BREAKING NEWS
Diana Sorano: A day after area residents gathered in Bronzeville to remember Masey James, the fifteen-year-old homicide victim whose body was found on an abandoned playground, News Channel 8 has learned of an important break in the investigation. What police are calling a person of interest. Our Jordan Manning reports.
Jordan: Diana, I’m on the West Side in front of Carol Crest Academy. The person of interest police is looking for was seen picking up Masey James from here before she went missing. It has been almost a week since she was found dead, and this might be the first big break in the case. It’s unclear who this individual is, but I am told it’s not believed to be a relative or anyone associated with her family. Police are poring over surveillance video from security cameras around the school as they try and get an ID on the car, and the driver.
Diana: Do we know how police learned about this person?
Jordan: It’s unclear at this time, Diana, how this came to the attention of police.
If they find out I called in this tip, I’m screwed. I know I did the right thing. I know I did the right thing.
Diana: Thank you Jordan, and we will continue to follow this breaking news.
* * *
I decided not to wait for Joey to tell Bartlett about Masey’s mysterious driver. I called Bartlett the minute we hung up.
“Superintendent Bartlett, hello. Listen, I just learned that Masey James was getting a ride from school on a regular basis. Her mother doesn’t know who this person is, and I’m worried he might have something to do with her disappearance.”
“I know; Fawcett just told me. He said the victim’s mother left him a message. I wonder why she hadn’t mentioned this before?”
“Because she didn’t know. I told her,” I said, “this afternoon.”
“You told her? What do you mean, you told her? How would you know this?” Bartlett said, sounding both confused and annoyed.
“One of her classmates,” I said.
“You went to her school?”
“No. I spoke to the student last night at the vigil. She told me that Masey was getting rides from school as recently as a few days before she went missing. And today I was talking to Pamela and I asked her if she knew anything about someone picking Masey up from school, and she clearly didn’t, because she hit the ceiling,” I said.
“Jordan, she was upset, but did she say anything about Masey having a boyfriend? Or any idea who this person could be?” Bartlett asked.
“No. She was completely blindsided.”
Surely police would ask Pamela those very questions.
“Do you think it was appropriate to go to a family member—the child’s mother—and ask her something that may or may not be true? You hadn’t vetted this. You could have come to me. You know my number,” Bartlett said.
I wasn’t accustomed to Bartlett admonishing me about the way I do my job.
“Look, you can criticize my tactics, Superintendent, but tell me this, is there one detective in your department who knew this information? I don’t think they did. So along with your criticism, how about a thank-you? Because you just got your big break. Look, we’re on the same side. I want this person to be caught, I know, as much as you do. But, Superintendent, some of your detectives, they’re not impeccable when it comes to following up on cases involving missing Black and brown kids.”
I don’t know why I expected Bartlett to thank me. Once Fawcett finds out who the tip really came from, we might have a fractured relationship for a long time, and it wasn’t that great to begin with. Was it worth it? Absolutely.
Now the ball is in their court to find out who this person is. Have they checked the surveillance cameras in and around the school? Or at nearby convenience stores? Have they talked to students at her school? Do your damn jobs! What does it say about their detective work when I was able to accomplish more in an hour with Grace Ito, whom I dragged along to canvass the school and gain some real-world reporter experience, than the CPD had managed in three days. With her youthful, trendy appearance in a bebe cardigan, high-rise jeans, and ballet flats, she blended in with the diverse student body of the STEM school, scoping out opportunities to question students, while I talked to the school’s principal, Dr. Evelyn Moss. She refused to go on-camera, because she hadn’t gotten permission from the Chicago Public Schools to do the interview. Turns out she wasn’t even remotely helpful. I texted Grace to meet me back at my car to give me a quick download before I filmed my lead-in.
“Jordan, you won’t believe this! I talked to a student who said he remembers seeing Masey get into a car a couple times after school,” Grace said.
“Did she say what kind of car?”
“It’s a he, and he said it was a sports car, maybe a Dodge Charger, but he wasn’t sure. He said he noticed it because one of the rims was missing, and the driver was wearing this ‘dope-ass jacket,’ he called it.”
“Was it a man in the car?”
“I didn’t ask him, but I assumed he was talking about a guy from what he said about the jacket and the rims.”
“Did he say anything about what the guy looked like?” I asked.
“He said he was a big guy,” Grace said.
“As in heavy? Tall?” I asked.
“That’s all he said—a big guy. He didn’t get a real good look at him. He just saw him in passing,” Grace said. “He said he walked his girlfriend to the bus stop and spotted Masey getting into the car as he was crossing the street heading back toward the school for football practice. He said he was running late to practice, so he didn’t get a good look at him. Oh, but he said he had a low fade haircut from what he could tell.”
“Good work, Grace!” I said. “What’s the kid’s name?”
Grace looked stricken suddenly, and the color drained from her face. “Oh. Uh, I dunno. I didn’t get it.”
I closed my eyes and dropped my head, fighting the urge to scream, You didn’t get it? Are you crazy? Instead, I breathed deeply and mustered a calm “Why not?”
“It was happening so fast. The hallway cleared out after the bell and I had to duck into the girls’ bathroom. I don’t know!” said Grace, shaking her head and growing more distraught by the second. “I was afraid of getting caught!”
“Okay,” I said, “rule of thumb: always ask the person’s name first. Always, always. Got it?”
“Got it,” she said.
Masey had a secret boyfriend. But who was he a secret from? Was it just from her mother? Did her friends know about him? Was he involved in her disappearance? My mind went back to my cousin Stephanie’s lying to her parents about a band trip so that she could spend an entire weekend with an older man. Is Masey’s boyfriend an older guy? The type who hangs out around high schools? Who would Masey have confided in?
Her cousin Yvonne.
My phone vibrated and I looked down and saw a text message from Joey.
I did what you asked, but our cover is blown, he wrote.
I texted back: WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?
I sighed and shook my head. I wanted to call him, but whatever Joey meant, I would have to deal with it later. Right now I’m focused on Yvonne. All paths were leading to her. Besides, she was one of the last people to see Masey alive.
“What’s the matter?” Grace asked.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
I scrolled through my text messages and checked my email. Still no note from Pamela with Yvonne’s address.
“Grace, are you free tonight?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m available,” she said. “What’s up?”
“I’m going to ride out to Englewood. I hope by the time I get there, Pamela Alonzo will have texted me her cousin’s address, but I think I know where she lives. I want to drive around.”
“Okay, I’m in. Just the two of us?”
“Yeah, I sent the camera home. This is investigative journalism, Grace. We’re investigating,” I explained. “Have your iPhone ready. We can get some pictures, at least.”
