The case against the boys has an emotional grip on people across this city. No matter their occupation or zip code, Chicagoans throw it into the conversation, from beauty shops and barbershops on the South and West Sides to the posh residences along the Gold Coast that at times feel far removed from the realities of life for most city residents. So when I got the email with the subject line “MANDATORY TOWN HALL TONIGHT AT 6 p.m.,” I had an inkling of what the meeting was about. Chicago’s newsrooms aren’t nearly as diverse as the city is. Ellen, in fact, is the only high-ranking female news executive at Chicago’s four major networks, and there’s not one general manager who is Black, Latino, or Asian. So whenever a high-profile case touches the live wire of race or gender, the trepidation reporters feel over saying the wrong thing and being called out for it can lead to animus that spills over into the work environment. With unprecedented murder charges lodged against three Black minor children, it’s quite clear we are sitting on a powder keg. Before that toxicity spills over into the newsroom, Ellen and Nussbaum called this meeting to hear from their staff.
Ellen knows that in the eyes of the people in the community, our coverage has put us on the same side as the police, fueling a perception that we’re somehow all in it together. That we’re not scrutinizing the police nearly enough. We’re just taking their word for it. They have no idea that behind the scenes, TV reporters and journalists at the local papers have been scrutinizing the hell out of the police. But that doesn’t always come through in the coverage.
I was just about to step away from my desk to head to the meeting when my cell phone rang. Who is this?
With everything that’s going on, I can’t afford not to answer a call.
“Hello?”
“Jordan, it’s Yvonne Alonzo. Do you have a minute?”
I didn’t give Yvonne my number. She must have gotten it from Pam.
“Sure, I was just headed to a meeting, but . . . what’s wrong?”
Yvonne sounded breathless. I could practically hear her heart beating through the phone. “Terrence came over, and he and Manny got into a fight.”
“They got into a fight? What happened?”
“After you left, I couldn’t get it out of my head, ya know, why Manny didn’t question him more about what he was doing with Masey. When he got home, I confronted him. He got real defensive at first. ‘Why are you asking me this all of a sudden?’ I told him after me and Pam talked to you, a lot of things didn’t add up.”
“But how did he end up in a fight with Terrence?”
“Manny blew up. He kept saying, ‘I don’t need this shit!’ and ‘Why are you talking about me to reporters?’ But I was like, ‘You mean, it never crossed your mind he could have something to do with Masey?’ And he said, ‘We’re going to straighten this out right now.’ Then he called Terrence and Terrence came over. I overheard Manny talking to Terrence on the phone. The way he sounded when he asked him to stop by. The fact he came over so fast, Terrence had to know what Manny wanted to talk to him about,” Yvonne said. “I was surprised how calm he seemed when he got here.”
“So then what happened?”
“Terrence met me and Manny downstairs in the barbershop. He seemed caught off guard that I was with Manny. Before we could say anything, he said, ‘Man, I’m gonna get that money I owe you.’ Apparently, Jordan, Manny lent him a thousand dollars. Manny told him it wasn’t about the money; it was about Masey. Terrence blew up. ‘Look, man, I’m so sorry about what happened with her, but what’s that got to do with me?’ That’s when Manny said, ‘You act like you hardly knew her, but that’s a lie.’ Before Terrence could respond, Manny asked him: ‘Were you messing around with her?’ Terrence just stood there. He wasn’t saying nothing at first, but then he tried to leave. He told Manny he wasn’t gonna have this conversation with him, and that he was out of here. Manny stood in front of the door and flat out asked him, ‘Did you do something to her?’ Terrence was like, ‘Get out of my face with that bullshit, man. Are you crazy?’ And Manny lost it. The next thing I knew, Manny had him on the floor, beating his ass. I was screaming at Manny to stop. I don’t know how Terrence got out from under him, but he took off running. Manny tried to run after him, but I grabbed him and begged him not to follow him. He could’ve had a gun in the car. I just begged him to let him go! Let him go!”
“And did he?”
“He had no choice. By the time he got to the top of the stairs, Terrence was in his car. He yelled out the window that he was going to call the police and ‘Your ass is going back to prison!’”
This is the worst thing that could’ve happened. If Terrence does make good on his threat and calls the police and they come for Manny, my name might come up, and I don’t need detectives knowing I was over there talking to Yvonne and Pam.
