Ravenous, with the weight of the day still heavy on my shoulders, I started to come down from the workday high and called in takeout from my favorite sushi spot in Streeterville, a touristy neighborhood just east of downtown by the lake. A dragon roll with eel sauce, spicy tuna-avocado maki with roe, and smoked salmon and yellowtail nigiri with extra ginger, paired with a large tokkuri of warm sake at home would feel like a reward for surviving this relentless day. When I was a rookie reporter working the graveyard shift at the Dallas station, driving a used four-cylinder Honda and barely able to afford a one-bedroom apartment, I couldn’t have imagined enjoying such decadence—unless someone else was picking up the tab. A fast-food drive-through was more like it for me in those days.
Look at you now, Jordan, driving through Chicago’s Gold Coast in a convertible with a turbocharged engine to pick up sushi on the fly.
As it turned out, the day wasn’t through with me yet. When I pulled into the garage beneath my apartment complex, someone had parked in the numbered space I pay $150 a month to guarantee is reserved just for me.
“Gotdamnit! Really? Jerk!”
This has happened twice before, and it was just as infuriating then, too. Now I would have to turn around, make a left out of the garage, because you can turn only one way, sit through that long-ass traffic light at Halsted, and make another left to access the uncovered upper parking deck. The odds of finding an empty space this late in the day weren’t in my favor. Unlike in Dallas or even Austin, in Chicago a dedicated parking space is a privilege.
I passed by the floor-to-ceiling lobby windows as I drove around to the other side of the building. I could see Bass sitting at the guard’s desk. He looked up just before I rounded the corner, stood and waved, then shrugged his shoulders, his palms up and his arms out to the side. His body language told me that he’d probably seen me pull into the garage on the security camera and wondered why I was now headed to the roof.
The driveway to the upper deck is steep and always makes me feel as though I am falling backward. Thankfully, its being a Monday night, there were a few empty spaces for me to park in. I parked in the space closest to the heavy steel door leading to the stairwell. It has been a rule of mine since my early reporting days to favor stairs over elevators. This started as a means to get some exercise, because I hate working out, but it became a safety issue, too, after I read about a woman being attacked and pinned in the elevator of a parking garage. Ever since, I’ve considered stairs the safest route.
I reached behind the seat to get my heels and debated throwing them off the roof, given how much they’d hurt my feet today. And on top of that, I’m disgusted about the damage to the heel due to the mishap outside Cynthia’s house, in need of repair after wearing them only twice.
The upper parking deck was poorly lit. The lamp closest to the exit door has been flickering since the day I moved in. That was two years ago, and I’ve given up on complaining about it. I’m not up here that often anyway, though, on these rare occasions that I am, I could appreciate that the towering lamps were no competition for the radiant moon, which has a scene-stealing advantage from up here in a cloudless sky. Instinctively, I checked my surroundings before getting out of the car and walking toward the heavy steel door. Just as I yanked it open, the light went off on cue and the cold draft from the stairwell penetrated my bones, a startling reminder it was time-out for parking on the roof. I don’t belong here anyway. I pity the person who dared park in my heated garage space again. I might have to go rogue and key their car. No way I wanted to ever wake up to my convertible under twenty feet of snow.
My feet pulsated pain with every step, and although I’d hardly eaten today, my clothes felt like they were tightening around my body. If my parking space hadn’t been hijacked, I would be in my apartment by now, completing my transition from work me to home me. I should be de-splintering the chopsticks and stirring wasabi into the soy sauce and savoring the prickly slivers of ginger on the back of my throat. But no. Some foolish person had subjected my feet to a marathon walk to my apartment. Red-hot anger pumped me full of adrenaline, and before I realized it, I had flown past my floor and headed straight to the lobby to tell Bass.
I nearly ran into him when I opened the lobby door. “Oh crap!” I said. “I’m sorry, did I hit you with the door? Are you okay?”
