Ungodly Injustice

by Theresa A. Campbell

Genres: African American Urban

Synopsis

In the face of an unjust system, a teenager with a bright future may lose everything over a crime he did not commit, but his mother will do anything to see her son walk free.

Demarcus Jones is a star high school basketball player who earns a full athletic scholarship to one of the most prestigious universities in the world, when his plans are derailed by his arrest for a heinous crime he did not commit. For seventeen-year-old Demarcus of the Bronx, New York, it feels like he is caught up in a Twilight Zone, with a positive identification by the victim, overzealous detectives driven by the motto “guilty until proven innocent,” and a charismatic, undefeated District Attorney determined to prosecute him to the full extent of the law. Certainly, the truth will soon be revealed, and everyone will see he is innocent?

Unbeknownst to Demarcus, he is now the fall guy. For the real culprit, the truth can never be revealed at any cost, by any means necessary. He has too much to lose and enough resources to stay one step ahead of the law. He is wealthy and successful with a powerful family who has all the right connections to maintain his freedom. They are no match for the teenage boy and his single mother. It is a done deal.

However, Naomi Jones is not going down without a fight and refuses to let any ungodly injustice take her only son’s future away. It becomes a bloody war in the quest for truth and justice. One side is out for blood while the other side is pleading the Blood. Only one side can win. Will justice prevail?

Release date: February 24, 2026

Publisher: Urban Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Something smells amazing,” Demarcus Jones announced as he stepped into the cramped kitchen, his nose twitching in delight. “Is that ackee and saltfish?”

His mother, Naomi Jones, let out a warm chuckle. “Yup, with fried dumplings to go with it.”

“Yes! My favorite.” Demarcus slipped behind his mother as she stood over the stove, wrapping his muscular arms around her waist and resting his chin gently atop her head. “Mom, you’re the best. You know that, right?”

“And you’re my best, baby.” Naomi leaned back into her son’s embrace, a radiant smile lighting up her face. “What time do you go to work today?”

“I’m on the two-to-eight shift,” Demarcus replied, referring to his part-time summer job at JCPenney in Bay Plaza. “And after work, Marisol and I are catching a movie.” Marisol Fernandez, his girlfriend, was also working at JCPenney for the summer.

“Good, so you have time to do the laundry and clean up your room before you leave,” Naomi said, her tone matter of fact.

Demarcus groaned, “Ah, man.”

“Oh, yes, man.” Naomi, amused, turned off the stove and spun around to face her almost eighteen-year-old son. His broad, bare chest was a testament to his athleticism, and his pajama bottoms hung low on his narrow waist. At 6 feet 4 inches, Demarcus was the former captain and basketball star of Cardinal Spellman High School. It was during his sophomore year that he earned the nickname “DMan,” a title he carried with pride through high school and beyond.

“Do you know how proud I am of you?” Naomi’s eyes shimmered with emotion. “Stanford, huh?” She still sounded as if she couldn’t quite believe her son was heading to such a prestigious university. Demarcus had just graduated in May, earning a full basketball scholarship to Stanford for the fall.

“God is just so amazing,” Naomi continued, carrying a dish of golden fried dumplings to the small wooden table. This time, tears slipped down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry, Mom.” Demarcus crossed the room, kissed her cheek, and sat across from her. “You know I’m doing this for you, right?” His father had passed away before he was born; his mother was his whole world.

Naomi gazed into her son’s striking green eyes. “I want you to do it for you, baby. I’ve lived my life, and I’m fine.”

“No, once I become a top-notch lawyer, I’m going to buy you a beautiful house in Westchester and get you out of this little place,” Demarcus said, glancing around their tiny two-bedroom basement apartment on Adee Avenue in the North Bronx. He grabbed a fried dumpling and bit into it with gusto.

Naomi smiled, tearing off a piece of paper towel to dab her eyes. “I know you will, sweetheart. Thank you for always thinking of me.”

“You’ve done everything for me, Mom. One day, I’ll get the chance to repay you for all you’ve done.”

“Baby, you don’t owe me anything. I’m your mother. It’s my job to take care of you. I did it the best way I could, with God’s help.”

“We only have each other,” Demarcus replied softly. “It’s you and me against the world.”

“Yes, it is.” Naomi served herself some food. “Are you still off from work tomorrow?”

“Yes, Mom. I’m glad I’m off on Sundays.”

“Me too.” Naomi smiled sweetly at her son. “Sunday school starts at 10:00 a.m., and we’ll be there bright and early.”