I texted Pamela: Can we meet at Yvonne’s? What’s her address? I’m on the West Side. It’ll take me about 30 minutes to get there.
I dropped a bombshell on Pam about a mysterious person in her daughter’s life. Someone who in fact might have killed her. Pamela has said twice now that she won’t be satisfied until he’s dead or in prison. Does she have an inkling who it is? Is she at this very moment out looking for him? Or is she having a mental breakdown, curled up in a fetal position and convulsed in tears? Was I expecting too much from a grieving mother? Maybe Bartlett was right.
I took the 71st Street exit off the Dan Ryan Expressway and drove west. I checked my phone—still nothing from Pam. I am now concerned about this radio silence.
Did April say something off-putting after I left the two of them alone? Did Fawcett tell her to stop talking to the press?
I recognized the blond-brick facade of the Fellowship Missionary Baptist Church at Sangamon, Louise’s street, but drove past. The next block was Peoria, the street Cynthia Caruthers told me Yvonne lived on, but she didn’t know the house number. I kept going.
“What are we looking for?” Grace asked.
I didn’t know how to answer her. I was on a wild-goose chase, cruising around a neighborhood I knew nothing about apart from the news stories that all too often tell the worst and not the best that happens, which, again, is part of the struggle I have with what I do for a living. The power we have in the media to paint a perception of a neighborhood as reality by the stories we cover.
Englewood looks different in daylight. Clusters of people are gathered on front porches and steps, and along sidewalks teenagers no different from Masey block the path as if the street belongs to them. And honestly it does. This is the center of the universe for them. Nothing is bigger or more important than where you are from. It’s your identity, which is why the death of a young girl from this neighborhood is so painful. It’s no secret a blind eye can be cast on the death of someone who “deserved it,” but no one thinks this of Masey.
The issue that continues to upset me is if they all know she didn’t deserve this ending, then why make it her story? Someone knows something, and now I’ve dragged this kid Grace into my obsession to figure it out.
I didn’t realize I was deep in thought, a full-on daydream, until the driver behind me laid on the horn and passed recklessly on my left, crossing into the opposite lane and swerving over just in time to avoid an oncoming SUV. I had forgotten in the moment that Grace was even in the car until I heard her gasp.
Grace’s eyes grew large.
I tried to reassure her. “It’s okay. Just somebody in a big hurry.”
Grace got her bearings again. “It’s kind of sad here. Nothing is open. It’s all boarded up,” she said.
“Yes, but that’ll change in the next block or so,” I said. “Watch.”
“Hey, there’s St. Luke’s church! I didn’t know it was around here,” Grace said, pointing to the iconic sanctuary led by an activist minister who has organized numerous anti-gun and anti-gang rallies in the community. He is always in the news, again proving my point that to someone not from this neighborhood, it could never be so close to what Grace called a “sad” area.
“It’s beautiful and bigger than I imagined,” she said.
To me, St. Luke’s represents the potential of Englewood, a neighborhood of pastors, parishioners, business owners, and residents who also see its potential, and work hard to make a better life for themselves and a better future for their community. If it weren’t for divestment in its infrastructure and the interminable drug and gang violence, one could only imagine the possibilities. The brownstones just a few miles down the road on Lake Shore Drive would go for a million dollars or more. Englewood, properly tended, had the potential to raise many ships.
We passed nearly two blocks with nothing but sidewalks and vacant land on either side of the street before coming upon the Miracle Salon, the sole building on its block, its own little island.
“You’ve gotta love the name, right?” I said.
“Right,” said Grace.
I thought about going inside to ask about Masey. Then I remembered Pam saying that Yvonne does hair out of her house, what my best friend in college called a kitchen-tician. Every Sunday a gang of us would pack into someone’s dorm room and proceed to relax, braid, and cut one another’s hair. If you were lucky, Renée would help you out. If you were unlucky, you got me. I was not that good, but I never had a challenge I didn’t meet—that is, until I tried to shave one side of Renée’s roommate’s hair for an edgy look. It was more of an edgeless look.
I was on Yvonne’s stomping grounds. She might know the owner of the salon or the women inside, and the last thing I needed was people telling her that Jordan Manning from Channel 8 was in there asking about Masey. I didn’t want the word on the street to be our introduction. I need an ally in her, not an enemy.
A little farther up on the east side of Halsted was a convenience store, the L & H Convenience Mart, that anchored a few stores in a strip mall, including a barbershop that was packed even at this time of day. The L & H sign looked like it had been painted by hand in red letters against a yellow background. I figured there was no better place to start a search with no bread crumbs to lead me. I made an abrupt U-turn, and boom, we were right in front. Now I would have to muster the courage to go inside and do what I needed to do.
Young people milled about in the lot. I could tell, even if they didn’t come here to buy anything, they’d come just to socialize.
“Okay, wait here,” I said.
“You don’t want me to go in with you?” Grace asked. “With my iPhone?”
“No. I’ll just be a minute,” I said.
Inside L & H, two clerks were barely visible behind the thick plexiglass barrier—a young woman sitting on a stool off to the side, talking on her cell phone, and a young man in his twenties chatting with a middle-aged man buying lottery tickets. I stood back and waited for them to wrap up.
“Good luck. I hope you win,” said the clerk, who was brown-skinned with coarse, shiny black hair and an accent that told me he wasn’t from this neighborhood.
“Hello,” I said to the passing older gentleman. He did a double take as if he recognized me. He looked about to speak, but I could tell he wasn’t quite sure, so he didn’t say anything. He isn’t the first person to be thrown off by my shorter hairdo.
“Powerball ticket?” the male clerk said with a smile.
“Not this time.” I smiled. “I’m Jordan Manning with Channel 8 News.”
He began to shake his head and held up his hands as if I’d said I was about to hold up the place. “No, no, no, I don’t want to be on-camera. I don’t want to be quoted. No,” he said emphatically.
The irony of the mic being viewed as a weapon is not lost on me. That again speaks to the danger and the power it holds.
“Oh, you won’t be.” I grinned. “I don’t have a camera. I promise. See? Hands free.”
“Okay,” he said with a glint of suspicion. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”
“Do you get a lot of students in here after school?” I asked.
“Yes, but we only allow three in at once. Otherwise, they’d clean me out,” he said.
“What school is closest to here?” I asked.
“There are two. Hilton and Sumner. That’s the school for the kids who got kicked out of regular school. What’s this about?”
“I’m not trying to get you into anything. I promise. We’re just talking. What’s your name?”
“Eddie,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, Eddie,” I said. “Did you know that a student who used to go to Hilton High was found dead last week?”
