Midway through my morning routine—two cups of coffee with a heavy hand of sugar, enough milk to prompt the question Do you take coffee with your cream?, a soft-boiled egg, and half a leftover avocado—I was so engrossed in my daily dose of morning news shows that I was startled when my cell phone rang near my elbow.
I glanced down, scrunching my eyebrows and struggling to focus my vision to make out the number on the screen. It was a 773 area code—a Chicago number. I paused a beat. I have no idea who this is, but I answer it anyway, throwing up a verbal roadblock between me and whoever is on the other end with a stern, inquisitive “Hello?”
“Good morning. Is this Jordan Manning?” said a young woman.
“Yes, it is,” I said, instinctively raising the mug to my lips but hesitating to take a sip.
“This is Tanya McMillan.”
It was a good thing I didn’t take that drink, because the name of the surprise caller on the other end would’ve left me choking and gasping for air. The Bronzeville resident I had interviewed before Masey James was confirmed to be the victim discovered in the tangled, monstrous weeds of a neglected playground had kept my number after all. And, I hoped, had forgiven me for not informing her before going on the air that the body of a child had been found a few yards from her front door.
“Hello, Tanya,” I said, clearing my throat. “How . . . how are you?”
Tanya clearly was not interested in small talk. She got right to the point. “I wanted to let you know about a community vigil going on tonight.”
“For Masey James?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s being organized by Louise Robinson and the South Side Community Council. It starts at seven o’clock in front of my house. Masey’s family, her mother, members of the Black Pastors Coalition, and local elected officials will all be there. It’s going to be packed. Folks are furious.”
Did she say her mother?
“Pamela Alonzo will be there, you say?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Why hadn’t Pam told me about the vigil? And when did she hook up with Louise Robinson?
I’ve never met Robinson, but some of my colleagues have covered her infamous clashes with police and city hall over allegations of police brutality, aggressive surveillance of Black men, use of excessive force, and racial bias in sentencing.
“Ms. Robinson is one of the founding members of the council,” Tanya added.
“Okay, I’ve heard of the council,” I said, though I hardly had intimate knowledge about its mission and members. “When was it founded?” I asked. “I’ve only lived here a few years.”
“It’s been around, oh, about five years,” Tanya said.
“Right,” I affirmed. “And you say Pamela Alonzo is going to be at tonight’s vigil?” I asked again.
“Ye-es,” Tanya said impatiently. I heard her the first time, but I was still troubled by the fact that Pamela herself hadn’t told me about it.
“Thank you for letting me know, Tanya,” I said. “Are you involved with the council?”
“Yeah, me and my mother are members. We’re the group that was on city hall’s behind for months to clean up that disgusting playground.”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I remember that.” However, she hadn’t mentioned this group earlier.
“We filed a complaint as individual citizens first, but when that didn’t work, the council got involved,” she said. “It didn’t make any sense that it took the city close to a year to do something about that park, if you can even call it that.”
“Do you know how to get in touch with Ms. Robinson?” I asked.
“Uh, yeah. She’s my auntie,” Tanya said. All that was missing from her dismissive response was “Duh?”
Okay, how was I supposed to know that?
“Oh, okay, I didn’t realize,” I said, raising my voice an octave to mask my annoyance.
It’s incumbent that I choose my next words carefully. In one swipe, my initial perception of Tanya McMillan had vanished like the scraggly lines of an Etch A Sketch. She’s not as humble as she initially presented herself, and clearly she’s no typical bystander. In fact, I was beginning to get the sense that I am not the only person who has underestimated her. Tanya McMillan is more than just relatable; she’s Machiavellian. She knows how to work people, and she is working me to get me to tie Masey’s murder to her aunt’s agenda, which is something I hadn’t anticipated. I have no illusion that I am the only member of the press she’s reached out to. I don’t know her aunt Louise, but I am familiar with her playbook. She is fomenting discontent in the black community, and a groundswell appears to be developing, starting with the vigil. Tonight residents will assemble to express their pain over the loss of another Black child and their interminable displeasure with the systems—the police, city hall, the parks—that have failed them again and again. They intend to stand in solidarity with a distraught mother who is one of their own.
There is a lot to unpack and not much time to do it. Ellen emailed me late last night that she wants to start running promos of my interview with Pamela Alonzo during the four o’clock broadcast, and I still don’t know whether or not it is an “exclusive,” but I doubt it. Something felt off. My father always told me, “Trust no one more than your own instincts,” and my instincts are telling me to pivot, to stop relying on Pamela to do my job and start thinking about how to distinguish my coverage. If I play my cards right, I might be able to flip the script and induce Tanya to work for me as an ally as opposed to a pawn. An ego stroke and a heavy dose of flattery can sometimes be the best card in the deck.
“Tanya, I am so grateful to you for calling me this morning,” I said, maintaining my focus on her, “just as I was grateful for your help the other day. You’ve been wonderful. Thank you so much.”
