and just know that whatever you say stays between me and you.”

“Cool.”

“I just have a few questions, if that's okay, answer to the best of your ability,” he nodded and waved at me to proceed, so I did, “What did you do the day of April 3rd, the day of your attack?”

“It was a regular day. I woke up at like 4 pm, went to get food and watched some tv, went to work, then got my ass handed to me after that. 

“Did you know/ recognize any of the attackers?”

“No.”

“Did you see any of the attackers' faces?”

“No.”

“Why? Were you blindfolded?”

“No…it was all just… all, it was all so quick.” He said with panic and anxiety running through the cracks in his voice.

“Okay, okay, TJ breath.” I responded. “ Do you know why this happened to you? Why would someone want to hurt you like this?”

“ I don’t know man, I'm a gay black man, maybe that's why. Maybe it's because I work in a gay strip club, maybe it's because they can see these bruises that cover my body.”

“Bruises?”

“Yeah, it ain't say that in your little papers over there? Thought those had my whole life in there.” he stated pointing to my left side where I was holding the case file.

“What do you mean?”

“Forget it, it doesn't matter.” Confused by his response, I act as if he never said anything cause he gives me loving eyes, “I'm doing what I can.” He sings with a slight grin growing on his bandaged-up face. Awww, there was a kind soul behind the layers of plaster. Before I knew it, I had been at the hospital for hours. 

Soon, and pretty damn quickly, these hospital visits became a daily occurrence as I found myself in Kings County more than my own damn office. Through these months of prep and getting to know TJ, I realized everything he told me on day one was bullshit.

A few weeks before the “big day”, I took TJ out to dinner, near King’s County. We got some burgers, knocked down some brews, and got to talking.  

“Everything we talk about is like…confidential right?” He whispers ever-so lightly.

I look TJ in his eyes as I put down my burger, wipe my mouth with the crumpled up napkin on my lap and respond, “Yup, it’s called ‘attorney-client privilege’.”

“Okay, in that case, I have some shit to tell you.” Gesturing for him to continue, I listened intently. What the hell is it now… 

“You ever see that story about that New York hotshot, the one with AIDS?”

“Vernon Barrett? The one who got killed by the Decepticons, right?”

“Yeah, it all starts there.” He says preparing himself for a vacation to his past. “I used to mess with him, he was a regular at the club. You’d be surprised about how many of the ‘it guys’ are actually closeted gays. Anyway, yeah, we were going heavy for a good few months then…” he took another breath, slowed down his pace, “then he gave me AIDS.” “

“Your bruises?”

“Yup, HIV,” he states as he leans his head downward resting his head in his hands. I grab his hands, with care. 

“Well, you're still gorgeous,” I said with a smile on my face while one started to grow on his. 

“How does this relate to your attack though?”

“Remember when you asked me if I saw or knew any of the attackers?” I nod, scared to hear what's coming next, “well… I did. I do.” Waiting for him to keep going, we both paused for a good 15 seconds. “His name, Deandre Parker.” I had never told him the plaintiff's name, he wasn't lying. “We grew up together, in Brownsville. Always been best friends actually,” trying my hardest to not drop my jaw, I lean back, rest my hands on my lap and listen. “It got physical a few years ago when we were 16. There was a party on our block, and we were all fucked up, obviously. Everyone knew I was ‘the gay one' of the block, but nevertheless, I felt loved. It was near the end of the party, we both went outside to take a leak in the backyard, and as we headed back into the house, Dre, sorry Deandre cornered me against the wall, put his forehead on mine, and before I knew it, his soft lips had become one with mine. I had always been in love with Dre so I wasn't gonna resist. When our lips touched, I knew this was something special. We continued having sneaky hangouts and sneaky sexual relations. Even when I was with Vernon, Dre was always my #1. It was like Vernon was my boyfriend, my fling, but Dre was my husband, the one I was destined to be with. We kept it on the down-low, always, but especially when he switched up.”

“Switched up, what do you mean?”

“He stayed in Brownsville, with his boys and they were tight, but there was always something that Dre felt excluded from. He was the only one that wasn't affiliated. He wanted to prove himself to the boys, to the streets, and to himself, so he got initiated into The Decepticons.” 

Oh… S***! 

“To make a long story short, Dre didn't know about Vernon, Vernon ain't know about Dre.  Was I playing them? Maybe, but I knew my heart was always steered towards Dre. Vernon ended up giving me AIDS, so I had to tell Dre I was diagnosed before I gave anything to him. I thought I was doing the right thing, little did I know it was too late,”

“How did that go down?”

“I mean, he was obviously scared that I had AIDS but he was more mad at the fact that it meant that I had to have had sex with someone else. Dre didn't know who the ‘other guy’ was until he came into the club one night. He saw me dancing up on Vernon, and came up to me. I told him that I had been messing with him recently and that Vernon made me feel special, but Dre took that away. That night he beat him up pretty damn ferociously, throwing him up against the club walls and pummeling him down to the ground. But, however battered and bruised Vernon was, he still walked out of the club breathing. Then three days later, I see the news of this mogul found brutally beaten and killed in his penthouse apartment. I immediately assumed it was Dre, but when I saw the photos on the news, I saw their logo, the transformer, and the sign of the Decepticons. I knew he was coming for me next, especially when I had found out that I had given him the disease too…” he takes a bite out his turkey burger. 