Demarcus groaned. “Mom, I was planning on chilling tomorrow. You know what I mean?” He stuffed his mouth with food, his eyes fixed on his mother.

“You’ll be chilling all right,” Naomi replied, her voice firm. “In the house of the Lord. You hear me, Demarcus?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“You should always be happy to give God the honor and glory He deserves. He’s the one keeping us in this wretched world, and we should always be thankful.”

“I am, Mom,” Demarcus said quickly, hoping to head off the sermon he knew was coming. When his mother started talking about God, she could go on forever. “I’ll be in Sunday school and morning service. Okay?”

“Okay, baby.” Naomi’s smile was bright. “I want you to have a good relationship with the Lord, Demarcus. There will be times in life when He’s the only one you’ll have to lean on. It’ll be just you and your God. You hear me, son?”

Demarcus nodded, shoveling ackee and saltfish into his mouth.

“And please be home by midnight,” Naomi said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t want you out there too late on the streets.”

“Mom! I’m eighteen next month.”

“Bwoy, I don’t care if you’re eighty. As long as you live under my roof, you’ll obey my rules.” Naomi’s accent thickened with every word. She had immigrated from Jamaica over thirty years ago, but her Jamaican accent was still strong, especially when she was angry or passionate. “Yuh hear mi, Demarcus?”

“Yah, mon,” Demarcus replied, attempting a Jamaican accent. “Mi hear yuh.”

Naomi rolled her eyes, smiling. “Watch yourself, boy.”

After breakfast, Naomi hurried off to get ready for work. She pressed a kiss to Demarcus’s cheek before leaving around 8:00 a.m., setting off on foot toward the Gun Hill Road station to catch the number 5 train into Manhattan, where she worked as a housekeeper for the Moynihans.

Left alone, Demarcus dutifully tackled his mother’s instructions. He cranked up his headphones, letting hip-hop pulse through his mind as he attacked the chaos of his messy room. Once everything was in order, he gathered his dirty clothes, tossed in some detergent, slung the laundry bag over his shoulder, and headed out into the Bronx morning. The nearest laundromat was just two blocks away on Eastchester Road.

Laundry finished, Demarcus returned home, neatly putting away his clean clothes. He wandered into the living room, grabbed the remote from the entertainment center, and collapsed onto the well-worn brown suede couch. With a click, the television flickered to life, and he tuned in to one of his favorite channels, ESPN.

Minutes later, his cell phone, resting beside him on the couch, began to ring. Demarcus lowered the TV volume and answered, grinning as he recognized his best friend’s voice.

“What’s up, Jerry? How’s Hotlanta?” Demarcus chuckled, teasing. “Having fun down there with the folks?”

Jerry’s laughter boomed through the phone. “Shut up.” Jerry Mulligan and his parents, though Bronx natives, were visiting his grandparents in Atlanta for the summer. “We’re leaving for the airport now. I’ll be home tonight to take Marisol away from you.”

“In your dreams.”

The two friends bantered for a while, laughter echoing through the line, until Demarcus glanced at the clock mounted on the wall. “Jerry, I’ve got to get ready for work.”

“All right. You know I start my job at McDonald’s on Monday.”

“I told you to apply at JCP. You’d get discounts on some nice gear for college, but you prefer the food.”

Jerry laughed. “That’s right. I’ll take a Big Mac over shoes and clothes any day.”

“I hope you don’t get fired on your first day for eating out Mickey D’s.”

“Man, shut up.” Jerry was a notorious foodie, though you’d never guess it from his tall, slim 6-foot-3-inch frame.

“I’ll see you soon, foodie.” Still chuckling, Demarcus clicked his cell phone off and went to get ready for work.

Later that night, Demarcus exited the JCPenney building at around 8:30 p.m., dressed in dark blue Levi’s slim jeans, a blue-and-white striped Nike t-shirt, and a crisp new pair of white Nike sneakers, his mother’s graduation gift. His thick black curls, now trimmed into a low mohawk, framed his light complexion, freckles dusted across his pointed nose and high cheekbones, and his striking green eyes were features that often led people to mistake him for Hispanic.

The JCPenney parking lot buzzed with activity, cars and people coming and going. But Demarcus’s attention was captured by the stunning young woman standing a few feet away. She wore a tight, strapless white denim jumpsuit that hugged her slim figure, her 5 feet 6 inches elevated by three-inch platform sandals. Long brown hair, streaked with gold highlights, spiraled around her pretty face and cascaded down her back, settling comfortably atop her full curves.