Then I eased into my questions. “I’d like to interview Ms. Robinson, your aunt, and a few of the other speakers before the vigil, if that’s possible. Will there a pre-gathering? Are you hosting the speakers at your home? Would it be possible to sit down with a few members of the council and Pamela? At your house? In the living room, maybe?”
“Um, I mean, I don’t know,” she said. “You have to talk to my aunt and Ms. Alonzo about that.”
So, your aunt tells your mother what to do in her own house?
“Well, I’m pretty sure Pam will be okay with it,” I responded, dropping her name casually. “I talked to her yesterday. I’m interviewing her today at three o’clock.”
I’m not the outsider you think I am. But damn it, why hadn’t Pam told me about the vigil?
Apparently, while I was having brunch with the Sex and the City crew, Pamela was busy getting representation and amassing a coalition bent toward justice for Masey. It included a community-based organization, a fiery activist, a venerable pastors’ coalition, furious residents, and at least one broadcast journalist who was eating out of her hand. It wouldn’t surprise me if Pamela had been convinced that she needed to retain a lawyer. For now she has Tanya McMillan acting as her de facto publicist.
I admired Tanya’s savviness, working the local media reps without any media training, and keeping it real, with a little attitude cherry on top. But there’s no time for such pettiness. A child is dead. A killer is on the loose. Fuck decorum.
Then it struck me: these three women—Tanya, Pam, and Louise—coming together as they have in such a short time is one helluva coincidence. I thought back to the way Tanya had lost it during her live interview. “I bet it’s that girl,” she said. I sensed her concern, but I never would have made a connection between her and Pamela. How old or new is that connection?
Did Tanya know Masey?
I thought to ask but decided not to, at least for now, focusing on orchestrating tonight’s media event.
“It’ll probably be fine, but let me confirm with my moms and my aunt first,” Tanya said.
“Great,” I said, hopping off the couch to grab a pen from the kitchen counter and a napkin to write on. “What’s your aunt’s number?”
By the time we got off the phone, my coffee had turned cold and I’d lost my appetite, but my heart pumped adrenaline. I took stock of the day. I have an interview at twelve-thirty with police superintendent Donald Bartlett. He feigned reluctance to speak to me on-camera, but I was confident he’d relent. Bartlett, unlike his top lieutenant Fawcett, adores me. He’s the exact opposite of the stereotypical police chief. He’s so bighearted that at times I wonder how long he is actually going to be able to survive in this job. But I take nothing for granted.
“There really isn’t anything more that I can tell you, Jordan,” he responded in an email this morning at 6:45.
“Superintendent Bartlett, I understand,” I typed. “But there’s a community in pain that needs reassurance from you that this investigation will remain a priority until Masey James’s killer is found.”
DELETE
“Superintendent Bartlett, until a few days ago, this was a missing persons case. Now that it’s a homicide investigation, I think the community would like to hear from senior leadership in the police department. Don’t you?”
DELETE
“Superintendent Bartlett, understood,” I typed. “I would just like to spend some time with you on the record discussing what police know thus far. I think the community will appreciate hearing from you in a more intimate setting than a news conference.”
“Spend some time with you” should resonate.
SEND
Now, on top of Bartlett and my interview with Pam at Masey’s aunt Cynthia’s house at three o’clock, I must try and squeeze in community firebrand Louise Robinson and pull together an impromptu roundtable of community leaders with Pamela in Tanya McMillan’s living room by six o’clock. I live for days like this. The stakes were rising by the minute, and I was ready to go in hard, to be more than just a reporter relaying a story. Instead I would be acting as an investigator looking for clues and connecting dots. Days like this are why I chose this profession.
I wasn’t surprised that Pamela had agreed to participate in the vigil. Yesterday she was emphatic that finding her daughter’s killer had become her life’s purpose. Still, I’m annoyed, even a little hurt, actually, that she hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe she didn’t tell me about the vigil because she didn’t have to, now that Tanya McMillan and Louise Robinson are representing her. This frees her up to focus on other important things, like keeping her loving arms at the ready for her six-year-old son, Malcolm, enveloped in grief at the loss of his big sister, and managing her lupus, the chronic illness, exacerbated by stress, that killed her mother at age fifty-nine.
Pamela wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I had expectations of a source, and I should’ve known better. Still, as much as I have beaten myself up about getting too close to Pam, the potential downward shift in our relationship dynamic was just as troubling. After the hours I had spent cultivating that relationship, I couldn’t help but wonder, Is Pam pulling away?
I texted Scott.
Hey U want 2 grab breakfast? We’ve got a busy day ahead.
Scott suggested that we meet at our usual spot downtown, but I suggested we meet instead at the District Diner. It’s a relic that has survived and thrived for fifty years, proudly owning the slogan Authentic Taste of Chicago. I’ve gone there on occasions when the diner was packed with tourists who had ventured miles from Navy Pier and Magnificent Mile shopping excursions to bask in a true South Side Chicago experience. During the week, it was mostly packed with local elected officials, clergy, business leaders, and community activists, and it does enough business to shut down daily at three o’clock. After church on Sundays, there’s almost always a wait, and the line sometimes spills out into the parking lot. I myself have patronized the District Diner after church, barely able to focus on Pastor Byrd’s sermon for dreaming of creamy cheese grits and Creole-seasoned salmon croquettes.
