“Texas is home now. I plan to keep it that way.” Jamal keeps his fake grin.

It aches to watch Jamal hold his composure. He’s avoiding the topic as best he can. Mama’s scowl says she’ll slam it shut if Susan tries her.

“How long does your father have on death row?” Susan’s voice goes low.

“Two hundred and sixty-seven days.” I say it because knowing how long Daddy has left is the air I breathe. Time to live. To appeal. To turn back time.

Mama whips her head at me. The camera follows.

“Two hundred and sixty-seven days,” Jamal repeats. “That’s why we want to keep our family together and focus on the good.”

“Yes.” Susan touches Jamal’s shoulder this time. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be having your father in prison. Convicted of a double murder. Unimaginable.”

“Our father is innocent,” I say. “He’s been trying to appeal. But we don’t have the financial resources to prove his innocence.”

I’ve been writing to Innocence X to take Daddy’s case. They represent people wrongfully convicted and sentenced to death. Especially those in underserved communities. People who can’t afford their bail, let alone an attorney with a team of expert witnesses to prove their client’s innocence.

After seven years of letters and no response, I’m getting Innocence X’s attention. Today.

“If your father is innocent, I’m sure the system will work.”

“No,” I say. “The system has failed us. Continues to fail us.”

“I don’t know much about the details of his case, but we can talk after the show, since we’ve reached the end of the interview time. Jamal, what would you—”

She’s cutting me off. I can’t let her take this time away from me. I haven’t said enough. I stand so the camera is forced to focus on me.

“Do you know how many men have been put to death who were later exonerated postmortem?” I point to the camera. “What about conviction rates by race and class? The system works if you have the money to defend yourself.”

Backstage, the crew creeps to the edge of the stage. My legs are Jell-O underneath me. I’m close to collapsing right here, so I form a fist that fills me with courage.

“My father is innocent, and we have the evidence, but not the legal support to appeal his case. There are hundreds, thousands, of cases like his. Innocent people sentenced all the time.”

Susan’s spiderlike eyelashes blink rapidly. Her legs point toward Jamal because she knows this should be his interview, but the journalist in her focuses on me.

“What evidence do you have proving your father’s innocence?”

The producer throws his arms up in frustration.

“He was home all evening,” I say.