Demarcus let out a low whistle of appreciation as he swaggered toward Marisol, whose ruby-red lips parted in a wide grin, her brown eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Hola, señorita,” Demarcus said, leaning in until their noses nearly touched. “Are you waiting for someone, gorgeous?”

“Mi novio guapo, señor,” she replied, playing along.

“Oh, your handsome boyfriend, huh? I think he’s a lucky guy,” Demarcus teased, grinning from ear to ear. “A fine lady like yourself.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.” Marisol giggled, her laughter light and musical.

“Tell him about this as well.” Demarcus kissed Marisol passionately.

When she finally caught her breath, Marisol grinned. “You know what? I just dumped him for you.”

Hand in hand, Demarcus and Marisol strolled toward the AMC Bay Plaza Cinema, laughter trailing behind them. The city’s evening buzz faded as they stepped inside, the neon lights of the theater flickering over their faces. They bought tickets to the new X-Men movie, then loaded up on nachos, popcorn, and sodas, their arms full as they made their way to their seats.

As the lights dimmed and the world of mutants unfolded on the screen, they lost themselves in the action and fantasy. Between mouthfuls of buttery popcorn and tangy nachos, they exchanged quick, secretive kisses, their fingers intertwined. They were young, carefree, and completely in love. Nothing else seemed to matter.

When the movie finally ended close to 11:00 p.m., Demarcus glanced at his watch, a hint of worry in his eyes. “I’ve got about an hour to get you home, and to get myself home before my mom starts tripping,” he said, half-joking, half-serious.

“Oh, so we’re on the same curfew now?” Marisol teased, her eyes sparkling. “I reminded my mom this morning that I just turned eighteen, and she told me she’s been around since my conception, so she’s fully aware of my age.”

They both burst out laughing, the sound echoing down the nearly empty hallway.

“They love us and want what’s best for us,” Demarcus said, his voice softening. “We’re lucky to have them.”

“Yes, we are,” Marisol agreed, squeezing his hand.

Demarcus glanced down at Marisol’s high-heeled sandals as they walked outside. “It’s probably easier if we walk up the road and hail a cab if you can manage in those shoes.”

Marisol rolled her eyes and gave him a playful slap on the arm. “Shut up. I want you to know I can sprint in these sandals if I have to.”

As luck would have it, a cab pulled up just then. Demarcus gave the driver directions to Marisol’s house on Bainbridge Avenue, and minutes later, they arrived. He paid the fare, then circled around to open her door, offering his hand like a gentleman.

Together, they walked up the flower-lined driveway, the scent of Mrs. Fernandez’s garden lingering in the warm night air. Marisol unlocked the door, and they slipped inside the quiet, welcoming house.

“Hi, Daddy,” Marisol called out, her voice bright as she and Demarcus entered the living room. Her father was sprawled comfortably on the couch, eyes fixed on the television.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Mr. Fernandez glanced over, his face lighting up at the sight of his daughter.

“What’s up, Mr. Fernandez?” Demarcus greeted him with a firm handshake.

“Demarcus, how are you, son?” Mr. Fernandez patted the cushion beside him, inviting Demarcus to sit. Demarcus obliged, settling in as Marisol curled up on his other side.

“How’s the summer going so far?” Mr. Fernandez asked, his tone warm and genuinely interested.

“So far, so good,” Demarcus replied with a relaxed smile. “No complaints, sir.”

“That’s good. Before you know it, you two will be off to college.” He beamed with pride, shaking his head as if still amazed by their achievements. “You at Stanford, and my Marisol at NYU. Full scholarships for both of you.” He clapped his hands together, the gesture brimming with disbelief and joy. “Who says you can’t achieve what the mind conceives?”

“Yes, you can, by the grace of God,” Mrs. Fernandez chimed in, her thick Spanish accent coloring her words as she leaned over the back of the couch. She wrapped Demarcus in a quick hug and kissed his cheek. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi, Mrs. Fernandez,” Demarcus replied, grinning.

“How is your mother doing?” Mrs. Fernandez asked, her eyes kind. The two women had become fast friends since their children started dating, always keeping a watchful, loving eye on them.

“She’s good,” Demarcus answered. “Probably home right now, taking out my clothes for church tomorrow.”

Everyone laughed at that, the sound filling the room with warmth.

It was around 11:35 p.m. when Demarcus finally told Marisol he had to leave. They were cuddled together on the couch, watching MTV, the house quiet now that Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez had retired to their bedroom.

“Do you want to come over after church tomorrow?” Marisol asked, her voice soft and hopeful. “My parents are going to visit my sister and their grandkids.”

