I’m at the corner of 45th and Calumet Avenue in Bronzeville, where the body of fifteen-year-old Carol Crest High School honor student Masey James was found underneath these “L” train tracks three days ago. Tonight, more than 150 people gathered near the crime scene to remember Masey and to show support for her family, which includes her mother, Pamela, and Masey’s father, Anthony James.
When I was starting out, my mentor, a seasoned veteran at the Dallas station, gave me some sage advice: “Walk and talk; no one wants to see you just standing there.” Recalling this, I asked George to follow me with the camera and do just that to record the teaser—walk with me as I talked the audience and our anchors in the studio through this sorrowful night. At the conclusion of a nearly twelve-hour day, I would see my hard work distilled down to mere minutes on the air. But that’s the irony of this business: long days are chopped up into short pieces and sound bites. No wonder people feel their stories aren’t fully expressed. And for what? To set aside enough time to show a funny video at the end of the broadcast to counterbalance the bad news they just heard? Precisely.
But I needed to get as much information as I could to these anchors in the studio.
Will and Iris, I spoke with one woman who told me that people are furious with the way Chicago police dealt with Masey’s disappearance, classifying her as a runaway for weeks. This simmer of anger is going to turn into a boil if police don’t provide some answers soon. More in my full report later tonight.
It was still light outside. The vigil was set for seven o’clock, but no one really expected it to start on time, given the large numbers of people straggling in on foot. I noted that very few of the people gathering were coming out of nearby homes. This was the time of day when the setting sun exposed the underbelly of a neighborhood in transition, when people were accustomed to retreating indoors for the night. Seniors abandoned their porches and parents called the little kids inside. Then when the streetlights flickered on, the middle schoolers picked up the pace, recognizing they are nowhere near equipped to deal with the kind of stuff that can potentially transpire once night creeps in, so they made their way home.
I thought to myself, No one wants to be here. They’ve come because they’ve been affected by the fact that a Black child has been murdered and discarded in a field, and because they are worried something like this could happen to their child. They are tired of the constant violence in their communities and the absence of empathy for Black and brown victims—to a certain extent, even among their own people. They weren’t eager to stand in a dark street, because even on a night like this and even with a heavy police presence, you could feel a shift in the energy level as the texture and beat of the community, sadly, tilted toward what the media so often portrayed as violence. In a place such as Bronzeville, whose enchantment as a Black mecca had vanished decades earlier and which was now in the midst of regentrification, the daylight concealed the inherent dangers and the nighttime revealed the vulnerabilities that many equated with being on a street corner ruled by people it might not be safe to be around. Tonight, if just this once, they were willing to take the risk, because the unthinkable, the incomprehensible, had happened to one of their own.
I scanned the crowd, assessing people to interview on camera. The aromas of scented candles—apple cinnamon, vanilla, and pumpkin spice—broke the stale tension in the air and spoke volumes about the carriers, from their religious beliefs to their favorite TV and film characters. One teenage girl cradled a religious candle in a long glass cylinder emblazoned with a yellow cross that appeared to glow with the flickering light catching it and softening the exaggerated neon color. Then it hit me: The crowd was predominantly made up of women and children around Masey’s age. These kids could be anywhere else, gossiping with their friends about the boy they liked or playing video games. Instead, the horrific nature of this crime broke through their teenage indifference and led them here.
I didn’t have a lot of time to conduct what we refer to in the industry as man-on-the-street interviews, which was a funny thought considering I was surrounded mostly by women. But again, that kind of male-dominant terminology was another example of the archaic nature of the business I must fight to thrive in. I had to at least try and squeeze in a few before the program started without allowing the exchange between Pamela and me a few moments ago in Tanya’s living room, which I was still processing, to distract me from doing my job.
After the roundtable interview, George waited for me on the sidewalk in front of Tanya’s, and the two interns went back to the news truck to label the tape. I was glad when they left, because it gave me a chance to sneak over to Pamela without my colleagues witnessing how emotional, how personal this story had become for me. I hadn’t thought about what to say, so I simply took Pamela by the hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. For the first time since that uncomfortable moment when I asked during our one-on-one, “When was the last time you saw your daughter?” we made eye contact. It was brief but intense. No words were exchanged between us, but none were needed. We had an understanding, I now realized, that had been there all along. More of a code of conduct, really, and it was this: I’m too familiar with the way these investigations play out for Black families to abandon her, and she knows that. Expressing her appreciation on-camera was her way of letting me know that she didn’t take it for granted. It wasn’t necessary for her to say in that moment, and I almost wish she hadn’t, but it helped me undo some of the awkwardness between us that, as it turned out, I had invented in my own mind.