 Does it stop there? 

“Sorry I had to refuel right quick.” TJ said, shoving his burger in his mouth as if he hadn’t eaten in days. 

“All good, take your time,” I say as I also pick up my burger and take a few sips of my coke to get ready for the rest.

“It all went down one night, we had plans to meet up in the back alley of the club after my shift.” another deep breath “ As I was packing my things up and opening the backdoor to the alley, I was bombarded. Hit with a pistol, then slammed down and thrown on the concrete, I was getting assaulted. My body lay there, numb, high, confused, and terrified. I looked up to see a terrifying sight, the face of danger, the eyes of Dre, the eyes that had just told me they loved me, the eyes that I loved. How could he do this to me? I stayed crumpled up in that trash can for hours just crying, thinking why did this have to happen to us?”

Our dinner continued, our talks did not end anytime soon. We went to lunch every day for the days to come before the case, only making me need this win more than anything. 

The sun had risen, and the day had arrived. I woke up with an extra pep in my step, put on my nicest grey suit and black loafers, got my backpack, and walked over to TJ’s. I could see the fear in his eyes, as soon as I spotted him on the corner. 

“We got this TJ, we gonna do what we can, stay strong.”

We had arrived, standing with fear and power in our eyes. 

We link arms, look up high, walk with strength, with pride with TJ to my left. March up the big marble stairs, through the protestors and their signs, and finally through the 15 feet tall wooden doors that will determine TJ’s fate as a safe man.

Sitting on the cold benches outside the courtroom, the tension of the waiting game almost took us over, but the doors opened just in time. We get up, breathe deep and stroll down the orange carpet passing the “audience” for our little “show”. Everyone sits down as the judge wanders out dressed in his big robe that flowed with every step. 

The prosecution said their opening statements, and I did mine. The tension only rose higher and higher. 

The prosecution stood up and spoke out, “We would like to call plaintiff Deandre Parker to the stand, your Honor.”  

“Proceed Mr. Parker” The judge nods as DeAndre gets up from the table to our right and makes his way to the stand. As soon as his face appears in front of the crowd, the first thing he does is look at TJ with love in his eyes. TJ, not falling for that bullshit, resisted hard and looks down, then up into Dre’s eyes with not love, but revenge, anger. 

The prosecution went on with their questions, trying to undermine TJ and make it seem like it was his fault, typical. Next, it was my turn for questionning…

“Hello, Deandre. How are you doing today?” I say while rising from my seat and walking toward the stand. It is always a good idea to make them think y'all are friends. 

“Hey, uh, I'm as good as you can be, I guess.”

“Is it true that you have known Mr.Anderson since you were little?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true that you and Mr.Anderson had a romantic relationship?”

Clearly embarrassed by this question he quietly whispers “yes” into the mic.

“I'm sorry Mr. Parker, what was that?”

“Yes.” He responds with hostility in his tone.

“ And is it true that you beat, battered, and murdered Mr. Vernon Barrett, the ex lover of Mr.Anderson, out of jealousy?”

“Your Honor, objection. Relevance?”

“Sustained. Mr. Cooper, wrong case.”

“My bad, your Honor. Is it true that my client gave you AIDS?” the crowd gasped.

“Uh, isn't that a little too personal?”

“Its motive, Mr. Parker.” Dre looks at the judge to see if he would say anything, unfortunately for him, the judge was awaiting his response like the rest of us “Do you or do you not have AIDS?”

“Yeah,” coughing to clear his throat, “I do. From him.”

“Is that why you beat your love? Why did you brutally vandalize my client? Why did you leave him in the trash can suffering? Did you love him?” getting closer to the stand, I start to get louder, “Do you love him? Did you ever love him”

“Mr.Cooper!” the judge exclaimed as he slammed his hands on the stand. “Do you not know professionalism?”

Fuck, I fucked up. “I'm sorry your Honor, no further questions.”

Before I knew it, it was time for jury deliberation, and lemme tell you that was the longest three hours of my life. There we were, holding hands in a courtroom. It felt as though everyone's eyes were steered in our direction. Then there's Dre to our right trying to catch the eye contact of TJ, no chance. 

As the jury read the verdict, you could feel the divide. Half the room with their jaws dropped, sighing whimpers of relief while happy tears fog their vision. The other half… either getting up and walking out pissed off or staying in their seats trying their hardest to repress their anger, bottling up their fists as you can see the veins bulging from their neck and forehead. We walked out, still with pride in our eyes, still standing strong holding hands. Slammed opened those big wooden doors, took a deep breath of fresh air from a world of injustice.  

There you have the story of TJ Anderson v. A Monster.