The District Diner is a listening space for the media, especially those who cover politics and crime. Stories unfold over the retro Formica tabletops. On- and off-the-record tips waft through the air like the smell of warm pancakes and syrup, and secrets pour out like free refills on coffee. There’s no cultural line in the sand, but I’ve found that my White colleagues think of this place only when they need a scoop. They ooh and aah over “what a great place” it is and rave about the food, promising to return with family and friends, but they never do.
“Not the Black Pentagon,” Scott said, repeating the nickname he coined for the mom-and-pop dining hot spot, with its orange sherbet-colored walls, which hasn’t had an aesthetic upgrade since it opened in 1957.
“Yep. Sorry,” I said.
But I wasn’t sorry. I have survived and thrived and survived again in predominately white spaces my entire life. Scott usually doesn’t balk on the rare occasions he is “the only” or one of a very few White people in the room. When he’s whined in the past, I’ve been dismissive.
“Scott, I’ve got four words for you,” I told him once. “Welcome to my world.”
I’m a Black woman who by and large must leave my neighborhood to socialize with my community. The District Diner is where I go for a healthy dose of culture, even if my media affiliation makes me suspect to some people. Today I was going neither for the food nor for the culture but to see what I could find out about Louise Robinson. And I planned to take advantage of being something my White colleagues are not—a source of pride in the black community. That gives me a little more leeway, especially with Black politicians. And I knew just who to ask.
“I’m getting dressed now,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”
I pulled out a two-piece dark purple suit with a pencil skirt and a peplum jacket to wear during the day, and rolled up a blouse and black slacks to change into with a pair of flats for tonight’s vigil.
Scott and I drove separately. On the way there, I got a call from my bestie in Austin, Lisette. As soon as I saw her name pop up in the caller ID, I remembered that we’d been planning a weekend girls’ trip to Saugatuck, Michigan. About three hours from Chicago, it sits along a harbor and attracts boaters and water-skiers in the summer. In the fall, tourists are drawn to the spectacular foliage. I’d been looking forward to it but had all but forgotten about our trip with everything that had been going on.
“He-e-e-y, Lisette!” I said.
“What are you up to? I can tell you’re driving,” she said. “Can you talk?”
“Yeah, I’m hands free. On my way to your spot—the District.”
I had taken Liz to the diner the last time she was in Chicago. It was her idea to forgo brunch at the Four Seasons, as we’d planned, for the District in Hyde Park. Liz is money savvy and curious about investments, and she’s always looking for her next act. She wanted to drive through a neighborhood she’d read about undergoing regentrification in the emerging South Loop to check out the real estate. I was disappointed. I’d been looking forward to “Brunch is on me” at the Four Seasons, which is above my pay grade. Liz, a brilliant coder, by age twenty-seven had made a killing off a content management software she developed with a classmate at the University of Texas. She could afford to eat there every day.
“Mmmm.” She let out a low guttural growl. “The shrimp and grits! I want to go back there, but I don’t know, I might not make it this trip. Guess who’s back?”
“Mike,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, girl! Well, not yet, but he’ll be back from Germany next week-e-e-end. He offered to come down here, but I told him you and I were already thinking about driving up to Michigan. So . . .”
Lisette, a manifestation of our home city’s “Keep Austin Weird” culture, fell in love with Saugatuck, an artist enclave with quaint little antique shops and boutiques, and wineries and breweries that appealed to her Bohemian proclivities. So did Mike. Liz met Mike Spencer on our girls’ trip to Saugatuck last summer. We rented a cabin by the sand dunes with a view of the harbor. The blue-eyed, sandy blond furniture maker from New York was in Chicago for an artisans’ conference with his friend Carlo Santi, visiting from Milan, Italy, and drove up to Saugatuck to hang out with some friends for the weekend. The two men were walking along the dunes when they spotted Liz and me on the patio of our cabin noshing on a charcuterie and cheese board and working on a second bottle of a dry rosé we’d picked up at a local winery. Both men looked like they’d stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. Carlo wore an accent scarf loosely around his shoulders for a hint of euro flare. Amanda was supposed to come with us but had had to cancel at the last minute. Just as well—it kept things even.
“I haven’t heard you mention Mike in a while. I didn’t know you guys were still talking.”
“It’s been a little off and on lately since he’s been overseas. We’ve never fallen completely out of touch, though,” she said.
“And obviously,” I picked up where she left off, “he’s been thinking about you, because you’re the first person he wants to see when he gets back.”
I liked Mike. He reminded me a little of my college crush, Jake, Justin’s big brother. But unlike Jake, Mike has the blue eyes to go with the blond hair, and a California beach-boy body and the thousand-watt smile. The two men turned and walked toward us as if they had an invitation. Lisette and I didn’t know whether to panic and retreat into the cabin or to thank God. Once they introduced themselves and we decided they weren’t going to kill us, we chose the latter.