The racket around me started to quiet down. Volunteers got busy tidying up the dining and kitchen areas, tossing discarded plates, half-eaten sandwiches, and piles of crumpled napkins into the garbage. The McMillans’ foyer grew congested as people made their way out onto the street below. It was time for me to join them, but the smells emanating from the donated food and the Sternos burning the bottom of the aluminum chafing pans connected with my brain, reminding me that it’d been hours since I’d scarfed down that hearty breakfast with Commissioner Clark. I walked over to Tanya and her mother and thanked them again for hosting us.
“Did you get something to eat?” Tanya’s mother Patricia asked, pointing toward the dining table. “There’s plenty of food.”
I reluctantly declined, but her offer legitimized a need in me to be seen as one of them. That I belonged here. Or maybe I just missed my family. Still, I discreetly picked up a cube of pineapple from a fruit plate and popped it in my mouth before stepping out into the chilly air to find George.
The crowd fanned out across 45th Street, spilling over onto the former Ida B. Wells-Barnett playground. The city had made a half-assed attempt to clean it up—performing the bare minimum of a task turned herculean due to years of neglect in order to be able to say it was keeping up its end of the bargain to maintain public land. Overgrown weeds as tall as the Chicago Bulls’ latest draft pick still lined the perimeter. Earlier, as I walked to Tanya’s from my parked car, I noticed signs tacked to utility poles by the tracks warning of rats, then tried to unsee them as I recalled Dr. Chan’s alluding to night creatures as one of several obstacles to collecting useful evidence from the crime scene.
The wind gusted and the temperature instantly dropped about ten degrees. But that’s Chicago. I learned soon after moving here to keep an extra jacket and something to cover my legs in the trunk of my car. I felt sorry for the group of girls I spotted wearing shorts, though up top they had on matching warm black-and-gold jackets with Hyde Park/Kenwood Drill Team stitched on the back and black berets.
“Hey, George.” I pointed. “Let’s go talk to them.”
None of the girls knew Masey personally, but said they were disturbed and saddened by what had happened to her and concerned about their own safety.
“It’s scary, you know. There is a killer out there,” one of the girls said. “It ain’t safe out here in these streets.”
I noticed a boy and a girl standing together wearing blue sweatshirts with orange letters and an emblem that looked vaguely familiar. Then it occurred to me I had seen it before; it matched the symbol on a navy blue and orange school spirit flag that I’d noticed on Pamela’s front porch for Carol Crest, the STEM school Masey had transferred to on the Near West Side. The one it took her nearly two hours on several buses to reach each day. Masey had attended the school for only under a month, but if these kids came here tonight, there was a good chance they might have known her.
“Hey, George, start rolling. I’m going to talk to these kids over there in the blue-and-orange sweatshirts.”
I got their attention as I approached. “Hi, guys! How are you? You go to Carol Crest High School?”
“Yes,” they said in unison.
“Carol Crest Academy,” the girl emphasized with pride.
“Did you know Masey James?” I asked.
“I didn’t know her that well,” the boy said. “She was in my geometry class. She was really nice, though.”
“I knew her!” the girl chimed in. “Oh my God, she was soooo pretty! This is so sad. I cried so hard when I found out it was her.”
So did I.
“Can I get a quick interview? What’s your name?” I asked her.
“Shawn Jeffries,” she said.
“Spell that for me, please,” I said, and she obliged.
“And you, young man, what’s your name?”
“Maleek Tate. M-A-L-E-E-K T-A-T-E.”
“Okay, Shawn, I’m going to ask you if you knew Masey for the camera this time.”
She nodded.
“Go ahead,” George said. “I’m ready.”
RECORDING: “I’m here with Shawn Jeffries, a student at Carol Crest Academy on the Near West Side. She says in the short time she got to know Masey, they became friends. Shawn, what was she like?”
