The Injustice of Room 206: A Deep Dive into Roy and Celestial’s Story
I remember my husband asleep in our room while a woman, six years older than his mother, claimed she was a victim in **room 206**. She spoke of a **false accusation** and a door that didn’t seem secure. Despite her paranoia, she couldn’t stay asleep. Before midnight, a man twisted the knob—a moment that would lead to a **wrongful conviction**. It was dark, but she believed she recognized **Roy Othaniel Hamilton**, the man she met at the ice machine who mentioned **marital conflict** and fighting with his wife. She claimed this was her last time being at the mercy of a man, suggesting Roy was smart enough to **cover his tracks** like a character on TV, but unable to erase her memory.
However, she couldn’t erase mine either. This is a story of **alibi and justice**; Roy was with me all night. She doesn’t know who hurt her, but I know the man I married.
I married **Roy Othaniel Hamilton**, whom I first met during our **college years at an HBCU**. Our **relationship timeline** wasn’t immediate. He was a nineteen-year-old playboy, and I was a focused transfer student at **Spelman College** after a difficult year at **Howard University** in DC. My mother, a Spelman alumna, wanted me to find “bone-deep friendships,” but I stayed close to Andre—the boy next door since we were three months old.
Andre actually introduced me to Roy at **Thurman Hall**. I often stayed in Andre’s room—a **platonic friendship** no one believed—where he slept atop the covers and I huddled beneath. Before our formal introduction, a “sex-breathy” voice from the other side of the wall shouted his full name: **Roy Othaniel Hamilton**.
Andre joked, “You think he asked her to say that?”
I snorted at the mention of “**Othaniel**.”
“Doesn’t strike me as a spontaneous utterance,” Andre said as we giggled, listening to the twin bed thump against the wall, questioning the **authenticity of the encounter**.
I didn’t meet Roy in person for another month. Again, I was in Andre’s room when Roy walked in at 10 a.m. looking for laundry change. He entered without knocking, and that was the moment our **destiny and domestic life** began to intertwine.
## **The Cost of Injustice: How the Legal System Challenged Roy and Celestial’s Marriage**
“Oh, excuse me, ma’am,” Roy said, his voice carrying a surprised tone that would eventually define our **relationship dynamic**.
“My sister,” Andre replied, clarifying our **platonic bond**.
“Play sister?” Roy asked, trying to decipher our connection.
“If you want to know who I am, ask me.” I must have been a sight, styled in Andre’s maroon-and-white T-shirt with a **satin bonnet** protecting my hair, but I had to assert my identity.
“Okay, who are you?”
“**Celestial Davenport**.”
“I’m **Roy Hamilton**.”
“**Roy Othaniel Hamilton**, from what I hear through the wall,” I countered, referencing the thin walls of our **HBCU dorm life**.
We stared at each other, a moment of **intense chemistry** where we waited to see what kind of **love story** this would become. Finally, he broke eye contact to ask Andre for a quarter. I flipped onto my stomach, a casual gesture that prompted Roy to say, “You something else.”
Once he left, Andre warned me that Roy’s “Gomer Pyle” persona was just an act. I agreed; he felt like “danger,” and after my **academic transfer from Howard University**, I wanted peace.
We didn’t speak for four years until our **fortuitous reconnection in New York**. By then, my fear of “peril” had evolved into a craving for “realness.” But what defines a **real relationship**? Was it our first meeting, our **New York City romance**, or the day our lives were upended by the **criminal justice system**?
The turning point came in a small-town courtroom where a **prosecutor** labeled Roy a **flight risk**. Despite his **deep roots in Louisiana**, the state used his Atlanta residence to deny him **bond or bail**. Roy’s caustic laugh summed up the irony: “So now roots are irrelevant?”
Our **defense attorney**, a high-paid family friend, filed **legal motions** and objections, promising I wouldn’t lose my husband. Yet, Roy endured **wrongful pretrial detention**, spending one hundred nights behind bars. I stayed in Louisiana with my **in-laws**, living in the very house that should have been our sanctuary, waiting for a **fair trial** that felt further away every day.
## **The Weight of Testimony: Character Witnesses and the Fight for Justice**
I waited and I sewed, staying in a home that should have saved us this trouble. I sought emotional support, calling Andre and my parents. When it came time for my **entrepreneurial work**—sending the mayor his custom doll—I couldn’t bring myself to seal the cardboard box. Big Roy did it for me, but the sound of ripping tape became a recurring symptom of my **anxiety and trauma**.
“If this doesn’t go the way we want it to,” Roy said the day before his **criminal trial**, “I don’t want you to wait for me. Keep making your dolls and doing what you need to do.” I offered him a promise of **legal exoneration**: “This is going to work out. You didn’t do it.” But Roy was looking at a **mandatory minimum sentence**. “I can’t ask you to throw your life away for me,” he said, his eyes and words speaking two different languages. I had faith then; I believed in **justice and truth**.
**Andre** showed up for us as a dedicated **character witness**. He had been at our wedding and now he was at the trial. Before the hearing, I performed a symbolic act, cutting the dreads he had grown for four years. When I was done, he ran his fingers through the remaining curls.