“You’re a detective.” It wasn’t a question.
“No, I’m a reporter for Channel 8. I’m following the story. I’m just curious and asking people for help. There is no way this should be an unsolved case, don’t you agree?”
“I guess. I just don’t know what you want from me, what you want me to say,” he said.
“I don’t want you to say anything, but I would love it if you could share anything you might know or may have heard.”
His expression turned remorseful. “It’s terrible. I couldn’t believe it when I found out. She used to come in here all the time after school with her friends.”
“Really? Masey James?”
“Not as much lately, because she changed schools. I was happy for her. But she still came in on the weekends sometimes,” he said.
I had to think about how to ask my next question. I didn’t want him to think I suspected him of anything. “So you knew about her changing schools. You talked to her sometimes.”
“I mean, not really, or at least not for long. I hadn’t seen her in a while and asked her, ‘Where you been?’ and she told me she goes to a different school,” he said. “I make conversations with customers, you know. But I didn’t even know her name.”
If you didn’t know her name, how’d you put two and two together that the dead girl was the same girl who came into the store?
“But you’re sure it was Masey?”
“Yes, it was definitely her.”
“Forgive me, but how can you be so sure?”
“Not to sound creepy or anything, but she was hard to miss. She was a real knockout. Taller than most girls her age. Very polite. I was sorry to hear what happened to her. Somebody brought in posters for us to hang up in the store with her picture. We did it, but after they found her, we took them down right away.”
Eddie could no longer hide the way he felt.
“You seem really upset about it,” I said.
“It’s just so sad, you know. I have a little sister around her age. I couldn’t imagine anything happening to her.”
“Did you ever see her in the store with a guy?” I asked.
“Mmm, let me think. I’m back here most of the time. I don’t see everything that goes on out on the floor. Like I said, her and her friends came in a lot. One of them came in yesterday. I’d seen them together a few times. I tell her, ‘I’m sorry about your friend.’”
“Do you know her friend’s name?”
“I don’t know her name,” he said, “but she starts saying all this stuff, like, she heard police think some kids did it.”
Everything Eddie had said up until this point made sense.
“What’d you say? Some kids did what?”
“Did it,” he said.
“Killed her?” I asked.
“Look, I don’t know. This girl said she heard people talking.”
Who is this girl?
“Hey, man, what’s taking so long?” said a voice behind me. Eddie looked over at the clerk still sitting on the stool talking on her cell phone.
“Kendall,” he said, startling her. “Open the register.”
“I’m on my break!” she shot back.
“Break is over now. Get over here!” he said.
“Eddie.” I moved closer to the partition. “Can we speak without this between us?”
He pointed toward the opposite end of the counter and I followed his instruction. I met him at the side door. He unlocked it and stepped out onto the main floor. The counter gave him height; he was much shorter up close.
“Okay, so I thought that was very strange, what she told me,” he said.
“This girl said the police are saying some kids did it? You sure?” I probed.
“I think that’s what I heard. I’m sure she said kids, though,” he said, sounding unsure as hell. “She said something about a lady telling the police she saw some boys over by where the girl was found.”
“Eddie, what did this girl look like who told you this? Can you describe her? Any features stand out? Tall? Short? Fat? Skinny? Long hair? Short hair?” I said in quick succession.
“She’s a cute girl. It’s hard to tell behind the counter how tall she is. All I see are the tops of people’s heads,” he said.
“What’s her hair look like?” I asked.
“It changes all the time,” he said. “It was braided yesterday, I think. Long braids.”
“What about her skin tone? Lighter or darker than me?” I asked.
“She’s lighter than you. Way lighter,” he said. “She’s lighter than me.” He pointed to himself and chuckled.
“What time was she here yesterday?”
“Very late last night. I don’t know the exact time, but it had to be, oh, not too long before closing,” he said.
“What time do you close?” I asked.
“Two o’clock,” he said.
I thought about Yvonne with her short, blond-streaked hair. That was just yesterday. I doubt the kitchen-tician left the vigil, braided her hair, and hit a convenience store afterward.
“Eddie, I don’t doubt she said it, but that makes no sense.”
“Believe me, I hear it all day. Kids talking stuff on each other, saying crazy stuff. That’s probably all it was,” he said.
Patrons began to pile into the store. Some grew annoyed as they waited in line.
“Eddie! I could use some help!” Kendall yelled, getting her revenge for the way he’d spoken to her minutes earlier.
“I’ve gotta go now, lady,” he said abruptly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, Eddie. You’ve been very nice, and very helpful,” I said.
As I made my way to the front door, I heard a car horn honking incessantly. It sounded close. It was mine. When I emerged, I saw Grace holding my phone in her hand waving it. I was so focused on her phone, I’d left my own in the car.
She rolled the window down and shouted, “It’s been ringing and ringing, but you told me to stay in the car.”
I ran to the car and jumped in and grabbed it from her just as the ringing stopped. The caller was Justin Smierciak.
“You were in there a long time. Your phone rang three times.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted to talk to the clerk, but I had to wait in line like everybody else,” I said.
“Did you find out anything?” she asked.
My thoughts were so jumbled by the far-out theory Eddie had just shared that I didn’t know how to put it into words.
“Masey did hang out here,” I said. “I was right about that. The clerk remembers her being in the store often. But that was about it.”
I wanted to call Joey but not in front of Grace. I only hope that when Joey said “our cover is blown,” he didn’t mean I could no longer count on him for the inside scoop, because I needed it now more than ever. My instincts were telling me that the rumor mill was working overtime to pump out such a ridiculous story about kids being involved in Masey’s murder. Sometimes the streets talk faster and louder than any news network. As for Justin, he calls me after five o’clock only when he’s looking for somebody to go grab a beer with. Before heading back toward downtown, I decided to circle a couple of blocks along Peoria and Sangamon.
“What are we looking for now?” Grace asked.
I suspected that by now Grace was growing impatient and wondering what the hell she had signed up for by agreeing to this ride-along.
“Sometimes you don’t know what you’re looking for. But you know it when you see it, like the convenience store,” I said, putting on my mentor hat. “Investigative journalism requires patience. You have to trust the process. Some clues jump out at you. Others you have to dig for and get your hands dirty.”
“You have to be brave, too,” she said.
I laughed. “Grace, were you scared back there?”
“A little,” she said.
I guess I can respect the fact that such a scene felt different for her. But long before I became a reporter, I decided that I couldn’t go through life being afraid of people, especially not my own. How do you treat someone with dignity and respect in your reporting when you fear them or their circumstances? It’s one of my frustrations, and it’s not just White reporters. I see profiling in media cross racial and economic lines more than folks in my business would ever admit.