Before she could answer, her face crumpled into tears that streamed down her face. It was unnerving. I swallowed my breath and straightened my back to keep my composure.
“I’m sorry. This is just so sad. We were becoming really good friends,” she said, wiping her face. “She was super nice. I just admired her, you know? She was so pretty and so down-to-earth. Just a real cool person. We ate lunch together, and after school, I walked her to the bus stop on my way home on the days she didn’t get a ride.”
A ride? A ride from whom?
Pamela never mentioned Masey getting a ride from school. She told me she took the bus back and forth every day. No, wait, or did she? I remembered she described Masey’s journey to school, but she didn’t mention how she got home. Nonetheless, I followed my gut and I turned around to face George. “Hey, can you turn the camera off for a minute?” I asked and turned back around to face Shawn.
“Did I say something wrong?” Shawn asked.
“Oh no, sweetheart. Absolutely not. I want to ask you something, but not on-camera. Okay?”
“Okay?” she said. “What is it?”
If the person giving Masey a ride factored into her murder somehow, I didn’t want to put Shawn, a potential witness, at risk by interviewing her on the air.
“Do you know who gave her a ride?” I asked.
“No, she never mentioned it. I mean, I assumed it was a family member. She usually didn’t know if she had a ride or not till the end of the day. But she’d still meet me outside the gym after school and let me know one way or the other,” Shawn said.
“Did you ever see what kind of car she got into?” I asked.
“Um, I think I might have once. I really didn’t pay that much attention to it, though,” she said.
“Did this happen often?” I asked.
“Uhhhh.” Shawn thought about this. “No, not that often. Really just here lately.”
“Here lately,” I repeated. “Like a week or two before she went missing?”
Shawn searched her memory. “Yeah, like, a couple weeks. But not every day. Just every now and then,” she said.
My instincts were right to ask George to stop filming. This little girl just might have shared a critical detail that even the police weren’t aware of.
“Have you spoken to the police?” I asked her.
“No!” she said, recoiling. “Oh, but wait, I do remember her saying one time her cousin was picking her up.”
“That’s all she said? Her cousin? She didn’t mention a name?” I asked.
“Naw, she just said my cousin.”
It was possible these rides were indeed innocent and provided by a family member. The next time I speak to Pam, I’m definitely bringing it up.
“Are you both sophomores?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Yes,” the two responded in unison again.
“Okay, thank you, Maleek and Shawn. I appreciate your time.”
“Are we going to be on the news?” he asked.
“You might,” I said. “These interviews get edited. But make sure you watch just in case.”
I pulled out a business card and handed it to Shawn. “And, hey, Shawn, if you can remember anything about the car or the person giving Masey a ride, would you please call me?”
“Sure,” she said.
Something told me not to leave without getting her contact information.
“You know, is it okay if I get your email address or cell phone number?” I asked.
The teenager beamed at the idea. “Yeah! That’s cool!”
I handed Shawn my cell phone. “Here ya go. Just go in and create a contact.”
I’m always amazed at how fast kids can type on a cell phone keypad with their thumbs.
“Done,” she said.
Before my feet could move, I felt compelled to ask Shawn for another favor. “Hey, one more thing, Shawn. Promise me that you won’t say what you just told me about Masey getting rides from school to another reporter on the air. Can you promise me that?”
“Sure. No problem!” she said.
This wasn’t about getting an exclusive; this was for her safety.
“Thanks. You’ve both been great. I’m so sorry about the loss of your friend. You guys be careful out here.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Maleek. “You, too.”
The question burned on my brain. Who gave Masey rides home from school? Shawn mentioned a cousin. It could’ve been a member of Masey’s extended family: one of her model-esque, basketball-player-looking relatives; her aunt Cynthia; or this cousin Yvonne, whom I have yet to meet. Maybe even Pamela herself.
I would have to unpack this revelation later. A group of about a half-dozen or so White women grabbed my attention in this predominantly Black and brown assembly.
“Hey, George.” I pointed toward them. “Let’s go talk to those ladies. Follow me.”