Liz hadn’t seen Mike since the two met up in Chicago over the spring.
“He called me last night and said he’d be back in Saugatuck in a couple weeks. That’s right around the time we’d talked about running up there. Are you still game?”
It should have been an easy yes, but the timing couldn’t have been worse.
“Is Carlo going to be there?” I asked.
Carlo and I didn’t stay in touch after he went back to Italy. I got the feeling that Carlo, who was in his late thirties, had a wife back home that he failed to mention.
“No, but Mike said he’s got a friend for you,” Lisette said.
I’m not sure that’s what I want in my life right now.
“When do I need to let you know? Is your friend from Detroit still planning to meet us?”
Does Mike have a “friend” for her, too?
“Yes, and she’s bringing a friend of hers from work. It’ll be fun. Tell me you’re not backing out. Are you?”
“I’d love to go, but there’s so much going on here right now with this murder case,” I said.
“Which one?”
“The missing fifteen-year-old girl. She was found dead the other day,” I said.
“Oh my God! I was praying so hard for her to be okay,” Liz said.
“I know. Me too.”
The last time I mentioned Masey James to my best friend, it was in the present tense.
“What happened?” she asked, but I didn’t have time to go into it. I’d arrived at my destination.
“Hey, Liz, I’m here. I’m going to have to call you later,” I said.
“Okay, don’t forget. Be careful out there,” she said.
“I will.”
By ten o’clock, the parking lot at the District Diner was so full it looked like the Dan Ryan with an accident blocking two of the express lanes during rush-hour traffic. Scott was in the news van and made up a parking space. I pulled up behind him. I wasn’t worried about getting a ticket.
Scott and I walked in and I scanned the cacophonous diner, with its iconic images of local heroes like former mayor Harold Washington; John H. and Eunice Johnson of Ebony and Jet magazine; Mavis Staples and the Staple Singers; and boxer Joe Louis, to name a few. The people’s pride. Depending on the ethnic group, this type of display could be found in diners across America. In Austin, there’d be Willie Nelson and Stevie Ray Vaughan. In Detroit, Aretha Franklin and politicians like John Conyers Jr.; or Frank Sinatra in Hoboken. Each booth and table bore the name of a historic Black figure. There was even a table named for Ida B. Wells-Barnett, the history-making journalist whose name was now linked to an ill-fated playground.
In the far left corner, I spotted a handsome Black man in his late fifties or early sixties who stood out in a maroon suit tailored to accommodate his broad shoulders. The perfectly coifed waves in his hair looked as if he had commanded them: “Don’t move.” Cook County commissioner Curtis “C.W.” Clark looked up. I caught his attention, and he gestured for me to come over.
To my surprise, he was alone, which was rare. He must have just ended a meeting or was waiting for the next one to start. As we made our way through the cramped room and steaming hot plates, I turned to Scott and muttered, “If he invites us to join him, we’re saying yes.”
Commissioner Clark stood up and extended his hand, greeting us both warmly. “Good morning, Jordan,” he said, his mouth barely visible under a thick mustache. “How long has it been?”
Clark held out his arms and enveloped me in a warm embrace as if I were a relative he hadn’t seen for a long while. I’m sure Clark didn’t hug every journalist he encountered. Because I am a Black woman in this job, there is an unspoken acknowledgment by people in my community of the struggle that it took for me to get where I am. I’m media but also kin. They want me here. In moments like this, when I feel people’s distrust of the media melt away, I feel like a local, though their warmth has limits.
“It’s good to see you, too, Commissioner,” I said. “This is my colleague Scott Newell.”
“Hello, young man. Glad to meet you,” Clark said.
“Likewise, sir.”
“Please, have a seat,” Clark said. “So, Mr. Newell, what is it that you do?”
“I’m a cameraman for Channel 8,” Scott said.
“Yes, we’re colleagues,” I reinforced. “Scott’s my favorite cameraman.”
“Oh!” Clark exhaled a breath of relief. “Well, as long as he can make me look as good-looking on TV as you do, he’s all right with me.” He chuckled, and Scott’s shoulders dropped a quarter inch.
“I hope we’re not intruding,” I said. “Are you expecting someone?”
“Not for another thirty minutes. Go on and order yourselves some breakfast. Vera!” He threw up his hand and summoned a nearby waitress. “Bring us some menus.”
Until the commissioner mentioned food, it hadn’t dawned on me that I was in fact quite hungry. I’d lost my appetite this morning and didn’t finish my light breakfast. While I’m here, there’s no harm in my ordering my favorite meal—salmon croquettes with cheese grits and a warm from-scratch biscuit as big as my hand with strawberry jam. It was enough to eat for two people. Scott and I might have shared a large meal such as this someplace else, but not at the District. We had already elicited a few stares—daggers, actually—when we walked in together. I mustn’t appear too chummy with my White colleague at the risk of arousing distrust by my inevitable detractors, who are convinced that my education and perceived success have distanced me from my community. Also, people don’t know a lot about my personal life. The first time they see me with a man, some will assume he’s my man or will wonder what I’m hiding.