“Yvonne, I’m so sorry that happened. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Where’s Manny now?”
“He’s in the kitchen with some ice on his hand,” she said.
“Call me if the police show up at your house, okay? Sorry, but I’ve got to get to this mandatory staff meeting. I’ll call you later.”
I have less than four minutes to get to the newsroom town hall. I grabbed my cell phone and called Joey on the way upstairs to tell him what happened, but he didn’t answer.
What is with this guy, never answering his phone?
“Joey, I just heard that Manny and Terrence got into a fight. I’m heading into a meeting. Call me!”
I made it to the town hall just under the wire. The editorial staff was packed tightly into the large conference room overlooking the theater district, Broadway in Chicago. The email from Ellen and Nussbaum described the event as a time for people to vent but also be reminded that we have an obligation “to follow the facts wherever they lead,” a journalistic cliché if ever there was one.
I grabbed a seat next to Simone Michele, the daughter of veteran reporter Grayson Michele. Although Simone was the beneficiary of nepotism, she was a strong reporter in her own right. I liked Simone a lot and wished we had more time to spend together, but with her working the overnight shift, it just wasn’t possible.
She greeted me warmly. “Hey, Jordan, how’ve you been, girl? It’s so good to see you!” she said.
“You too!” I replied. “Remind me that we have to find a way to make these drinks happen one day.”
Nussbaum, as important as it was to have this conversation, recognized it was Friday evening, and people would be somewhat distracted, thinking about how long it would take them to get home on the Kennedy Expressway in the notorious evening traffic. So he opened the meeting at six on the dot.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you all for coming,” he said.
Simone whispered in my ear, “Like we had a choice.”
“I know you all want to get home. But clearly, if I didn’t think this was important, we wouldn’t be here,” Nussbaum said, then launched into his spiel about how Chicago is the lead story nationally, and there are concerns that violence will spill out onto the streets if police have wrongfully accused these boys of murder. “Now, with all these national reporters coming in, I want to make sure our newsroom is a united front and everyone feels liberated to speak up and talk about the impact this case is having on all our lives, professionally and personally.”
Then I heard my name.
“Jordan, I’m calling you out. You’ve been on this story since the beginning. I know you think we failed off the top for having a blind spot when it came to covering the story and giving it the attention it should’ve received from the start, and you were right,” Nussbaum said. “And those are the things we have to come to grips with. What kind of baggage are we carrying into the newsroom? And are we as guilty as anybody else of valuing one type of person over another?”
Some of my colleagues nodded in agreement while others grimaced, disagreeing with Nussbaum’s blanket statement. Not everybody recognizes their bias, and rubbing their noses in it doesn’t make it any better.
“But now we’re faced with this awful set of circumstances of children accused of murder. Not gang violence, but a savage murder of an innocent girl. And I imagine, some of us are experiencing disbelief much like what we’re hearing about in the black community.”
“Disbelief over what? That they were charged?” Keith interjected.
A voice in the crowd said, “Do you know how many people were sentenced to death row in Illinois alone who were innocent?”
Keith didn’t answer the question. Instead, he responded, “You really need to give the police a break. They’re doing the best job they can. This idea that all cops are bad cops or ready to set up some kids has been overplayed. There are some bad apples, I’ll give you that. But there are also plenty of bad apples in the hood.”
Both his tone and his choice of the hood didn’t play well among his peers, eliciting groans and exasperated sighs.
Ellen jumped in and went for the jugular. “Keith, be careful. I know you think every situation is an audition for your cable news show. But we’re trying to have a productive conversation here based on facts, not what-about-isms.”
“Wow!” I said, louder than I meant to. Simone discreetly hit my thigh with a swift pop! reminiscent of the way my aunt used to correct me in church when I was playing too much and distracting the entire pew from the sermon.
“Look, the police have done very little to help themselves,” I said. “None of the evidence that they have provided explains why these boys are in custody right now. And to be honest with you, I don’t believe they did it.”
“Why? Because they’re Black?” Keith asked.
“No, Keith, because I’ve been talking to people, not talking about people. I’ve actually been doing my job. Not to mention that I have the ability to see them as innocent before proven guilty, whereas someone like you struggles with that, and I’m sure you’re not the only one in here.”
“You act like the only way a person can understand someone is if they’re from their neighborhood. That’s ridiculous!” Keith said.
“Am I from their neighborhood, Keith? Am I from their neighborhood? No! I’m not even from Illinois.”