The crowd had grown dense, and I had to push my way through the tightly packed bodies like a defensive lineman. “Pardon me . . . excuse me . . . oops, sorry, excuse me . . . can I get past you?” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a news camera and a reporter headed in my same direction, and I picked up the pace, determined to get to the women first.
As I drew closer, I noticed the group of women were all wearing matching pink T-shirts with the words women united against violence inscribed on the front, but they must not have noticed me while I was rushing up on them. “Hi, ladies!” I said.
One of the women jumped. She gave me a look, rolled her eyes, and rested her right hand on her chest, breathing a sigh of relief. I’d startled the poor woman, who was clearly a fish out of water in this neighborhood after dark. I scanned the area and didn’t see the reporter from the competing station. She must have conceded defeat and gone in another direction.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Jordan Manning with Channel 8. Can I get a quick interview?”
They all gestured toward a short nondescript woman standing a few feet away, wearing a baseball cap over her medium-length brown hair. “You’ll want to talk to April,” she said.
Of the women standing there, she seemed the least likely to be the leader of the group. She appeared to be surveying the scene herself, craning her neck to see over and around the crowd, which appeared to have grown by at least a third in the last five minutes. At around five-four, she had a hard time seeing over other people’s heads.
“April!” one of them yelled to get her attention. “This reporter would like to speak with you.”
April turned toward me with a bright, welcoming smile. “Oh, hello there. I’m April Murphy. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Jordan Manning. Channel 8,” I said.
“Oh yes, of course! It’s so nice to meet you. I watch you all the time. You’re even prettier in person,” she said.
“Thank you, I appreciate that,” I said.
“April, do you mind if I ask you a few questions on-camera?”
She shrugged her shoulders and nodded in the affirmative. “Sure. That’s fine.”
“Okay, great,” I said.
We stepped away into a less crowded area to give George enough room to frame the shot.
“Boy, it’s getting chilly out here, isn’t it?” April said. “I hope they start soon. We have a good hour’s drive back.”
“Yes, it sure is,” I said as I secured my earpiece and the battery pack to my belt. “Where are you based? Are you expecting some others to join you? You appeared to be looking for someone when I walked up.”
“We’re from the Naperville/Aurora area. And no, this is our group for this event. I just like to keep my eyes peeled,” she said. “You can learn a lot just by observing.”
“April, can you say your first and last name and spell your last name, if you don’t mind?” I asked.
“April like the month and the common spelling of Murphy. M-U-R-P-H-Y.”
“Okay. Thank you. And what’s your title with the group?”
“I’m the founder and president,” she said.
The jarring light atop the camera illuminated our figures. There was something unreal about the air. The atmosphere metamorphized with the dusk and painted the area around us in black, white, and gray tones.
I’m here with April Murphy, founder and president of Women United Against Violence. She and several members of her group came all the way from Aurora to take part in tonight’s vigil. April, what compelled your group to come?
“We’re just sick, all of us, about what happened to this child,” she said, her cohort nodding in agreement beside her. “We’re here to stand with her community and show support for her family. As a survivor, I empathize.”
“April, explain what you mean by ‘as a survivor,’” I said.
“My mother was murdered during my senior year in high school. It’s been twenty years, but it’s something you don’t get over.”
“What does your group do?” I asked.
“We help victims’ families in any way we can—financially, if necessary. In regard to this case, though, I am deeply concerned. I’ve been watching the news coverage . . . or should I say, what little coverage I could find. There have been more stories about the shortage of salt to put down on the roads this winter than about this missing child. This story should have been everywhere,” she said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said on the air.
“Honestly, and I can say this, that if I, a White woman, or my White child had been missing, there would have been nonstop coverage.”
Did she really just say that? I like this woman.
“How does your group interact with families who’ve been victims of violence?”
“We provide access to free grief counseling and support from a network of people who understand what they’re going through. This is a dark and lonely walk that nobody should have to take by themselves.”
“And what kind of help do you hope to provide Masey’s family?” I asked.
“Anything we can do, really. Mainly we just want them to know there are people out here who care and who also want justice for their daughter.”
“Thank you, April,” I said, and turned toward the camera.
Those are powerful words coming from a mother outside of this community who has been touched by this tragedy like so many of the people gathered here tonight to show their love and support.
