Grip Trilogy Box Set

“I’m a capitalist,” I interject before he can garner much support. “Ask me how much money I made on my last tour.”

I look out at the audience, playing into the curiosity on their faces.

“I have no idea.” I shrug. “Too much for me to keep up with.”

A smattering of laughter emboldens me to finish my point.

“I bleed green like the next American.” I look out to the audience instead of at Ford. “But I won’t stand by counting my money while innocent men sit in jail for months, years because they don’t have the resources to prove their innocence. Men like Kalief Browder. At sixteen years old, he was wrongfully accused and imprisoned for stealing a backpack. This innocent young man rotted in jail in Rikers Island for three years without a conviction—without a trial. Two of those years he spent in solitary confinement. He was little more than a child himself.”

I choke back anger and frustration at the miscarriage of justice. I can still see him in my mind, his young face and bright, intelligent eyes.

“He was never the same,” I continue quietly. “And when he was finally released—after three years, no trial, and no conviction—he later took his own life.”

Quiet descends over the crowded shop.

“I’m not asking for special treatment,” I say, looking back to Ford. “I’m begging for reform, working toward it, so our justice system won’t have the blood of boys like Kalief on its hands.”

The applause, loud and spontaneous, startles us both. We’ve debated for well over an hour in relative quiet because the moderators requested the audience hold their response. Red crawls up Ford’s neck and jagged displeasure seeps into his face. I look out, searching for Bristol in the crowd. She’s on her feet, applauding with a smile wider and brighter than I’ve seen in months. It was worth it. Sitting in this hot seat, unprepared and scared pissless that I’d let Iz down—it was all worth it to see that smile on her face.

“You were amazing,” she whispers when I come off the small

stage.

“Thank you.” I kiss the corner of her mouth, wishing all these eyes weren’t trained on us. “You ’bout to bounce? To meet Jimmi?”

“Nope.” She shakes her head, eyes locked with mine. “I asked her for a rain check. I wanted to spend time with my husband.”

I really hope “spend time” is a euphemism for “screw my husband till we pass out from exhaustion,” but I’ll get clarity later. I just nod and keep her close to me as I sign autographs and take selfies and whatever else fans and people from the audience come up with for me to do. I twist our fingers together and pull Bristol into my side. She tends to wander off for this part, gets impatient and fidgety and wonders how I put up with this long line of people. I’m a patient man. Waiting on her taught me to be patient. All those years when I wasn’t sure we would have this life together, that taught me patience.

Feeling this familiar closeness that I’ve missed, the closeness tragedy tried to steal from us, I’m not letting her out of my sight. Matter of fact, I’m tempted to send Amir in the car home ahead of us. Last time, we walked home from this very bookstore and were engaged by the end of the night. I’m considering shutting down the long line when someone taps my shoulder.

I turn to meet the cold calculation in Clem Ford’s eyes. Bristol’s fingers tighten around mine, a silent encouragement and warning. I tip my head slightly in her direction and nod, acknowledging her message: play it cool.

“Good job tonight, Mr. James,” he drawls, looking mighty self- satisfied for a man who ended the night with most of the room opposing his views.

“Thank you.” I can’t bring myself to lie and say he did a good job—a good job doing what? Being an entitled asshole? We’ll just leave it there.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying I was sorry,” he continues, even though my back is already half turned away.

“Sorry?” I glance at him over my shoulder, one brow lifted. “For?”

“For your loss, of course.” His voice pitches too low for the line of people waiting to hear. “I heard about the condition your daughter suffered from. It’s tragic really, but you know what many have long held about children from . . .”

His eyes flick in Bristol’s direction and then back to me. “Marriages like yours.” He pauses, a demon’s gleam in his eyes. “Some think those children are abominations. I haven’t seen pictures of her, but I’ve heard she—”

My fist is already arcing toward his face. I know it’s a cruel, clever trap. I know he’s pushing my buttons in the worst situation possible—with the cameras probably still rolling and in front of all these fans. He wants me violent, not civilized, educated, articulate, certainly not putting his flabby, pasty, bigot ass in its place, but knowing his agenda and letting this go are two different things. It’s too much for him to speak about Zoe like that. Before I can reach him, a blur of white separates Ford from me, and a crack sounds through the space. Collective shock ripples through the crowd as they watch my wife glare up at the shit bag destined for the hard end of my fist.

“You aren’t worthy to speak my daughter’s name,” she says, low enough for no one else to hear, fiercely enough to strip bark off trees in Central Park. “She did more in one day than you’ll do in your whole miserable life, you racist asshole.”

Ford’s hand touches the livid mark on his face and he sputters, but Bristol charges on before he can speak.

“You want to send someone to prison?” she asks. “Send me. Press charges against me.”

His eyes, narrowed and angry, telegraph his outrage as the event organizers, with Amir’s help, hustle everyone outside, even though people continue to look curiously over their shoulders at the drama unfolding. His supporters try to press close, but the event security herds them through the front door while a few stay close to us.

“I will press charges and—”

“Oh, please do,” Bristol interjects. “Then I can tell the whole world that you told a recently bereaved mother that her child was an abomination. Let’s see how quickly the sponsors for your radio show disappear then, Mr. Family Values. And the super PAC raising money for your future political aspirations—how long would it take them to withdraw their support?”