“So, let me ask you, what proof do you have that they didn’t do it?” Keith asked.
“The same proof I had that Masey James wasn’t a runaway—they don’t fit the profile.”
I’d allowed Keith to bait me into a sanctimonious posture. We were dominating the conversation, and I sensed our colleagues were growing irritated with us both. So did Ellen.
“Guys, guys,” Ellen intervened. “This is not about the two of you or your egos. This isn’t the type of honesty we were hoping for.”
Keith, not interested in defusing the situation, went into attack mode. “Hey, Jordan, since we’re opening up, why don’t you tell us how you took an intern out on assignment and put her life in danger.”
His words hit me like a sucker punch. My eyes narrowed to an infuriated squint. He wasn’t finished.
“You’re questioning my integrity? Your professionalism is in the toilet and your career should be, too, given what Grace said happened when you took her out.”
No good deed . . .
“Screw you, Keith!” I said. “And speaking of toilet, excuse me, I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
But I had no intention of going to the bathroom. I was headed to my car in the garage before I said something that could get me fired. Before I reached the elevators, I heard Ellen behind me.
“Jordan! Jordan! Wait! Stop!”
I didn’t want to talk to Ellen. I felt her ego comment was unnecessary. How dare she put me in the same category as Keith, someone we both despise.
“What?” I turned around. “Are you sure you can stand my ‘ego’ long enough to have this conversation?”
“All reporters have egos, Jordan,” she said. “I just said what everybody was thinking. What did happen with Grace?” she went on. “What did he mean by ‘You put her life in danger’?”
“Her life wasn’t in danger, Ellen. Any neighborhood that has more than four Black people is dangerous to him.”
“What was she doing with you in the first place?”
“I was mentoring her, okay? She jumped at the chance to go with me to the area where Masey lived to see if I could get some leads.”
“So you’re telling me you took her after work with no one knowing. Just the two of you? To investigate? Are you crazy?”
“I know you don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”
“Have you lost your mind? She’s an intern! We barely let them leave the building to protect the station from litigation. If something were to happen to one of them . . .”
“I ran into her, okay? I wasn’t thinking. You’re right. She shouldn’t have been out there,” I said.
“And you probably shouldn’t have been out there, either. You’re a reporter, Jordan, not a cop,” she said. “It was reckless and irresponsible.”
Her words stung. “That’s not what happened. I need to go back in there and clear this up.”
“I think it’s better if you don’t,” she said as I started to walk back toward the conference room. “Go home and get some rest. I’ll clear things up. Trust me, nobody is dying to be on Keith’s side. You’ve been hitting it pretty hard lately. Take a load off for the night.”
I nodded but still felt bruised. My newsroom BFF just reminded me that she’s still my boss. I guess it was a fine line at times. This was one of them.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s exactly what I need to do.”
* * *
Before leaving the station, I texted Thomas. U still at the gym? Heading over for a workout.
I hadn’t been to the gym in two weeks and was surprised Thomas hadn’t been hounding me by now. Certainly the ridiculous membership fee to belong to an exclusive club with the occasional celebrity sighting, on a reporter’s salary, should be enough motivation. Even with an advanced degree, I wasn’t earning anywhere near what Chicago’s legendary Black news anchors were getting paid, some with multimillion-dollar contracts.
The membership is a waste of money if I don’t use it. And if I’m being honest with myself, I joined more for prestige than health reasons. The workout clothes I keep in my trunk are a charade. I don’t even know if they fit anymore.
I pulled into the garage of the gym—I mean the club—and took the stairs up to the rear access door to the women’s locker room. Weekdays between nine a.m. and two p.m. it’s packed with women in designer workout gear skipping lunch for a midday sweat and affluent professional housewives attending one-on-one Pilates sessions. Then they stay for a heavy dose of juicy gossip as plentiful as the chilled, logoed water bottles they hand you at the check-in counter, which resembles the concierge desk of a five-star hotel.
At nearly seven o’clock on a Friday, the after-work crowd had cleared out and I practically had the place to myself. I went directly to the treadmill room, where TVs lined the wall, and I cringed at the thought of one of my taped reports airing while I was getting my heart rate up. There were a few dedicated stragglers working out late, as evidenced by the grunting and the sneakers screeching across the multiple basketball courts where city council members stripped off their suits to go up against former ballplayers and a mix of characters. It’s anyone’s guess what they do for a living, but they can afford the membership.