I knew without even asking that Clark’s clock was ticking. Once we ordered, I got right down to business. There was a lot at stake. Even though Louise Robinson and I knew of each other, and her niece Tanya had made me welcome to call her, my instincts told me I needed more gravitas than Tanya to use on Louise. A credible introduction from Commissioner Clark, an astute dealmaker and a heavy hitter like she was herself, would get me a lot further.
“Commissioner, do you have a relationship with Louise Robinson?” I asked.
“Oh, so that’s who you’re after,” he said, chuckling.
“I respect your opinion. I’d like to find out a little more about her before I reach out to talk to her today.” I smiled.
The commissioner laughed even harder.
What’s so damn funny?
He took a deliberate sip of his coffee. I recognize this old-school power move. I couldn’t decipher whether he was thinking about his reply or he was toying with me.
“Yeah, I know Louise,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“She and the South Side Community Council are orchestrating a vigil tonight for Masey James. She’s one of the founders, actually,” I said.
“Ha!” he scoffed. “She likes to tell people that, but Louise Robinson didn’t even live in Chicago when the council was established. She was out in the south suburbs up to God knows what.”
I’m not sure what he meant by God knows what. I took it with a grain of salt, because from what I’ve read about Louise Robinson, I know that she is an alpha female who has challenged the establishment, which includes Clark. When a woman does this, it can come at a cost to her reputation and make her unlikable to people who feel threatened by her.
“Really, she’s not from Chicago?” I asked.
“She’s from here, but she married a guy from out there,” he said. “They’ve been divorced for a while now, but she’s only been back in the city for about three, four years.”
Our food arrived quickly. By now Clark was so deep into his story, he appeared not to notice. So was I. I forgot to ask for hot sauce, but I was hungry, so I attacked the southern dish that was in stark contrast to my normal sushi and food fusion restaurant world fare, and listened intently as he went on to tell me how Robinson barely escaped indictment while serving as an elected member of a south suburban municipal board.
“The village got so far behind on paying its garbage vendor, they didn’t pick up residential trash for three weeks! Can you imagine?”
“I wouldn’t want to,” Scott chimed in.
“The court had to intervene. It was a mess,” he said. “That was before your time, Jordan. She resigned. The terms of the rest of the board members expired, and none of them sought reelection. Not even the mayor,” he said.
The steam rising off his scrambled eggs finally drew his attention and he grabbed his fork, leaning over his food and taking a bite. That didn’t stop him from talking, though. He went on to explain how Louise moved back in with her mother in Englewood, which consistently ranks as one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in Chicago, with the highest rate of homicides and one of the lowest rates of high school graduations.
“She wasn’t there long before she started nagging,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked, trying to hide my disgust at his misogynistic commentary about a woman who clearly cares about her community.
“Oh, just constantly complaining, calling my office and city council members with every grievance imaginable. Before she became such a difficult person, I told her, ‘Look, if you want to run for office, then run. Just stop tying up my phone.’ In fact, you know the playground where that girl’s body was found the other day?”
“Yes, I know it well,” I said, moving to the edge of my seat.
“She was the one who blasted the mayor’s office and the Park District for letting it fall victim to blight. That was a few years ago, and it’s still in horrible shape.”
“Yes, I know, I saw it,” I said. “Nothing says ‘I don’t care about the children in this community’ like a swing set with no swings. They sent a group of Cook County sheriff’s office prisoners to clean it up, and they discovered the body.”
“Right. I saw you on the news,” Clark said. “It’s a shame it had to come to that. A couple years ago, Louise finally kept on until the Sun-Times looked into it. They busted the ward leader for siphoning off the money for the upkeep.”
“What ward leader?” I asked.
“Lucinda Mitchell,” he said.
“What did she do with the money?” I asked.
“Hell, she put it in her pocket,” he laughed, and sipped his coffee, which by now was bound to be cold.
“And that was two years ago?” I asked.
“Yeah, at least.”
I was still doing the math in my head, thinking about how long the playground had been neglected, when the commissioner continued to speak.
“It was a front-page story,” he said.
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“Let’s see, that story came out about a year before Lucinda went to jail, so a little more than three years ago,” he said.
It was worse than I thought.
“Three years? That’s inconceivable!”
Hell, Louise Robinson should’ve been tying up elected officials’ phones!
“You mean to tell me that playground was in bad enough condition to make the front page some three years ago, and it still looked like a dump until just recently?” I asked incredulously.
“Ap-par-ently,” the commissioner said. “I remember Louise talked about how it was going to become an incubator of crime. This was supposed to be a place where children could play. The Park District didn’t put any real money into it to start with.”
Parks in communities of color typically do not feature the new age soft turf used on playgrounds in more affluent communities like Lincoln Park. Kids on the South Side were lucky to get a slide.
“So the story didn’t compel the city to act at all?”
“Oh no, the Park District went in and cleaned up the debris and removed the damaged playground equipment, but they never put anything in its place. They let it sit there and rot.”