I gave George a nod to indicate I was finished and turned back toward April. Leaning in close, I whispered, “I can connect you with Masey’s mother.”
“Really?” she whispered back. “That’d be great. When?”
I really liked this woman. Her voice was full of urgency and resolve. She’s a doer, not a talker.
“If you can stick around after the vigil, I’ll see if I can introduce the two of you tonight. But in the meantime, do you have a card? Here’s mine.”
“Yes, I do.”
If April Murphy meant what she said and could be a valuable, commiserative resource to Pamela, then I would make it my duty to connect these two women. But more than that, to have the support of an organization led by a White suburban mom might just be the lifeline Pamela needed to keep attention on this case. It’s a sad reality, but getting the “white seal of approval” could in fact light a fire under the police and media.
I examined her business card, which included an AOL email address and a phone number. “Is this your cell number?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” she said.
“Great!” I said.
I had no idea what shape Pam Alonzo would be in at the conclusion of this event. “If for some reason this doesn’t happen tonight, let’s touch base tomorrow. Okay?”
“Sounds good,” she said.
“Okay, April, talk to you soon.”
I made a note to self to be sure to tell the segment producer, “If you have to cut an interview from the footage, make damn sure it’s not that one.”
By now, it was 7:15. The chirp of car doors being locked with remote keys and car alarms silenced with a click of a button could be heard above the raucousness of the crowd, who continued to flow in from all directions. There had to be over two hundred people gathered now. George and I split up as he made his way over to the row of news cameras and I headed for the news van. The cube of pineapple had worn off and I was literally swooning from hunger. There was almost always something to snack on in the news truck.
“Nice work, George,” I said. “I’m going to stop by the truck, then move up closer.”
“No problem, Jordan. Thanks.”
Even though I was wearing flats, the back of my knees felt weak as fatigue set in. I was desperately in need of a sugar rush. As much as I hated to traverse the tightly packed crowd again to get to the van, I hated the thought of passing out on the asphalt even more.
On the way, I caught snippets of conversations from the audience, ranging from the mundane (“Hey, girl, I haven’t seen you in forever”) to the conspiratorial (“Her mama got a boyfriend? Usually the boyfriend did it”) to the somber (“She had her whole life ahead of her” and “I can’t even imagine what her parents are going through”).
I passed by the kids from Carol Crest, Shawn and Maleek, whom I’d spoken to earlier. Their group had swelled and there appeared to be an adult with them. I wanted to stop, but my stomach told me to stay the course toward the Snickers bar and a bottle of Gatorade I prayed were in the cooler.
Suddenly I felt a tug at my jacket.
“Excuse me,” a girl’s voice said.
I swung around, but there were so many people standing nearby, I couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.
“Hi! Excuse me!” I heard once more.
There were two teenage girls standing between me and the person trying to get my attention, but she still managed to reach across them both to ensnare me, then ducked under one girl’s arm to plant herself directly in my path.
“Hi,” she said in a high-pitched voice.
“Hello. Can I help you?” I asked. I sized her up, unsure if she was a high school student or in college. Her mature face didn’t match her very childlike voice.
“You’re the lady on TV, right?” she said pointing at me with her index finger, like Marcus had done earlier.
She’s a kid.
“Yeah. I’m Jordan Manning. Nice to meet you,” I said hurriedly.
“Well, you haven’t exactly met me yet,” she said.
I’m going to meet this pavement if I don’t get some food.
My impatience with the exchange was on 10. “Hey, listen, I was just headed to the news van,” but I didn’t want to be rude. “Okay, so what’s your name?”
“My name is Monique Connors,” she said.
“Great. Now we’ve officially met. Nice to meet you, Monique, but I’ve seriously gotta go.”
“I thought you’d like to know that I was a friend of Masey’s,” she said. “Well, yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Her words halted my movement. The last person who had described themselves as a “friend” of Masey’s provided information that could potentially be a lead in this case. But this girl didn’t sound so sure that she was even Masey’s friend. “There are friends and there are acquaintances,” my mom used to say. “A lot of folks don’t know which one they are. But you’d better know the difference.”
“Oh,” I managed as my empty insides twisted, “I’m very sorry for the loss of your friend, Monique. Very, very sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“But you’ll have to excuse me. I really have to get something out of the news van before things get started, okay?”
