Maya Magaraci

Novel Chapter
Thursday April 7, 2016
Word Count: 1,281

Stereotyped
I swear, is all I could bring myself to say, standing in the middle of the
courtroom. Their word against mine and I always seemed to be shoved under the bus. I
dont even know how I got to this point in my life.
My dark, tattooed skin, did nothing to help my cause. The lack of hair on my
head was made up with greying, prickly scruff covering my face and I stood over six feet
tall with muscles the size of Texas. I might as well have had guilty written on my
forehead, but I swear, I did not do it. It was not me. I, Darius Fickley Johnson am
completely innocent. I did not attempt to kill or have anything to do with the attempted
murder of Brandon Collins. I didnt even know who the heck he was until he confronted
me at the police station.
My story could not get anymore clich. I was taken away from my parents at the
age of 12 years old and was put into the foster care system. Never being adopted, I
grew up in a group home with 17 other boys and girls in Thurson, a small town in
Chicago. I didnt like school, so, I never went. I didnt like people, so, I didnt allow
myself to get adopted. Not graduating high school and not going to college are my
biggest regrets in life. Although, just looking at me, you would never think that. Of
course he didnt graduate or get accepted into college. He probably didnt even apply.
That is what people think when they look at me. No one ever tries to get to know me,
the real me, because I am hidden under my stereotype. It isnt all the fault of others
though. I take it. I let people make assumptions and I let people talk down to me by not

sticking up for myself. My life could have turned out a whole lot different if I allowed it to.
Whenever families would come to pick out their next pride and joy I would start a fight. I
didnt want to be picked, so I didnt let myself. The group home was the only thing I
knew and I was too scared to get to know anything else.
Now that I am 36 years old and live on my own, I cant be scared anymore, yet,
that scares me even more.
I worked at a toothbrush factory making minimum wage and carried out my
passion of lifting weights using my employee included gym membership. I have always
hoped to save up enough money to take some business classes at Chicago Community
College. After that I wanted to open up my own gym. I did get my shit together enough
to earn my GED so I was already one step closer to pursuing my dream. When I finally
grew up, I realized that if I want something in life I have to work for it. Things are not just
handed to you and you should not let them be. My goal in life is what motivated me to
stay on track. Of course, only after realizing I had already screwed my life almost
beyond repair. Even with all of my newly discovered potential I was never seen as
anything other than my physical being. How I looked was said to be who I was. But, I do
admit, I let it happen. Until the day came that I was accused of the attempted murder of
Brandon Collins in the first degree.
Considering I did not even know Brandon I most certainly did not attempt to kill
him. I did plead guilty though. I have a reason, a reason not many could understand but
it enabled me to indirectly, finally stand up for myself.
On Tuesday, November 23, 2001 around 6:30 pm I heard a knock on my door. I
didnt know at the time that those three thuds on my front door would cause my whole

life to take a turn for the worse. I was delivered papers by a short, emotionless, pale
man who didnt even bother to say one word to me. The following week I was to appear
in court to let an insignificant court-appointed attorney testify that I didnt commit a crime
that even he was convinced I was guilty of.
Supposedly, I stabbed Brandon in the chest three times in the parking structure
of my apartment building a few weeks earlier. The evidence brought against me was a
witness who heard a cry for help but saw nothing, a composite sketch; described by
Brandon but drawn by an officer, and a police lineup in which Brandon carefully selected
me as the big, black guy that tried to kill him. All black guys look the same. In this
instance, that apparently was the case. I have a dark mole under my left nostril that
wasnt even in the composite sketch but the excuse was Brandon was in too much
shock to notice such a minor detail. No DNA evidence, video footage, or anything
tangible linked me to the crime. Yet, everyone seemed to know it was me. I am still
not even aware of my supposed motive. Was he sleeping with my girlfriend (that I did
not have)? Did he look at me in an offensive way? Did he take the last piece of fried
chicken? The world may never know. They will know one thing for certain though. Who
was not the one who tried to kill Mr. Collins.
In court I opened my mouth probably a total of seven times. I gave up trying. No
one listened to me, they just looked at me and criticized my whole existence. My lawyer
encouraged me to plead guilty, the jury thought I was a criminal, and the judge just
wanted to get on with his life. I couldnt help but stare at Brandon. Standing there,
almost half of my size with his freshly pressed button up shirt and shiny new penny

loafers. His nerdy disposition made him the perfect candidate for my said murder
attempt. I knew I couldnt stand up for myself when I was the only one who believed me.
No doubt in my mind, said Brandon it was him. Finally, I spoke for the last
time. The words being painfully forced out of my mouth as I pried open my lips and said,
I plead guilty.
I remember loud, predisposed gasps filling the courtroom. I KNEW IT! Yelled
Brandon when he pointed to me as I stood there swallowing my newly nonexistent
pride. Four loud bangs as the judge raised and lowered his gavel bringing order in the
court. The jury only took about thirty minutes to discuss my predetermined conviction
before they were interrupted by my guilty plea. The judge used his stern, monotoned
voice to administer me a sentence of 25 years in federal prison. As the deputy latched
the cold, hard, metal handcuffs behind my back around both of my wrists I could feel the
thick air filling my lungs with every breath I took.
I was using my brain to figure out how to get out of this situation that I should not
have even been in in the first place. Then, I knew. I had to actually use my brain. The
undeniable organ inside my skull would help me out of this. I had not one person to
persuade but a lot of people to prove wrong. The truth would come out and I would be
truly free...free from everything.