I turned left onto Peoria Avenue. “I just want to drive up and down a couple blocks, and then we’ll head back.”
The 7100 block was quiet. Just about every other house had boarded-up windows, and there were very few cars parked along the curb. The 7000 block was the same. Half of it was taken up by a school building. I headed toward Sangamon. It, too, was uneventful. I passed Louise Robinson’s house. Cynthia said Yvonne lived about a block away, but she never specified parallel blocks.
Maybe Yvonne lives across 71st.
At dusk, I pulled out onto 71st and this time turned south down Peoria. There were more boarded-up homes and a few people sitting outside those that weren’t. The end of the block was busier. There were cars parked on both sides and a large group of people was congregating in the middle of the street.
Grace looked frightened. She placed one hand on the dash and the other on the door handle. I wasn’t crazy about driving through the crowd, either. I flicked my headlights on and off to warn them of the approaching vehicle. Nobody moved until I was right up on them. Driving about 5 miles an hour, I surveyed the scene. Men and women, mostly men, standing around listening to loud music. Then I noticed someone I was sure I had seen before: a young girl with long braids wearing an oversize white leather jacket with silver spikes and studs on the back and along the sleeves. She turned toward me just as I was driving past. It was Monique Connors. I caught her eye just as I sped away through a clearing. I don’t know if she recognized me or not.
“Oh my God,” I said.
“What?” Grace asked.
“That girl standing there with the white jacket on,” I said more to myself than to Grace. “I met her last night at the vigil.”
I started putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Pamela had compared Yvonne’s house to Grand Central Station, and from what I could tell, this residence fit the description. Grace’s witness at Carol Crest had described the driver as wearing a dope-ass jacket. And Eddie had described Masey’s friend as way lighter than me with braids.
It was hard to tell as it grew dark, but the girl in the white studded jacket did appear to be a lighter complexion.
That’s Monique. I’m sure of it, and I’d bet dollars to donuts that’s Yvonne’s house she’s standing in front of.
“Oh shit, Jordan!” Grace said. “Look!”
The street came to a dead end. No sign. No warning. I couldn’t turn left or right. I was completely blocked in and would have to practically drive up into somebody’s yard so that I could turn around and head back down the way I came.
“Calm down! I’m sure this happens all the time,” I said.
“I didn’t see a sign saying this was a dead end,” Grace said.
“Me either. Take out your phone and turn off the flash. Try to angle it up to get a picture of the girl there in the white jacket.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes, do it! Hold on!”
I turned to the left and rolled my window down halfway, waving my arm out the window to signal Sorry, excuse me. At least I hoped they would take it that way.
“Get ready. There she is,” I said.
Grace did as I told her, but Monique made it easy because she was standing in the middle of the street, pointing right at me. “What are you doing over here?” she shouted. “It’s that reporter!”
Then I heard someone say, “Get out the street!”
I stuck my hand back out once more as a thank-you, switched on my headlights, and tore down Peoria doing about 40 miles an hour. My only regret was that I was too busy trying to get out of there to look for a car with a missing rim. There was no way I was circling back.
I pulled back onto 71st Street. Not convinced that someone from the group hadn’t decided to follow me, questioning my intentions, I sped up to 45 miles per hour until I made it to the entrance ramp to the Dan Ryan and headed west toward downtown.
“Whew!” I sighed. “Was that exciting enough for you?”
Grace laughed nervously. “Yeah, pretty exciting.”
“Did you get the picture?” I asked.
Grace checked her phone. “I put it on speed snap, so I got several shots. That jacket really shows up in the dark. Look.”
I glanced over carefully as I drove. Grace had captured the girl’s face. It was blurry, but I was convinced it was Monique. Frankly, her reaction gave her away.
“Who is she?” Grace asked.
“Somebody I met at the vigil last night,” I said. “We’ve gotta go back to Masey’s school and find that kid you talked to today.”
* * *
It had been a long day of discovery with emotional minefields exploding all over the place. After all I’d put Grace through, I figured I at least owed it to her to drop her off in front of her apartment on the Far North Side.
“Check your phone; I sent the pictures to your phone,” she said with one foot out of the car. “Thanks, Jordan. This was interesting.”
“That’s one word that comes to mind,” I said half joking, half still in shock.
“Oh, and Grace, remember what I said about the football player at Masey’s school. You know what he looks like; I don’t. The good thing is, at least we know he’s on the football team. It should be easy enough to stake out practice to find him,” I said.
“Okay, but I made up an excuse today so that I could get out of work early to go to the school with you, remember? I’m not sure if I can pull that off two days in a row,” she said.
“Let me worry about that. I’ll figure something out,” I said. “Good night, and thanks, Grace.”
“Good night,” she said.
On the way home, I took one of the most incredibly scenic routes that any city has to offer down Lake Shore Drive. The view of Lake Michigan, even on those infamous brutally cold days, is awe inspiring. How could a place so beautiful hide such ugly secrets? Would the silence surrounding Masey’s death melt away like the sheets of ice soon to arrive over the lake? I thought about calling Pamela, but my persistence might make things worse. Surely she saw my text messages. I can’t imagine her phone not being fused to her hand, the grip of a mother waiting for answers she needs, but at the same time, wants to ignore. Learning who killed her daughter won’t bring Masey back. The absence of an answer might even allow for her to pretend it was all a dream—or more aptly put, a nightmare. I regret not driving past her house when I was in her neighborhood to see if she was there. But that would have required an explanation of why I was hanging around the area. My heart rate picks up unexpectedly and a wave of anxiety ripples through my body. The what-ifs start pounding so loudly in my head, I debate pulling over.
What if Pam is shutting down?
What if April Murphy is a fraud or an opportunist who just wants to be on television?
What if Masey wasn’t the girl her mother thinks she was? What if there was a dark side to her life I’d have to reveal to her family and the viewers at home?
What if Ellen is right and Keith Mulvaney uses my absence from the day-to-day crime beat to carve out a place for himself or take it over?
Why has this case gripped me so?
Is this really what I want to be doing?
As I tally the sum of my career, my review extends to my personal life. What am I doing with Thomas? Am I wasting his time or is he wasting mine? If one more person asks me about motherhood and settling down, I’m going to scream.
The flood of fear is broken only when it occurs to me that I can’t remember the last time I ate something, but instead of stopping for takeout, half recovered from the nervous system overload, I decide that the bag of potato chips and the bottle of cabernet sauvignon I can visualize sitting on the kitchen counter will do for the night.
Then the unmistakable ring assigned to the one and only who grounds me brought me back to earth.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hey, my lovebug. What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you in a couple days.”