I would’ve asked Clark why he didn’t step in, but because it is Chicago Park District property, technically it wasn’t his jurisdiction.
“Look, I applaud her for at least trying,” he said.
Finally, something positive.
“She probably would’ve gotten more done if she wasn’t such a nasty person.”
I clenched my teeth to hide my disgust. Clark was again making the point that if you’re a woman, no matter where you are on the food chain, there’s a man somewhere carping about how difficult you are, even when you’re right. I wanted to ask him, “How is it possible that her tactics bother you more than the problem?” But I put food in my mouth, instead, to keep the words from flying out. Good thing it was delicious. I usually don’t talk with my mouth full, but to move Clark off his misogynistic rant, I made an exception.
“But . . . she is a current member of the South Side Community Council, right?” I asked.
“She’s a member, but she’s not a founder, no. That I can assure you,” he said. “I don’t know why she keeps telling that lie.”
For goodness sake, Clark. You’ve called this woman nasty, nagging, lying . . . all that’s missing is the B word.
“With all due respect, Commissioner, aren’t you being a little hard on her?” I blurted out, momentarily abandoning the ego stroke, which is sadly a requirement of being a reporter. That’s something they don’t teach in journalism school, but I learned rather quickly out here in these streets.
He took another deliberate sip of that cold coffee. I fixed my smile and remained affable, because I didn’t come here this morning to chastise this grown man. I came to borrow his credibility. Besides, he probably isn’t interested in knowing that the way he described a dedicated community advocate was as hurtful for me to hear as a woman as some of the tone-deaf remarks from my newsroom colleagues about race. I have good reasons for trying to get along with them and Clark, too. Listening to his bullshit would be worth it. I would just have to play his game a little longer.
“People don’t have to get out here and fight for their community. Whatever happened down in the south ’burbs, I’ll give her credit . . . When she wants to, she can be relentless,” said Clark.
“You sound like you admire her,” I said, with a healthy dose of sarcasm. Clark is a smart man, but I wondered whether he picked up on it.
He hesitated before he spoke, then said abruptly, “Weeelll, to some extent, maybe. I mean, we talk.”
That’s what I figured. That’s why I’m here.
“Would you mind giving her a call to let her know I’ll be contacting her within the next thirty minutes?”
“For you, I will make an exception.”
Clark wore on my nerves, but it got me to the next step. He pushed his plate to the side and pulled his cell phone from his inside jacket pocket.
“It’s loud in here,” I said.
“Good,” Clark said. “That’ll keep the call short and save me from the list of things I’m sure she wants to talk to me about.”
Clark had her number in his phone. She must’ve picked up on the first or second ring.
“Hi, Louise? It’s Clark. Can you hear me? It’s Clark!” he shouted over the chatter. “Listen, I’m here with Jordan Manning . . . What’s that? . . . Okay, wait, wait. I can barely hear you. I’m over at the District. Look, I called you because I’m sitting here with Jordan Manning, the reporter from Channel 8. She’s going to call you in a few minutes to talk to you, so pick up her call. Okay? . . . Yes, I know about it . . . Okay, well, let’s talk later, okay, dear?”
Dear? After all the shit you just talked about her?
“All right, talk to you later,” Clark said and snapped his flip phone closed.
As Clark was finishing up my introduction to Louise Robinson, Vera brought the check.
“I’ve got this, Commissioner,” I said.
“You owe me,” he said. “We can start with breakfast.” He chuckled.
Scott’s eyes widened. I would have to explain to him that there was nothing lascivious about that remark. Clark, I now know, is a misogynist, but he has always been a gentleman. He’s a politician, so he’s used to people picking up tabs, except Scott reached in and grabbed the check first.
“That’s okay. I’ve got this,” he said.
“Always good to see you, Ms. Manning,” Clark said. He stood up to walk us out and embraced me once more outside the first set of double doors.
“Likewise, Commissioner, and thank you.”
I climbed into the news truck with Scott, cleared my throat, and dialed Ms. Robinson.
“Yes?” she answered inquisitively.
“Hello, is this Ms. Louise Robinson?”
“This is. Is this Jordan Manning?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“Boy, that was fast!” she said. “I just hung up with C.W. He must like you.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because he called me on your behalf. I’m sure he gave me a glowing review,” she said, dripping with sarcasm. “For C.W. to admit I’m right, you have a better chance of seeing a unicorn walk down Lake Shore Drive.”
“Well, he did have some interesting things to say about you,” I said.
“And the feeling is mutual,” Robinson said. We both giggled knowingly, like two women who were sure we’d been called difficult behind our backs many times before.
This wasn’t the way I’d planned to launch our conversation, but it broke the ice, nonetheless. I explained that her niece had told me about the vigil tonight for Masey James and that Clark had filled me in on her history with the playground.
“If it’s all right, I’d rather talk in person. I’m not far away. I have someone with me, my cameraman, but I’d like to sit down and chat first. He’ll stay in the car.” Scott shot me a look.