Both of Marisol’s parents were immigrants—her father from Puerto Rico, her mother from the Dominican Republic. In search of a better life, Mrs. Fernandez had overstayed her visitation visa and lived undocumented for several years, until she met and married Mr. Fernandez. Together, they built a family in the United States, the land of opportunity. Their two daughters, Maria and Marisol, were born here, while Mrs. Fernandez’s older son, Carlos, remained in the Dominican Republic with his father until, a few years ago, she was finally able to bring him to New York.

“Okay, I’ll come by after dinner,” Demarcus promised Marisol. “I have to go now.”

“Want me to call a cab for you?” she offered.

“It’ll probably take a while for them to get here.” Demarcus glanced at his watch. “It’s better if I just walk out to Gun Hill Road and flag one down.”

Marisol walked Demarcus to the door, and they shared a lingering goodnight kiss.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Demarcus said, stepping out into the warm summer night. He strolled up Bainbridge Avenue, the city’s hum softened by the late hour. As he passed Montefiore Hospital heading toward Gun Hill Road, he spotted a number 28 bus idling at the stop.

A quick glance at his watch told him he could still make it home on time if he caught the bus instead of waiting for a cab. He broke into a jog and hopped aboard just as the doors were about to close. Swiping his MetroCard, he found a seat near the front, the city lights flickering past the window.

Ten minutes later, Demarcus stepped off at the intersection of Knapp Street and Gun Hill Road. He walked up Knapp, crossed over to Eastchester Road, and looked up the block. There, outside the deli at Hammersley Avenue, a group of men sat around a small table, playing dominoes, laughing, and talking.

“Yo, DMan!” someone called out.

Demarcus spotted his good friend and former basketball teammate, Trevor Richards, and hurried over, thinking, I’ll just quickly say hello.

“What’s good, Trevor?” he greeted.

Trevor stood and gave Demarcus a man hug. “Just chilling,” he replied, settling back into his seat. “It’s summer, right?”

“You know that’s right.” Demarcus grinned, then greeted the other men he recognized from the neighborhood, Mr. Afia, Tom Dunkley, and Jimmy Mason.

Demarcus and Trevor chatted for a little while, laughter and easy camaraderie flowing between them. Then Demarcus glanced down at his wristwatch and sighed. “I’ve got to run,” he said, realizing he was cutting it close to his curfew. Even though his mother might forgive a few minutes, Demarcus always tried to respect her rules.

“Curfew?” Trevor grinned, teasing.

Demarcus smiled back. “Give me a call and let’s try to hang out before college sneaks up on us. Cool?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” Trevor replied. He was starting Lehman College in the fall. “Catch you later.”

Demarcus took a few steps away, then noticed Ms. Lopez, the elderly woman who lived down the block, struggling across the street with at least three heavy plastic bags and a large, bulging tote slung over her shoulder.

“Let me help you with those, ma’am,” Demarcus called, hurrying over. He took all the bags from Ms. Lopez, his strong arms flexing under the weight.

“Thank you, dear,” Ms. Lopez said gratefully as they walked toward her house. “That’s very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Demarcus replied, carrying the bags with ease, his eyes fixed on her house just a short distance away.

Soon they arrived. Demarcus carried the bags through the short metal gate and set them by the front door. Fortunately, Ms. Lopez lived on the ground floor.

“Mama, is that you?” The door swung open, and Ms. Lopez’s adult son, Juan, stood in the doorway with a marijuana spliff dangling from his lips. “I’m starving up in here.” He made no move to help with the bags.

Demarcus shook his head in disgust. “Goodnight, ma’am,” he said, ignoring Juan.

“Goodnight, sweetheart. Thanks again for helping me with my bags,” Ms. Lopez called after him.

As Demarcus walked away, he glanced back and saw Juan still leaning in the doorway, watching his elderly mother haul the heavy bags inside.

“Real lowlife,” Demarcus muttered, a touch of anger in his voice. “I could never treat my mom like that.” He hurried across Gunther Avenue toward Adee Avenue, paying no attention to the small park across the street.

“Help me,” the young woman whispered, her voice barely more than a rasp, as she dragged herself across the unforgiving ground. Blood trickled from her split lips, her right eye swollen completely shut, her left eye clouded and stinging with tears and grit. Each word she forced out sounded thunderous in her own ears, but in reality, it was only a faint plea lost in the night.

Hope flickered and faded as she watched the tall young man’s silhouette retreat, his back disappearing into the darkness. He hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard her desperate call.