“I’ve been busy working on that case. I have good news!”
“What?”
“Nussbaum pulled me off everything else so I could just focus on it,” I said, stopping before saying too much about how I intended to exercise that privilege with the Worrier.
“Are you working the same hours?” she asked.
“Basically, that means I’m working whenever I need to—which is practically all day. But it’s okay,” I said. “This was my first day. It was interesting.”
Again, not the most accurate description that comes to mind, but it will do.
“I’m sure you haven’t eaten,” she said.
I laughed. “You’re right, I haven’t. I’m actually going to cook when I get home, and I’m almost there now, Mom.”
Lie number two. I’m not cooking, and the “interesting” part of my day would have her on the first flight here to hug me if I shared the details.
I pulled up to the automatic garage gate and waved my key fob over the reader. The mechanical arm bounced slightly in the high wind, despite the structure protecting the entrance on all sides except for the driveway.
“Can I call you when I get inside? I’m pulling into the garage. And nobody better be in my parking space like last night.”
“That’s still happening? I know you were not pleased. I hate that roof,” she said.
“Tell me about it,” I said.
You’re really in that big of a rush?
As I pulled forward, a car was right on my bumper and practically hit me, the driver too lazy to pull out their own key fob, I guess.
“These people in my building! Either they’re forgetting their key fob and slipping in behind you or the guests of folks in this building are in too big of a hurry to wait and get buzzed in. It’s so annoying!”
“You’re annoyed every time I speak with you.” Mom laughed. “When are you going to get a vacation?”
“Remember I’m coming home for a week for Christmas, Mom. And I haven’t completely ruled out a girls’ weekend getaway before that. Lisette might be here in the next couple of weeks,” I said.
“If Lisette comes to town, you’re just going to end up entertaining her. That’s not giving you a break,” Mom went on. “I know you, how you are . . .”
If every other conversation with my mother wasn’t about my taking time off or taking better care of myself, I might have been too distracted to notice the car that slipped in behind me was now following me up the spiraling drive to level 8. I know most, though not all, of the people who park on my floor. But I don’t recognize this driver, though I can see even through the tinted glass that he is Black.
I felt a little uneasy and thought about passing by my space to see if the driver would continue to follow me. But why risk the guy pulling into my spot? Then I would have to confront him, and I don’t want to deal with that. So I turned into my $150-a-month parking space, number 048, and the driver kept going.
See, silly? That man wasn’t thinking about you. Jordan, did you really just have one of “those moments”? The brainwashing that we chide White people for all the time? You see a person of color and suddenly they are suspicious. Did I just play the role of the purse-clutching White woman on the elevator? The poor man did nothing.
Mom continued her tirade, regaining my attention. “All you do is work, work, work,” she said. “I thought you belonged to a union.”
I laughed. “I do, but, Mom, listen, I’m about to get to the hallway and lose my connection. I’ll call you when I get inside, okay?”
The cell service interrupted her far better than I could. “You’d better,” she said. “Okay, I will call you back if it’s not too late.”
I’ll miss seeing the Bass Man tonight but was relieved to be able to walk from my car directly onto my floor and down the hallway to my apartment, unencumbered by my habit of allowing other people’s grief to enshroud me, then trying to drown it in a bottle, or by tired feet or a lover’s need for attention and approval. Tonight maybe I will cook after all. I’ll get some sleep and rise early to plot and put into play a strategy that will best utilize my instincts and allow me to swerve around the lies that threaten to throw me off the trail of a killer. This time the scent is too strong not to follow it, and so is my determination to arrive at the naked truth.
* * *
I decided to give Pamela another chance to respond before showing up at Yvonne’s house without her, and to my surprise, finally she picked up the phone.
“Hi, Pamela, I’m just checking on you. I didn’t hear back from you yesterday. How did things go with April after I left?” I asked.
“April is a beautiful person. She has a good heart,” Pamela said.
Pamela’s words were kind, but I sensed tension.
“That’s nice. I’m happy I connected you two. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
“I saw your last report,” she said, her voice dissolving to a thud I recognized as disappointment. “I thought you would’ve told me before you said it on the air.”
“Before I said what?” I asked.
“What we talked about . . . Masey getting picked up. I was hurt,” she said.
Huh?
“But you already knew I had this information.”
“You’re not a mother, Jordan. You wouldn’t understand. It makes me look like a bad mother that I didn’t know who was picking her up,” said Pam. “You know as well as I do, people are already looking for a reason to blame me, turning me into one of those moms you people in the media seem to enjoy taking advantage of.”
“Pam, I’m sorry that you feel that way, but I would never portray you as an irresponsible mom. I’m at a loss for words right now.”
It never crossed my mind that Pamela, under any circumstances, would have perceived what I consider simply doing my job as a betrayal. Though this is a reminder to me of the inherent risks of getting too close to the people I’m reporting on. I’ll do any and everything I can to help her, but at the end of the day, it’s my job.
“That wasn’t my intention, Pam,” I said. “I’m sorry you see it differently, but I’ll have to leave it there.”
“Uh-huh,” she said.
I think we both recognized that we need each other. Our alliance, however fragile, may be the only way this case gets solved.
“Pam, I really need to talk to Yvonne, and I need you to go with me. I have some time this morning. Can you meet me at her house at ten-thirty?”
“I can’t; I have something to do. I’m taking Malcolm to counseling.”
“My heart breaks for Malcolm. I can’t imagine what he’s going through emotionally. But, Pam, we have got to follow up on this lead.”
“All right, let me see what I can do. Give me about an hour,” she said. “Will it just be you, or is a cameraman coming with you?”
“No, just me.”
“Okay, I’ll text you her address.”
* * *
No surprise—Yvonne’s house was located right where I’d been the night before. I made a U-turn and parked directly in front of the house. I looked for Pamela’s car. Even though I’d gotten a head start on her, in the back of my mind I kind of hoped she’d arrived early so we could have a chance to smooth things over. But her early arrival would probably have set off a whole new set of problems. The sight of her in the neighborhood would have led to a swarm of neighbors surrounding her, offering their sympathies and demanding to know what the police were saying. The attention could set off alarm bells. A reporter at Yvonne’s house . . . does that mean there’s new information? Is there a break in the case? What do they know about Masey’s killer?
As I walked around the car to the sidewalk, my gaze was initially fixed on the front door, but the sight of a man talking on the phone loudly as he emerged from the basement stairs caught my eye. We stared at each other. Pulling his cell phone away from his face, he asked in a suspicious and protective tone, “Can I help you?”