Just as I was elevating the incline on the treadmill, I heard a voice behind me. “You can do better than that. Push it! Come on!”
It was Thomas in all his delicious grandeur in a tank top, showing off his nearly perfect body. Who am I kidding? It is perfect!
“You’re never here this late,” he said. “What’s going on?”
I said through panting breaths. “It was . . . either . . . the treadmill . . . or murder. I chose the treadmill.”
“Rough day, huh? Bet I know how I can make it better.”
I gave him the side-eye. “Is that all you ever think about?”
“Baby, that’s all you allow me to think about.”
Thomas was being particularly flirtatious. He kept staring and smiling at me. I almost wanted to ask him if he had a secret, but instead, I said, “You’re in a good mood tonight.”
“Maybe I’m just happy to see you,” he said.
There’s not a chance in hell I’m finishing this workout.
For someone who badgered me about getting to the gym more, he seemed more interested in distracting me, and didn’t seem to mind when I finally gave up and pushed the decline button over and over in a series of beeps, lowering the belt back to zero and slowing to a stop.
“I need a salad. Walk with me up to the café.”
I stepped off the belt and Thomas’s eyes scanned me from head to toe. I shook my head. “Don’t be so obvious. You’re not supposed to be fraternizing with the guests.”
I headed toward the elevators. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Let’s take the stairs.”
“Fine,” I huffed.
“So who are you trying not to kill?” he asked.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” I said. “I just want to get a salad to go and veg on my couch.”
We made it up the mezzanine-level café/smoothie bar just as it was about to close.
“What do you want, babe?”
“I’ll take a number five with balsamic,” I said, and reached into my zip compartment for my credit card.
“I’ve got it, babe,” he said, instructing the cashier. “Charge it to my account.”
It was a nice feeling, being taken care of. I just never want to feel like I owe anybody anything.
“I’ll be off in an hour,” he said. “You want me to come by?”
“Let me see how I feel in an hour. It’s been a rough day. Call me before you leave, okay?”
He stared at the ground. When he looked back up, his smile had evaporated. “Why can’t you ever just say yes the first time? Huh? Why do you do that?”
“If I have to answer right now, it’ll be a hard no. Is that what you want?”
“A hard no,” he said, raising his right brow with a devilish grin. “The last time, I seem to remember you saying a good . . . hard . . . yes!”
I shook my head. “Wow, you went there? Okay. We’ll see. Call me.”
“Well, at least let me walk you to your car,” he said.
It was almost eight o’clock when I pulled out of the garage. The endorphins from the workout, even though I hadn’t put in my usual thirty minutes, kicked in, and I started to feel better, more clearheaded. I’d told Yvonne that I would call her back, but I assumed that wasn’t what she expected. After the brawl, Yvonne was searching her mind for what to do next, afraid her man could be on his way back to jail. Maybe she reached out to me hoping for some advice, but I didn’t have any answers for her. If Terrence filed a complaint and the police had arrested Manny, she would have called back. Or Joey would have called to let me know by now. That much I was certain of. So I decided to hedge my bets and wait to hear from Joey.
I turned on the radio in the middle of Lauryn Hill’s “Killing Me Softly,” and my shoulders, tightened by stress, relaxed. It wasn’t looking good for Thomas. All I could think about was taking a shower and settling into bed just as the city was coming alive. Groups of friends walked vibrantly down Restaurant Row, while others congregated on the sidewalk waiting for a table at a new high-end diner. No longer in my twenties, I couldn’t be further from that energy. Jockeying for a reservation or mapping out which bars to hit on the weekend didn’t appeal to me as much as it used to. Dinner at home or at one of my girls’ places with a couple bottles of wine, laughing and talking as loudly as we wanted to without worrying about someone overhearing us and calling a gossip columnist to spill the beans on the lady from the news, made for a much more pleasurable evening. But tonight, it would be just me and my salad watching the evening news, then lights out.
I pulled into the driveway, reached into my console, and grabbed the key fob, my golden ticket home, easing into the garage. Lauryn sang me up the spiral drive, and I turned up the volume as the song climaxed and cruised to the eighth-floor landing. Then my moment of Zen was shattered—someone had parked in my space again.
“Fuck! This cannot be happening! What the hell is wrong with people?”