I reached into my pant pocket. “If there’s something you want to share with me, here’s my card. Call me tomorrow.”
She took the card and stared down at it, looking disappointed. “Okay then, bye,” she said in an unnecessarily sassy and dismissive tone.
I nodded and forced a smile and went on my way. I was light-headed by the time I reached the van and pulled open the side door, startling the interns. “Hi, guys. What’re you up to?”
The other intern, named Chad, stammered nervously, “We’re labeling the tapes like George told us to do.”
“Okay, that’s fine. I’m not here to check up on you. Hey, Grace, do you see a cooler in the back?”
“I dunno. I’ll check,” she said, and hollered back seconds later. “Yes!”
“What’s in there to eat or drink? Is there any candy? A Snickers bar?”
“Um, let me see.”
Please, hurry.
“There’s a bunch of protein bars and a can of pop,” she said, using a word for soda that is characteristic of Chicagoans.
“No candy?” I asked.
“Nope, I don’t see any.”
I normally don’t drink soda, but today I would make an exception.
“I’ll take ’em. I’m dying here,” I said, trying not to sound less than gracious to the young woman who had earlier described herself as a huge fan. I managed a smile when she handed me dinner.
“Thanks, Grace. Please forgive me. I’m hangry,” I said, and she smiled.
* * *
By 7:30, darkness advanced and the candles transformed the block into a sea of lights. At 7:32, the family, the Black Pastors Coalition, and the South Side Community Council members emerged from the McMillan home. The women wore T-shirts, like Tanya’s, with Masey’s image on the front. Tanya had handed me a shirt, too. It would be inappropriate in my role to wear it, but I accepted it from her out of respect.
They lined up, paired off in twos, and locked arms for the brief walk to a makeshift stage flanked by two blown-up images of Masey someone must have just put up: the ninth-grade school picture that was now embedded in my mind and that of anyone who’d seen the posters, and another picture of Masey wearing a backpack and a pink quilted jacket, holding up the peace sign, looking deadly serious, like a model pose. Pamela, who locked arms with her childhood sweetheart, and Masey’s gorgeous relatives each carried a single pink rose. Their faces long and somber, they held on tightly to each other so they wouldn’t collapse in the street from their overwhelming grief.
A hush fell over the chattering crowd as the family and the community leaders took their places. The stage wasn’t large enough to hold everyone, so Masey’s relatives walked around and stood in front. Tanya had sent me an email earlier with the order of the speakers, beginning with a prayer by Bishop Toney, who, as he’d done during our interview, set the mood. Louise was supposed to be up next, but instead Pamela and Anthony James stepped up to the front of the stage and someone handed her a microphone. She was visibly shaking and had trouble raising the mic up to her mouth. Anthony had to reach in and hold it steady for her. The atmosphere became eerily quiet except for the resonating sound of traffic swooshing down nearby King Drive, the screech of a passing train, and the occasional squelch of a police officer’s two-way radio.
“Hello? Can you all hear me?” she asked. The crowd responded “Yes, sister, we can hear you” before quieting down again. “I want to thank you all for coming to be with us,” Pamela said, and turned to her right and placed her hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Me and Masey’s father, we are humbled by your presence. I didn’t realize how much I needed my community until I saw all of y’all standing here.”
Pamela appeared to run out of breath before she got to the end of the sentence. She paused and took a deep breath, and Anthony pulled her in tightly against his shoulder. “I’m so tired,” she muttered, struggling to hold up her head.
“When I look out at you,” she continued, “all I see is my baby. My beautiful, smart, lovely daughter. Her future had just taken off like a rocket.”
Her words reminded me of one of my favorite Stevie Wonder songs.
Pamela lifted her head slightly and caught the gaze of the young woman with blond streaks in her hair I’d noticed hugging Louise. Standing right next to her was Monique Connors. I had accounted for all the other relatives who were present except one, Yvonne, Masey’s cousin on Pam’s side. Seeing as how this woman looked nothing like the women of the James clan, through deductive reasoning, I concluded she must be Yvonne.
“I don’t have a lot to say, because honestly, I’m talked out. But I want y’all to hear me out,” she said, managing strength to emphasize: “And that goes for the po-lice, too.