His pristine White Sox hat, slightly tilted to the right, concealed a portion of his face. He was definitely not a pretty boy. His features were strong, his face narrow. From what I could see, a perfectly groomed beard complemented his chiseled face. The long-sleeved thermal shirt he was wearing revealed a body not nearly as well groomed as his beard. He reminded me of a guy who played ball years ago who now leads a more sedentary lifestyle.
“Hi. I’m actually here to meet Pamela Alonzo,” I said.
“Pamela Alonzo don’t live here,” he said.
“I know. I’m meeting her here. I’m Jordan Manning from Channel 8.”
“Oh, you’re that reporter. Yeah, she’s upstairs. Go on up and knock on the door.”
That reporter.
“All right, thanks.”
I walked toward the house past two tricycles resting on their side in the grass. Along the walkway was a faded hopscotch chalk drawing that led to the porch steps. Yvonne’s house was by far the best kept on the block, a welcome sign of life in a blighted area neglected by an uncaring government and people’s desires to move out and move on, resulting in uninhabitable homes and buildings that should have been torn down a long time ago.
I see movement in the curtains covering the window near the front door. Whoever’s inside knows I’m here. Before I could knock, Pamela opened the door. She understandably has looked weary since the day I first met her, but today she looked especially worn down. The dark circles under her eyes had deepened and her hair was brushed back in a ponytail, frizzy edges framing her face, a shadow of the defiant woman who addressed the crowd at the vigil. There was no point in asking how she was. I already knew.
“Come on in,” she said.
I tried to make eye contact with Pam to get a read on how she was feeling after our earlier conversation, but all I saw was a mother at a breaking point. My search was abruptly interrupted by a jolt from a piercing scream.
“Imani,” said Pam, exasperated, with her head in her hands. “Oh my God!”
Yvonne walked through the open doorway connecting the kitchen to the dining room. Biting her upper lip, she looked pensive and strained, but from her quick steps I sensed a resolve in her. “Have a seat, Jordan,” she said.
She wasn’t trying to avoid the conversation. She was ready for it.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Yvonne,” I said, and gently waved to Imani, her face covered in tears. She clutched her mom, clearly upset, and now there was a stranger waving at her.
“So you’re a hairdresser,” I said.
“Well . . . yes,” she said, glancing at Pam. “My boyfriend, Manny, Imani’s father, has a barbershop in the basement and I do hair upstairs. But please, don’t mention that. We’re not licensed.”
That’s the least of my interests.
Yvonne leaned down to put Imani in her bouncer seat, then sat back on the couch with her head down and her hands in her lap. Her blond-streaked bangs nearly covered her eyes.
“Yvonne, you were one of the last people to see Masey,” I said. “What was she like that day before she left on her bicycle?”
Before she could answer, Pamela interjected. “I miss my baby so much. Just looking at Imani with Yvonne, I think about how Masey was always over here, making videos for her MySpace page with her friends. Yvonne would do her hair for her. She had a different style every time she came home. How did we get here so fast?”
“What were her videos about?” I asked.
“She’d do dance routines and model clothes. Half the time they were my outfits,” she said.
“The rest of the time they were mine,” Yvonne chimed in. “And her hair had to be on point.”
“Yep,” Pam said, brightening up a bit. “She wanted to be a star. She wanted to be famous. I wanted her to focus on the gifts God gave her, her beautiful mind, her intelligence. Masey was so smart. I told her: ‘You want to be as pretty on the inside as you are on the outside. Don’t rely on your looks, or how fine somebody tells you that you are.’ But all she talked about was being famous, being a model/actress and moving to L.A.” Pam went on: “I guess that’s part of growing up. But I admit she looked a little too grown up for me at times, especially in those videos. And I told her: ‘Ease up on the mascara. You don’t need all that makeup.’”
Yvonne was listening, but she seemed to be somewhere else. She moved around nervously. Imani held her arms out to her mother and Yvonne picked her up, looking agitated and breathing heavily. Her body language was unsettling.
What’s going on here?
Yvonne was clearly having a moment, and not the same moment that Pam was experiencing. Tears streamed down Yvonne’s face. “I’m sorry . . . Pam,” Yvonne said. “I loved her so much. You know I did.”
Something felt off. I got the feeling that Yvonne’s sorry had nothing to do with what Pam was talking about.
“I know this is devastating for both of you. I can’t pretend to imagine what this is like,” I said. “Yvonne, I’m trying to get some answers here. I’m worried that the more time that goes by, the less likely we are to find out what happened to Masey.”
I rephrased the question. “Yvonne, what do you remember about that day? Anything stand out before Masey left on her bike to go home?”
“I really don’t,” she said. “There was nothing different about that day. Nothing. I’ve gone over it a thousand times in my head. Nothing. There was nobody in the area I didn’t recognize. No cars I hadn’t seen before. Nothing.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done this to Masey?” I asked.
“No,” she said flat out.
“Did you see my report yesterday about someone picking Masey up from school?”
“I didn’t see it, but I heard about it. They’re saying someone was picking her up from school all the time?” she asked.
“Nobody said all the time, but people at the school said at least a couple of times, yes,” I said.
Yvonne paused and rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Pam,” she said, choking up, “I’m sorry. There’s something I’ve got to get off my chest.”
“What?” Pam asked, leaning back and tilting her head inquisitively.
“Masey really wanted to be famous,” Yvonne reiterated. “She was constantly talking about modeling and acting, and making a demo of professional quality, you know. Something she could send to a studio.”
Pam interrupted. “Like the stuff on her MySpace page.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Yvonne said. “I think her wanting to be famous might have gotten her in trouble.”
“What do you mean, it might have gotten her in trouble?” I asked.
Yvonne’s sobbing grew louder, and she had to pull herself together before she could continue. “Mase . . . she met this guy named Terrence,” she said, catching her breath. “He, uh, he told her he could produce her video, and he had contacts in the recording and modeling industries that he could show it to. Masey told me how dedicated he was to helping her and how he promised to focus on her and make it happen.”
“Masey asked me if she could do a recording session with her friends, and I said, ‘No. I want you to focus on this new school I prayed for you to get into,’” Pamela said. “You saw her. How much more adult she’d started to dress. You weren’t suspicious?”
“Sure, I was concerned, this grown man wanting to help her. What did he want in return? But Masey assured me he hadn’t tried anything, and he just wanted to help her. So I talked to him myself to see what he was about. He may hustle a fifteen-year-old, but he wasn’t going to fool me.”
“You weren’t her mother, Yvonne. That was not your decision to make.”
“Where did she meet him?” I asked.
“Here, at my house,” she said. “Manny cuts his and his roommate’s hair. He’s not from here.”