My goal was to get her on-camera, but I needed to go in by myself first and build trust. So far, so good.
“Forgive the last-minute notice, but I have an interview at the police station at twelve-thirty and another at three o’clock,” I said.
“That’s fine. Come on.”
I jotted down her address and handed it to Scott.
“If I’m not filming her, why am I going again?” he asked.
“Scott, you don’t just roll up on a woman like Louise Robinson with fifteen or twenty minutes to spare and put a camera in her face. You just don’t.
“But . . . if there’s a breakthrough,” I said, “I wanna be ready.”
At 10:45, the District parking lot was still packed tight, like my skirt, which felt two sizes smaller after that huge breakfast. Just as I was about to give up and drive myself over to Ms. Robinson’s, I got lucky and grabbed a spot as a car was pulling out. Then I hopped back in the truck with Scott.
To be honest, I didn’t want to drive alone through Englewood any more than Scott did. And perhaps if people saw me sitting up front in the passenger seat, nobody would take a shot at the truck, which happened the last time Scott drove through Englewood by himself.
We were only about ten minutes away from Robinson’s house, but I’d promised to give her twenty minutes.
“Let’s drive around a little,” I told Scott. “She probably needs a little time to get herself together.”
We passed three girls who looked to be about eight or nine. They were playing hopscotch on the sidewalk.
“See there?” Scott pointed. “Now, that’s cute. I wish I could be filming that.”
“Black kids playing hopscotch? What’s unusual about that?”
“It’s cute,” Scott said.
A classic white Chevy Impala drove past us. The music was playing so loudly, I could feel it in my throat.
“Okay, just so you know . . . Black kids have been playing hopscotch for-ever. It’s not new to the hood,” I said.
I don’t know whether he heard me, because he was busy lambasting a person who had no idea they were being lambasted.
“Damn, dude, turn your music down!” he said, and then to me. “How long do you want to drive around?” he asked. “Her house is a block away.”
“It is?”
“Yeah, we passed it already. I just hope those three guys standing on the corner are gone when I pull back around.”
“Why, what were they doing?” I asked.
“Just standing there doing nothing!” he said.
So, standing around doing nothing is code for what?
As we circled back to Louise’s block and rounded the corner, sure enough, there were three young Black men in their late teens, early twenties, standing on the corner beneath a blue-and-white CTA sign.
“Dude, it’s a bus stop!” I said. “What else are they supposed to do while they wait for the bus but stand around?”
Scott frowned. I could tell that he felt exposed and slightly embarrassed, and he didn’t like feeling that way at all. But it was a teaching moment I couldn’t pass up.
“You know, how a person sees three Black men looks different depending on who you are and how and where you grew up,” I said.
“Yes, I know. Fine. Let’s drop it. I didn’t see the sign,” he said.
“Hear me out,” I continued. “Do you think it’s possible you were so focused on the three Black men that you didn’t notice they were at a bus stop?”
“Everything’s not about race, Jordan,” he said.
No, he didn’t.
“It is for those three young Black men. How people see them through the lens of race impacts how their teachers see them, how police interact with them. Will they see a suspect when he’s the victim or just a guy waiting on a bus? Black people have been killed for less.”
Scott remained silent, and I backed off. Maybe I was taking out my frustration over Clark’s comments on him, and that wasn’t fair. But he needed to learn, and if being a little uncomfortable was required for him never to forget, then so be it.
Scott parked in front of a two-story redbrick bungalow with a large shaded porch. I wonder if she uses it much. Misdirected gunfire and stray bullets were very real dangers in this community.
“You call me in ten minutes and let me know what’s going on,” Scott commanded, clearly irritated. “I don’t want to sit out here for thirty minutes,” he said emphatically, with a disquieting expression.
I reached over and put my left hand on his right and flashed him a smile. “Okay, I will. I promise.”
I was met at the door by a boy who looked to be around eleven or twelve.
“Grandma, you’ve got company!” he yelled toward the back of the house.
“Show her the way!” Grandma yelled back.
“Follow me.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He looked back but kept moving forward. “Marcus.”
He faced forward once more, but then twisted around a second later, pointing his index finger at me. “Aren’t you on TV?”
“Yes, I am. I’m Jordan Manning from Channel 8 news,” I said, extending my hand.
“You’ve never been here before,” he said with certainty.
“You’re right. I haven’t.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand lightly, sizing me up. “You’re very pretty.”
“Why, thank you, Marcus.”
I followed the Little Charmer down the hallway onto a screened-in sunporch just off the kitchen. Louise Robinson was sitting in a tan wicker chair with red-and-white-striped cushions, her leg propped up on a pillow on the matching wicker ottoman. She wore a dark blue sleeveless shirt and a gray skirt that hit her at the knee, with one sandal on her left foot. Her right foot was expertly wrapped in an Ace bandage. It was neither formal attire nor typical loungewear, but I could tell she had made an effort to get herself together.
“Hello, Ms. Robinson. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry to see you’re injured,” I said. “What happened?” pointing to her lame foot.