I pounded on the steering wheel as I drove past the gray sedan, eyeballing the Illinois license plate JLV 5491. My head throbbed and my face grew hot with anger. This time, I decided, I was going to file a complaint with the board, and, in fact, would compose a letter and email it tonight.
“This is ridiculous! I cannot believe this shit!”
I fumed all the way down the driveway back to street level to access the roof.
Thank God it’s not raining or snowing.
As I exited the garage, I caught a glimpse of Bass having an animated conversation with someone at the guard’s desk. Bass talked to everybody. It was his favorite way to pass the time on the night shift.
On the deck, as I feared, nearly all the spaces closest to the door accessing the stairwell had been taken, and I had to park in the farthest corner away. I turned down the radio just in time to hear my phone ringing. It was Joey.
“Hello?” I answered, sounding angrier than I meant to.
“Hi, what’s wrong with you?” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, turning off the engine. “Someone parked in my space again tonight. This is the second time in a week! Pisses me off! Excuse the rant. Did you get my message?”
“Yeah, I did. So these two guys came to blows? How bad was it?”
“Yvonne told me Manny was on top of Terrence beating him in the face and head, so pretty bad.”
“What set him off?” Joey asked.
“Yvonne confronted Manny about letting Terrence off the hook when he acted like he barely knew Masey after she disappeared. That obviously was a lie, because he’d bought her an expensive jacket and took her and some of her friends on a photo shoot.”
“What? A photo shoot?”
“Yeah, I didn’t tell you. This guy passes himself off as connected in the entertainment world. Music, fashion, you name it. Manny called him and asked him to stop by. Terrence thought it was about some money he owed him, but Manny asked him if he did something to Masey. When Terrence acted nonchalant, Manny flipped out on him. Yvonne said Terrence threatened to call the police.”
“He ain’t gonna call the police, Jordan. If he did, they would ask what happened and his dealings with Masey would come out. What’s a thirty-year-old man doing hanging with a bunch of teenage girls and buying them clothes and shit? Manny should’ve beat his ass for that alone. A man who just got off parole wouldn’t risk going back to prison if he didn’t think this guy hadn’t done something.”
“Or maybe he just has a short fuse,” I said. “He did go to jail for battery.”
“Well, now you know why I told you to stay from over there. It’s dangerous, Jordan,” he said. “Guys like Bankhead disgust me. I’ll find him.”
I started to gather up my things to get out of the car. “Okay, Joe, thanks for calling. Let me get inside my apartment. I need a reset.”
“All right,” he said. “Good night.”
My hands full, I got out of the car, struggling to carry the food, my gym bag, and my extra-large tote at once. I could use another hand or could just make another trip, which wasn’t going to happen. My thighs couldn’t handle the burn.
The release from my workout, however brief, and my thirty seconds of Zen on the drive home were long gone. Right now all I want to do is eat my salad under the covers and be done with it. And as crazy as this day has been, some things never change. The light near the access door was still broke, only now instead of flickering, it was completely out.
Damnit, how hard is it to fix a lightbulb?
I pulled a pen with a flashlight at the tip that I picked up at the dentist’s office out of the tote and used it to help illuminate my path. Who knew it would come in handy? Steps from the heavy steel door, I heard a man’s voice.
“So you’re still not married, Jordan?”
I looked around. “Excuse me?”
Gil from the radio morning show had razzed me about my marital status during my appearance. “Gil?” I turned around. “Is that . . .”
I felt an explosion of pain in the middle of my forehead, then another to the back of my skull. I spun around and fell backward. My head hit the pavement so hard it bounced off the concrete.
“You fucked up, bitch! You fucked up!”
The fall knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t even scream. I was disoriented, and what little I could make out in the darkness was blurred. Before I could recover, the force of his fist struck me hard across my right cheek.
Dear God! What is happening? Help!
There was another blow to my forehead. He was saying something, but I couldn’t make it out. The next thing I felt was his body on top of me. He was yelling, crushing me, cutting off the little bit of air that remained in my lungs. I felt something warm running down my nose and mouth. Everything was moving in slow motion but rapidly at the same time. I could feel his warm breath on my face as he continued to shout words I couldn’t make out. But I could feel his rage. He closed his hands around my neck and pressed down. I would’ve fought him if I could, but I was overpowered, gasping for air. For the first time in my life, I thought This is it. This is how I die. And the world went dark.