“And you’re sure he wasn’t trying to mess around with her?” I asked.
“No, no, no! It wasn’t like that at all. He was acting like he was her manager. Manny says he’s corny as hell, a wannabe. He did make a lot of promises. Not just to Mase but to her friends, too, about his studio and his connections. He even offered to pay me to do Mase’s hair and I said, ‘Why would I take your money? I do her hair for free.’ But I’m pretty sure he gave her money to buy that pink bomber jacket she had pictures taken in.”
I recall seeing that photo at the vigil and thinking Masey looked like a model in it.
“How old is this man?” asked Pamela, now incredulous.
“I’m guessing almost thirty.”
“Thirty! You let my daughter hang out with a thirty-year-old man!”
“Pam, I swear there was nothing going on like that. Masey would’ve told me.”
“Did you ask her?” I asked.
“Of course!” Yvonne insisted.
Pam grabbed her head, then slammed her arms back down on the arms of the chair.
“But then I started hearing from my customers that he was a fake. He’d taken this one girl’s money to pay for studio time and she never heard from him again. He don’t have any money. He’s been living with his boy for a couple years, and sometimes he stays with this older woman, his girlfriend. Turns out that was her car he’s been driving. He’s broke. He’s a phony.”
“Do you think he had something to do with Masey’s murder?” I asked.
“Honestly, no, I don’t think so. He’s a con, but nobody on the street says he’s violent. He did show us pictures of him with this big Grammy-winning producer once. He said he had the guy’s number and that they hung out. He made it seem like he was the man and that with his connections Masey could make it in L.A.”
“How much time was she spending with him, Yvonne?” Pam asked.
“Not a lot. One time he took her and a few of her friends over to the South Shore to do a photo shoot. I went with her. The pictures came out beautiful. That part was legit, I know. It was just that one time. I wouldn’t have let her go alone, and that was only after I’d checked him out,” Yvonne said.
“If you don’t think this Terrence hurt Masey, then why do you think her wanting to be famous got her in trouble?” I asked.
“I said maybe,” she said. “He might’ve owed people some money. I’m just speculating. But maybe he took money from the wrong people and they came looking for him, and Masey got caught up.”
“Do you know his last name?” I asked.
“Bankhead.”
“You say he’s not from here. Where’s he from?”
“He mentioned something about living in New Mexico for a few years before coming to Chicago.”
“So you think it’s possible that Masey was collateral damage for something he was mixed up in?” I asked.
“I dunno. I just had to say something,” she said.
“Now you say something!” Pamela screamed. “Now you say something! God damn you, Yvonne!”
“Pam, I’m sorry. You’re right, I should’ve. Please don’t hate me,” Yvonne pleaded.
The situation between Pam and Yvonne was escalating, but the conversation raised more questions.
“Where does he live?” I asked.
Before Yvonne could answer, Pamela interrupted. “If they were after him, why would they want to hurt Masey? How would they have connected them?”
I know from the many stories that I’ve covered that the wicked watch, and they strike when they think nobody’s looking. In Masey’s case, that would’ve been the day she left Yvonne’s at dusk on her bicycle.
“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“At Manny’s birthday party. He was here late that night. He couldn’t have done something to Mase and been here at the same time,” she said.
“But you think it’s possible somebody who was after him recognized Masey and caught up with her?” I asked.
“It’s possible, I guess. Manny said he was always flashing cash. One minute he’d say he won it gambling, the next he’d just gotten a record deal. At one point he even claimed he had all this real estate.”
“Wait—but you said he was strapped for cash,” I said.
“Well, that’s the thing. We were hearing on the streets that he owed people money. But whenever he was around here, he wanted people to think he was ballin’.”
But if this guy Terrence isn’t who he says he is, what else is he hiding?
“Yvonne, I’ll ask you again, where does he live?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who else does he hang out with?” Pam said.
“I don’t really see him with anybody other than his roommate. Like I said, he’s not from here,” Yvonne said.
“What’s his roommate’s name?” I asked.
“Brent,” she said.
“What’s his last name? What does he do?”
“Carter. I don’t know,” she said, becoming more aggravated by the second.
I leaned in and looked Yvonne square in her eyes. “Yvonne, stay with me, okay? Stay in the moment.”
She nodded her head.
“I’m curious, what kind of car does he drive?” I asked.
“A gray Camry. I’ve seen Terrence drive it sometimes when he didn’t have the other car.”
“What kind of car?”
Yvonne sighed. “It’s hard to describe, like it was customized or something. Kinda sporty. A grayish purple color.”
“Did you notice if it was missing a rim?”
“No.”
“Has he been around here since Masey disappeared?” I asked.
“Yeah, Manny cut his hair about a week after she went missing. Manny told me he kept saying how messed up it was, but it seemed like he was trying to downplay how close they’d gotten recently. That bothered Manny, him acting like he didn’t know her all that well.”
“So Manny let him off the hook? He just let him act like he didn’t know her? Did he confront him?” I asked.
“No, he didn’t.”
“But why?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She shrugged.
“Did Manny spend much time around Masey?” I asked.
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m not trying to say anything. I just wonder why he wouldn’t have confronted Terrence.”
“This is some bullshit!” Pamela shouted, and leapt out of her chair and headed toward the basement in search of Manny.
“Pamela! Pam! Wait!” Yvonne pleaded.
The last thing I wanted to do was to get caught in the middle of the family argument that I sensed was about to happen. But there’s so much more I needed to know, so I followed Pamela and Yvonne as they rushed to the basement. It felt damp down here and smelled of the type of astringent used to sanitize clippers and combs. Manny’s shop consisted of a single barber chair, a television bracketed against the wall, and an adjacent room with another television and folding chairs lining the wall. Magazines were stacked on a side table. But no Manny.
“If you’d given me a chance, I would’ve told you he’s not cutting today,” Yvonne said.
“I saw a guy outside as I was coming up. He had a White Sox hat on. Was that Manny?” I asked.
“Yes, that was him,” Yvonne said.
Pamela was now sweating from the sprint and the fear and adrenaline that had to be rushing through her body after all she’d just learned.
“Pam, come on, have a seat,” I said, gently draping my arm around her shoulders. “Try to settle down. Let’s get through this.”
“No, we need to go back upstairs,” Yvonne said abruptly. “He’ll be back soon.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Let’s go,” I said.
Once upstairs, I jumped right back in. “Yvonne, did Terrence ever pick up Masey from school?”
“If he did, she never said anything to me about it.”
“But it’s possible?” I asked.
“Yeah, I guess,” she said. “But like I said, Masey didn’t keep secrets from me.”