The next day, we entered the **courtroom**, dressed in a way that signaled innocence and **respectability**. My parents and Roy’s parents, Olive and Big Roy, were there—a picture of a “poor-but-honest” family. My father appeared “equally yoked” to my mother. Watching Roy, he looked like a perfect match for our world—clean-shaven, in a well-tailored coat and fine leather shoes. However, the **county jail detention** had changed him; he was leaner, with a squared-off jaw. The only sign of his **mental health struggle** was his hands; he had chewed his nails down to the meat. My sweet Roy—the only person he ever hurt was himself.
What I know is this: the **jury of twelve** did not believe me. They didn’t take my word as an **alibi witness**. I stood in front of that room and explained that Roy could not have committed the **sexual assault** in room 206 because we were together. I testified about the **Magic Fingers** bed and the snowy television.
## **The Verdict: DNA Evidence, Courtroom Bias, and the Price of a Wrongful Conviction**
The **prosecutor** questioned our marital history, asking what we had been fighting about. Rattled, I looked to Roy and our mothers. My **defense attorney**, Uncle Banks, raised a **legal objection**, so I didn’t have to answer; however, the silence created a negative perception of our young marriage. Even before I stepped down from the **witness stand**, I felt I had failed him. I wasn’t “dramatic” enough; perhaps I was too “not-from-around-here.” My **legal counsel** coached me to show “all heart” to the **jury**, but I only knew how to be “well-spoken.”
I wished I could have presented my art—the *Man Moving* series—as **character evidence**. I wanted to show the **jury** my dolls and watercolors to prove his gentle nature. But I only had words, and they felt as flimsy as air. As I sat by Andre, even the lady on the **jury panel** refused to make eye contact.
I realize now that my expectations were shaped by **forensic crime dramas**. I expected a **DNA forensic scientist** to testify or detectives to burst in with **exculpatory evidence** proving a “major misunderstanding.” I fully believed in a **legal exoneration** that would let us return home and discuss the systemic reality that no Black man is truly safe in the **American justice system**.
Instead, they handed down a **twelve-year prison sentence**. We would be forty-three upon his release—a lifetime away. Roy collapsed at the **defendant’s table**, sobbing with a grief that spanned from childhood disappointments to this final heartbreak.
As Roy wailed, I touched the scar tissue on my chin—a souvenir from the night of the **police raid**. Whether they kicked the door or used a plastic key, the result was the same: we were pulled from our bed. They dragged my husband into the parking lot while I followed in a white slip, lunging for him as my chin hit the pavement. We lay there on the asphalt, parallel like burial plots. **Husband and wife**, torn asunder by the state.
## **The Arrest and the Aftermath: A Story of Trauma and Systemic Injustice**
Somebody pushed me to the ground, and my chin hit the pavement—a moment of physical **trauma and personal injury** that would leave a lasting scar. My slip rode up, stripping me of my dignity in front of everyone as my tooth sank into the soft of my bottom lip.
Roy was on the asphalt beside me, a victim of a **wrongful arrest** and barely beyond my grasp. He was speaking words that didn’t reach my ears, lost in the chaos of a **police encounter** gone wrong. I don’t know how long we lay there, parallel like burial plots, our **civil liberties** evaporating in the night air.
Husband. Wife. We were a living testament to a **broken justice system**. What God has brought together, let no man tear asunder—yet here we were, facing a **legal separation** forced by the state.
Russia Breaks Diplomatic Relations With Israel
Russia has voiced its concerns over the recent actions of the Trump administration, specifically regarding the capture of Nicolás Maduro in Venezuela. The regime change in Venezuela evokes mixed reactions, with some in Russia characterizing it as “armed aggression” against a sovereign nation. Following the U.S. military actions leading to the capture of Nicolás Maduro in Venezuela, Russia has reacted sharply, escalating tensions not only with the U.S. but also with other nations, notably Israel.
The diplomatic strain between Russia and Israel, following the U.S. military actions in Venezuela resulting in Nicolás Maduro’s capture, can be connected through several interlinked factors: Perception of U.S. Aggression; Strategic Alliances; Geopolitical Realignment following the Israeli victory in the Oct 7th 2023 Abomination War which radically changed the balance of power for European States like Russia, England, and France across the Middle East unto the Horn of Africa.
Russia characterizes the U.S. military actions in Venezuela as “armed aggression,” framing it as part of a broader pattern of Western imperialism. This perception exacerbates Russia’s dissatisfaction with U.S. foreign policy and influences its relations with other nations aligned with the U.S., such as Israel. The ease of the US victory invasion sharply contrasts with the Ukraine War and the Israeli 12 War victory over Iran after the collapse of the Assad government in Syria.
By severing diplomatic ties with Israel, Russia seeks to fortify bonds with nations that espouse a similar anti-Western agenda. This consolidation of partnerships serves to promote a unified front against perceived U.S. hegemony, creating conditions for increased cooperation with other nations that resist U.S. influence.
CHARBONNEAU – Russia cheers Trump’s plan to control W. Hemisphere