“I know you didn’t come here to talk about my foot,” she said, a little terse.
“Well, no, of course not,” I said, managing an uncomfortable smile.
Where’d that come from?
When I opened my mouth again, I relaxed my well-trained vocal cords and dropped my voice down an octave. I sensed from that small exchange that maybe she was a little nasty, as Clark had said. Even if that was true, I was determined not to let her take me there. In my experience, people often give back what I give them. In times like this, I imagine myself extending an olive branch. It helps me keep my vibe even.
“Ms. Robinson, I came here today to talk to you about your valiant fight to improve the Ida B. Wells-Barnett playground, which has now become a crime scene?”
“Oh. That,” she said. “I have to be careful, you know,” she said. “This poor mother has lost her child in the most vicious, desecrating manner. Even if the death didn’t happen on the playground, this neglected property was going to be somebody’s tomb.”
Shit. I should be getting this on-camera. Scott can say he told me so all he wants.
“Thank you so much for letting me come into your home to speak to you today. I want to applaud you for what you tried to do with the playground.”
“Tried?” she said, sounding indignant. “Tried? Honey, I did that thing. The Park District is the one that failed. Not me.”
“Well, yes, absolutely,” I said.
I felt myself slipping down a rabbit hole that I had somehow managed to dig in less than three minutes. The warmth we had established over the phone was getting chillier by the second.
“It’s upsetting to see kids not being given the basics to enjoy in life,” I said. “But obviously I didn’t come here just to talk about the playground.”
“Obviously, you didn’t. So what do you want?”
Jeez, can you be a little nicer?
“Ms. Robinson, I’d really like to interview you on-camera. I told Tanya, your niece, that the only way to keep this story in the news was for us to do exactly what you did with the playground. Never let our foot off the gas,” I said. “The stakes are higher than a swing set.”
I’m aware that I’m pouring it on thick, but if Louise Robinson wants me to beg her to go on-camera, she can forget it. I’m here now, in her house, and I’m determined not to leave without footage. It’s one thing to get a grieving parent to talk on-camera; it’s another to get a professional mouthpiece, like Robinson. Surely she isn’t camera shy. Maybe she’s saving it for the vigil.
On the way to her house, I googled the article she was quoted in about the blighted playground.
“Why did it become such a struggle to get the Park District to respond to repeated requests to improve the conditions of the playground in a community full of schoolchildren?” I asked.
“Oh, it wasn’t just the Park District; it was Lucinda Mitchell blocking us at first, because she didn’t want anybody to find out she was embezzling that money. When they finally did do something over there, we as a community had less than we started with. They took out all the equipment, and do you know they’ve only cut that grass over there TWICE! You hear me, TWICE in two years! After that, they said forget it.”
“Who’s they? The Park District?” I asked.
“I blame them all!” she declared. “The mayor’s office, too. They’re as much to blame for that child’s death as the person or people who killed her,” she said.
Louise had quickly worked herself into a frenzy, so I decided not to bring up the fact that Masey was murdered someplace else and her body was dumped there.
“Ms. Robinson, Tanya said on the phone this morning that people are furious. What are you hearing? Are people concerned there will be other victims? That a killer’s on the loose on the South Side?”
“Our children are dying every day,” she said, leaning forward in her chair. “There are always others. Do I think somebody in the community did it? Yes. I do. Do I believe he knew where he was going to stash her body before he killed her? Yes. I believe he did.”
She hadn’t yet answered the second part of my question.
“Are you afraid there will be others?” I repeated.
“God forbid, but yes. So long as he keeps getting away with it, he’ll never stop. His thirst to kill can’t be quenched. He’s already gone after another young lady,” she said.
Wait. What?
“Ms. Robinson, you almost sound like you know who did this,” I said, trading in my low octave for a near shriek. “What are you telling me?”
I wish I had an extra hand behind my back to text Scott, “Get in here with the camera! Now!”
Louise Robinson moved up in her chair and, leaning forward, looked me dead in the face. “What I’m telling you is that people don’t believe what they see with their own eyes. They ignore the truth.”
Why is she being so cryptic?
I listened.
“There is a pathology that runs through our community, Jordan. It places our girls in imminent danger every day of their lives. Before the police fail them, before the prosecutors fail to convict those who would harm them, there is in some cases a failure of the community to protect them.”
She was starting to sound like Superintendent Bartlett.
“How so?” I asked.
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve seen it before. Some people would rather shame our girls and blame them for being victimized. They oversexualize them before they even get their period. Some women are just as guilty as men. It’s not uncommon to hear, ‘She’s acting grown,’ or ‘She’s acting fast,’ or ‘She shouldn’t have been wearing that. She was asking for it. She should’ve known better.’”
She’s right; it was a familiar refrain.
“I agree with you a hundred percent. But, Ms. Robinson, you said he’s already gone after another young lady. Who are you talking about?”
She leaned back and held on to the chair’s armrests, posturing like a queen on her wicker throne, and with the damnedest look on her face, she said, “Red Moley. And you’d better believe, if there’s one, there’s two.”