Yvonne thinks she’s the cool cousin that the young girls come to for advice and gossip and even to share their secrets. I thought back to my cousin Stephanie, what it was like when we learned that she’d lied to everyone to meet up with an older guy on what was supposed to be a school band trip. She didn’t even tell me. Even now it stings when I think about it. I thought she trusted me most.
I go back to the question I had asked before. “Masey was over here quite a bit. Were she and Manny pretty close, too?”
The question struck a deeper nerve the second time. Yvonne’s teary eyes of regret were transformed into a ferocious stare now directed at me. “What are you trying to say? Why do you keep asking me that?”
“Look, Yvonne, I’m trying to put together how many people were in Masey’s circle to figure out how she ended up dead in a field, naked and left to rot!”
Pamela’s expression imploded like a building taken down by dynamite, and I realized I’d crossed the line.
Jordan, get a grip!
In that moment, I was embarrassed by my reckless choice of words. But I had to try to shift into reverse, leave this terrible moment behind, and back out of my confrontation with Yvonne. I needed to keep the focus on Terrence.
“Yvonne, we’re all here for Masey. Nobody carries a greater weight than Pam, and I know you’re hurt, too.”
Masey’s real life—as opposed to the life everyone thought she was living—is now the story and the path to learning the truth. Piecing it all together, I’m starting to believe that Masey was in fact dating this guy. Or at the very least, he lured her with promises of making her famous. I feel certain he was the person who’d been picking her up from school. But what set him off? Did they get into a fight? Did he try to have sex with her and she said no? Did he force her? Did he silence her to keep her quiet about the rape? Of course this is all speculation; there is no evidence. It could be him, but it also could be Manny. It could be anyone.
Yvonne handed Pamela tissues from the Kleenex box on a nearby table. Grief was so thick in the air, it was hard to breathe. My visit here began with Imani crying her eyes out, seeking comfort from her mother, and would end with two mothers comforting each other. I was relieved to have an excuse to escape.
“Pam, I’ve got to get back to the newsroom. I’ll be in touch. Yvonne, thank you so much for everything. I’ll let myself out.”
When I reached the door, I felt a tug on my arm. Pamela was right on my heels.
“Yes, Pam?”
“Are you going to report this on the news, too?”
“Report what?”
“All this stuff about this guy,” she said, then more discreetly so Yvonne wouldn’t hear, “and Manny.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
She let go of my arm.
As I walked to my car, I glanced back at the basement steps where Manny had emerged an hour before. Enough time had passed that maybe he’d return soon. Perhaps I should wait. I looked around for Manny one more time and paused to take a beat to process, as best I could, everything that had just happened before I got in the car. I’m drained, I realized, but there was still more to do. I called Joey and got his voice mail.
“Joey, it’s me. Listen, we don’t have time to be mad. I need your help. I have some more information in the Masey James case. Masey’s cousin just told me about a guy named Terrence Bankhead. He had some type of relationship with Masey. Her cousin said he’s about thirty years old and moved to Chicago from New Mexico, but she doesn’t know where he lives. And while you’re at it, can you check out Masey’s cousin’s boyfriend Manny Walker? Talk to you later. Bye.”
It hit me that the answer to what happened to Masey James could be terribly obvious: a beautiful girl being taken advantage of during an impressionable time in her life by the wrong guy. To my knowledge, only one person could confirm the driver of the car Masey got in that day, and that was the football player Grace talked to at Carol Crest.
* * *
The next day, Joey still hadn’t returned my call. So I left him a neutral message—“Hey, give me a call when you get a chance”—before heading to my doctor’s appointment. I was sitting in the waiting room when my phone vibrated. I was supposed to turn my cell phone off in the waiting area, but I never did. Switching to vibrate was the best I could do. I looked down and saw that it was Baby Smierciak.
“Jordan, where have you been? I called you last night.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry I missed your call,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“You’re never gonna believe what just happened this morning!” Justin said excitedly.
“Hold on. I need to move somewhere more private,” I said.
I rose to step out into the hallway, eliciting daggers from the waiting room receptionist for my noncompliance.
Your boss never turns off his cell phone. Give me a break.
“Justin, what’s up?” I asked, safely away from waiting room ears in the chilly hallway.
“Something big’s about to happen in the Masey James case,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my heart racing.
Did police find and arrest the mystery driver?
“I heard on the scanner that police had reopened the streets surrounding the playground. So I headed right on over this morning to see if I could get some pictures. Well, sure enough, the street was open, though the yellow tape kept me pretty far back. I went across the street to set up my shot, right? And this woman comes up and starts asking me a bunch of questions. We started talking, or I should say, she started talking. Telling me she told police she’d seen some kids over on the playground where the body was found. They’d scrounged up some sticks, she said, and were squatting over something. She identified two of them—the Harvey brothers, she called them. She said they go to her church. She told me that police picked them up for questioning, then came back to her house yesterday and asked her if she could identify them from a lineup of photos. Jordan, she told me that police said a positive ID was all they needed to charge them.”
Eddie from the convenience store was right!
“Charge them with what?” I asked incredulously. “You said boys. How old are they?”
“Not sure about the charge, but the lady said the Harvey brothers go to Ida B. Wells Prep, which isn’t far from the crime scene. Jordan, it’s a middle school!” Justin said.
“Get out! You mean they think the killer could be as young as a sixth grader? This is unbelievable! Where are you now?” I asked.
“I’m headed to police headquarters,” he said. “I’m gonna stake out there for a bit to see if charges are announced.”
“All right. I’m at the doctor’s office, but I’ll probably see you there . . . soon.”
I went back inside the waiting room and tapped on the receptionist’s window. “Excuse me, I’m going to have to reschedule,” I said. “I’m really sorry, I have an emergency.”
The receptionist rolled her eyes. “Wait here,” she ordered.
My cell phone vibrated in my hand. I didn’t recognize the number, but after what I’d just learned, there was no way I wasn’t answering it. The receptionist returned.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“We have a no-cell-phone policy,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear.
“I’m sorry . . .” I said, checking out her name tag, “Christina, but I don’t have a no-cell-phone-policy kind of job. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
I stepped back out into the chilly hallway. “Hello? This is Jordan Manning.”
“Ms. Manning, I hope you’re sitting down, because you’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you,” said a woman whose voice I didn’t recognize. “In about an hour, the Chicago PD will announce charges against three boys, one thirteen-year-old and two eleven-year-olds, in the death of Masey James. The thirteen-year-old and one of the younger boys are brothers. I’ve seen your coverage. That’s why I’m calling you.”
The Harvey boys.
“And you are?” I asked.
“My name is Adele Constanzo,” she said. “I’m their attorney.”