“Our girls aren’t safe. I don’t mean to scare you just because I’m going through hell. And this is hell! But a lot of you know it’s true. They don’t have to go outside their communities for harm to find them; they’re getting hurt right here in our community, in front of our eyes, some of them. And we look away. We judge them. We don’t protect them. We say, that’s somebody else’s problem. But that’s a lie. Their protection is your problem. And I don’t know how I know it, other than to say that God put it on my heart. But somebody knows who did this. This ain’t the time to be saying, ‘I ain’t no snitch.’ You hear me? If you know something, tell it! Tell the police! If you’re afraid to go to the police, tell somebody who ain’t afraid.”
Pamela’s voice cracked.
“There’s a killer among us and he’s got to be stopped!” Tears streamed down her face; Masey’s dad dropped his head and put his hand over his eyes.
The block was as quiet as a cemetery as Pamela gained the strength to power through. “If you know something, tell us. You don’t even have to identify yourself. But tell us. Tell us,” she pleaded as she regained strength in her voice. “Tell us! Tell us!”
The rest of the family and the community leaders in lockstep also started to shout, “Tell us! Tell us! Tell us!” Some people clapped on each word; some stabbed their fists in the air. I noticed that a couple of police officers standing in the back near the train tracks were also chanting. Surprising. That would make great footage, but unfortunately George was facing the opposite direction on camera row, with his lens pointed toward the stage. That little detail, however, had to make its way into my broadcast, even if it meant redoing the teaser I recorded earlier.
Pamela held up her hand, and it took a few seconds to quiet them down again.
“I pray to God that you mean it,” she said, her face stern and her lips drawn tight. Louise stepped up to embrace Pamela and Anthony, who handed her the microphone.
“Bless you, Chicago,” she said. “I’m Louise Robinson with the South Side Community Council. I want to thank members of the council, Bishop Toney, Reverend Clement Harper, and state representative and pastor Charles Bowman for surrounding this family.
“I’m so glad that I was able to answer the call when the family asked for my help. I said, ‘You just tell me what I need to do. You name it. You’ve got it.’ So I called all the people standing shoulder to shoulder with me and the family tonight. That’s what we have to do, Chicago. Stand together! Fight back! And for God’s sake, speak up!”
I’d almost forgotten about Louise. Since no one had mentioned her and given her credit for her involvement in tonight’s vigil, her narcissism rearing up, she did it herself.
It always amazes me when people use other people’s pain to promote themselves—even more so when well-meaning people do it, which I believed Louise was. She couldn’t help herself.
“We know, though, that sometimes, even when we do speak up, the people who can solve the problem with a simple phone call fail to act. For years, I warned the city that this poor excuse of a playground was going to attract crime.”
She wanted people to revere her for trying to prevent something like this from happening, conflating the Park District’s neglect with the discovery of a dead body, with no evidence to support her claims. She wanted people to think of her as saving the day, although the playground itself was now a non-issue.
As Louise continued to beat her own drum, I noticed that Pam and Anthony had slipped away across the vacant field next to the McMillan house and disappeared into the darkness. There would be no introduction tonight between April Murphy and Pamela. Pam had had enough, and who could blame her?
“We’ve got to do something, Chicago,” Louise went on, addressing the crowd as if the entire city was there. “We have to fight. We have to hold the police accountable. We have to hold city hall accountable. And by God, we have to hold ourselves accountable. That’s right, I said we have to hold ourselves accountable!”
Some people around me nodded and expressed agreement as Louise leaned into her cadence. A showman, or show woman, as it were. If she hadn’t been into community activism, she could have been a great entertainer. Though I must admit that Louise struck the right tone in this moment: an elder stateswoman admonishing her people to hold themselves to a higher standard.
“If you see something, say something. If you know something, tell the police, but don’t stop there. Tell the leaders in your communities, too. Because we don’t know what the police are going to do with that information. Are they gonna follow up? Or are they going to mischaracterize our children and our families the way they did with this child?
“There’s nothing typical about this tragedy. There’s a monster among us,” said Louise, again evoking the monster reference, which I’m starting to think was her fallback analogy. I didn’t mind, though. This time I agreed with her.