By Zachary Miller
I first met Mike in the spring of my freshman year. That’s not to say that I didn’t know who he was by then—he was a pretty recognizable figure on campus, being one of a dozen or so black kids in the entire school. I was always intrigued by him; he seemed like a real enigma: a tennis prodigy in baggy tennis attire.
I was trying out for the tennis team; he was the captain and the best player on the team, already getting looks from top division one schools as a junior. The team was flying down to Florida to train for the upcoming season, and it just so happened that me, Mike, and another kid, were to be roommates.
I improved my game in the hot Florida sun, but I most remember the nights I spent talking, playing cards, and watching TV with Mike. As the only two in our room who stayed up late, we formed a kinship of necessity, sprawled out on our separate couches in a dingy common room littered with food, watching History Channel documentaries on Bonnie and Clyde and Al Capone. The first night, we didn’t talk much, but by the third night, the TV had become a pretext for our conversation. We talked about life, about school, about girls. He told me about his home in the most dangerous neighborhood in Boston. He told me how much he hated tennis, even though he was so good. He told me how hard it was to adjust as the shyest of the few black kids at our tony prep school.
Back in school, wandering the halls, I was on constant lookout for one of Mike’s arms to come flying in from nowhere and put me in a friendly headlock. I did not make the Varsity team that year, but once a week I’d stay until their practices were over, hit with Mike, and shoot the shit.
There’s one Mike moment that I’ll never forget. It was the last day of school and I was looking down at the seniors preparing to graduate, when I felt a big warm headlock. I’ll never forget the next three words he said to me: “You my son.” It made me feel good; I knew I had a friend, a mentor, someone who’d always have my back.
Then, a few weeks later in June, came another three words I’ll never forget: “Mike’s in trouble.” It was my coach, calling to tell me that Mike was on the run, wanted, along with another kid, for murder. A couple of days later, he turned himself in and pleaded not guilty to charges for a murder that occurred just over a week before we went to Florida together.
I was pretty shocked, and pretty confused. I had a lot of questions. Did he do it? If so, why? If not, why was he being falsely accused? I knew that he sold drugs, but we never really talked about that part of his life. I think he had two lives, and he liked to keep them separate. I really just can’t imagine him wanting to kill someone, let alone actually doing it.
Unable to post bail, Mike was in jail for over two years before his case came to trial. The case against him was built purely on indirect testimony and hearsay; there was no DNA evidence against him and no eyewitness testimonial. His family and friends were very optimistic before the verdict; in fact, Mike’s older brother and I were starting to talk about our next legal move, about how we were going to sue the state for taking two and a half years off an innocent man’s life.
And again I was blindsided. Guilty. On all charges except first degree murder. The sentence was life with Parole. His brother tried to make it seem like a victory, and indeed life with parole is a lot better than life without parole (the sentence that comes with first degree murder). But that didn’t make things much better. I went home from school that day, and I cried for the first time in about a year. I felt empty, paralyzed, helpless.
Life is not fair.
I just can’t stomach the fact that a young, promising student, who had a chance to rise from tough circumstances and go to a good college, has had his life ripped away from him based on the words of another kid who was not even at the scene of the crime. It makes me angry.
We’re appealing, but I don’t have much hope. I don’t have much of anything. The only thing I know for sure is that I miss my boy.