“Someone, please help me.” A wave of blackness crashed over her, threatening to pull her under. For a moment, she surrendered to it, her battered body limp. But as oblivion beckoned, a stubborn spark ignited within her. She clawed her way back to consciousness, refusing to let go.

I have to reach the road. No, it can’t end like this. Not here.

With every inch she crawled, sharp rocks and coarse dirt tore at her raw, bleeding skin. Agony radiated from every limb of her naked body, every breath a struggle, every movement a battle against the pain that threatened to consume her.

Still, she pressed on, inch by agonizing inch, willing herself toward the distant glow of the street, clinging to the hope that someone—anyone—would find her before it was too late.

“Thank you for calling Ferrari Investment Group. How may I assist you?” Bridget answered the phone with a bright, professional cheer. She listened attentively, then replied, “Certainly, please hold for your transfer.” With practiced efficiency, she pressed a button and set the receiver down. Within moments, the phone rang again.

Bridget managed each call with a genuine sense of enjoyment, relishing her summer job at the prestigious hedge fund in Lower Manhattan. She had just graduated from Cardinal Spellman High School and was set to begin her studies at Baruch College in the fall, majoring in finance and economics. While she had dreamed of landing an associate position, she considered herself fortunate to have secured this temporary role while the regular receptionist was on maternity leave.

“Oh, well, I’ll get an internship next summer,” she had reassured her parents. “At least now I get to meet people in the business and start building connections.” Her ambition was clear. One day, she wanted to be a stock trader on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange.

Her parents were delighted to see her so energized by her work. Yet, beneath her excitement, Bridget carried the scars of a difficult past. Though beautiful, she had struggled with her weight and self-image for most of her life. School had been a gauntlet of bullying, relentless teasing, and cruel nicknames hurled by thoughtless classmates. The principal and teachers did what they could, but the damage was done. Bridget had no close friends, rarely spoke unless spoken to, and moved through the halls with her head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor.

It was Demarcus Jones who changed everything during her senior year. Despite living across the street, Bridget and her parents in their stately brick house, Demarcus and his mother in a rented basement apartment, they had never truly known each other. At school, it was always the same. Demarcus, captain of the basketball team and boyfriend to the perfect head cheerleader, moved through the halls with effortless popularity. Bridget, by contrast, was nearly invisible, except to him. Whenever their paths crossed, Demarcus greeted her with a warm smile, never treating her as if she were invisible.

One afternoon, as Bridget stood at her locker, a group of girls suddenly surrounded her, forming a tight, mocking circle. Patricia Harris, the ringleader, sneered, “Hey, Bridget, we heard you’re the new poster girl for Jenny Craig.” Her words sent the others into fits of laughter.

“We heard you’re going to be wearing a bikini for your photo shoot,” another girl chimed in, and the group erupted again, their laughter echoing off the lockers.

Bridget stared at the floor, her tears splattering silently onto the tiles.

“Go, supermodel Bridget. You’re—”

A deep voice cut through the jeers. “I think that’s enough.”

All eyes snapped to Demarcus as he strode toward them, his face darkened by a scowl. “It’s not cool what you’re doing to Bridget.” He fixed Patricia with a hard look, then turned to the others. “If you bully her again, I’ll make sure everyone at school knows exactly what you’re doing.”

Fear flickered across their faces. Demarcus’s words carried weight, and being on his bad side would make them outcasts.

“I’m sorry, Bridget,” Patricia blurted, her bravado gone. “I won’t do it again.”

Her followers echoed her apology, waiting anxiously for Demarcus’s next move.

He reached into his backpack and handed Bridget a pack of Kleenex, something his mother always insisted he carry, though he rarely needed it himself. “Here, Bridget.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, dabbing her face with trembling hands.

“We truly are sorry,” Patricia said again, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bridget glanced up, noticing the fear and shame etched on their faces. They no longer seemed so high and mighty. “Okay,” she replied quietly.

Patricia and her entourage scattered, leaving Bridget standing with Demarcus.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Demarcus said gently. “I hope it doesn’t happen again.”

Bridget nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

True to their word, Patricia and her friends never bothered Bridget again. Thanks to Demarcus, her final year of high school became her best.

The summer job at Ferrari Investment Group was the cherry atop Bridget’s salted caramel sundae, a rare delight in her life, and it kept getting sweeter. Each morning, she felt a surge of pride as she stepped into the busy office, eager to prove herself.

“Good morning, sir,” Bridget greeted Angelo Ferrari, the acting CEO, as he strode through the lobby one day. He was impeccab. . .