“Hey Jordie!” he said. “No, it’s all good. I was just coming up to see about you. Did somebody park in your space again?”
“Yes,” I said, pouting.
“Why do you sound like a five-year-old?” He laughed.
“Because I’m mad, and of all fucking days!” I said. “Is that grown enough for you?”
Bass is four years my junior, but his congenial ribbing sometimes made me feel like I’m younger than he is.
“What kind of car is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s got a Michigan plate . . . license number . . . BLE . . . 568,” I said.
“You wrote it down?” he asked.
“No, but I’m fixin’ to so that I don’t forget,” I said, slipping into my Texas twang.
“You memorized that?” he asked.
“Uh-huh,” I said matter-of-factly.
“But you don’t remember the car? The color? Nothing?” he asked again.
“I don’t know. I don’t know cars,” I said, giving him my most intense eye roll. “I just need it out!”
“All right, Texas, I’m on it,” Bass said, mocking my accent.
“Boy, you better leave me alone,” I said, shifting my weight between my aching feet.
“Jordan,” Bass admonished me playfully, “nobody calls a Black man boy in Chicago.”
I rolled my eyes at him once more. “You know what I mean.”
Though I pretend to be annoyed, our lighthearted verbal sparring had a calming effect on my mood. These fun-loving exchanges with Bass were reminiscent of one of my besties from Texas—Tyson Holloway. We met in drama class sophomore year and were cast as siblings Tom and Laura during a table read of The Glass Menagerie, and the rest is history. Tyson and I became running buddies. I wasn’t looking for a brother and he wasn’t looking for a sister, but we fell effortlessly into a sister-brother type vibe, nonetheless.
We would lie to our parents that we were studying when we were really at the mall. I got busted one time outside the Limited Express by my aunt Mel, short for Melanie, my dad’s baby sister. But Aunt Mel was cool and didn’t tell on me. That was the only time we got caught outright, but it didn’t slow us down. During our junior year, Tyson’s parents, who were older, allowed him to drive to school, and we would sneak off campus for lunch, a privilege reserved for seniors. Sometimes we’d ditch eighth period and slip off to the bowling alley, which had the best nachos, and play Pac-Man and pinball. Tyson had the gift of persuasion. I had my first drink because he convinced a college student to buy me a margarita at Six Flags on our senior trip.
I’m so comfortable around Bass, in part, because he reminds me of Tyson. With Bass, I’m able to strip off the armor I wear out of necessity to the newsroom, where every word I say, every time I challenge the status quo, I could be perceived as angry or too aggressive. Where the shade thrown from colleagues is palpable, where my new dress leads them to wonder how much my contract is worth, not realizing I picked it up at an after-Christmas closeout sale, when newbies like myself finally get time off work to visit family for the holidays. Where I must fight the perception that all I care about are material things, the superficial versus the substantive, because of the car I drive. Where because I’m a woman on television, I am judged differently from men. A man can wear the same suit and tie to work every day, but if I wear a scarf or a jacket too frequently, someone has something to say about it. Where the code-switching I as a Black person must adhere to so that others can feel comfortable around me is so indelible to my professional persona that I hardly give it a second thought. It’s automatic.
The side of me that free-falls into Texas vernacular isn’t one many people see. It says a lot about the person who brings it out in me. I don’t know how to define that quality, but whatever it is, Bass has got it. No pressure. No judgments. No mask. He’s more than a security guard who works in my building; he’s like my little brother, though he thinks of himself as my big brother, my protector. I’ll go on letting him, because I can honestly say I trust him with my life.
“Damn, so you memorized the license plate, though,” Bass continued.
“Yeah, it’s funny, because I can’t even remember my cell phone number half the time. It’s a little trick I taught myself,” I said.
“Okay, Jordie,” he said, looking serious and placing his hands on my shoulders, “if I can’t get it out of there tonight, I’ll set it on fire.”
We both laughed. I needed that.
“And I’m okay with that!” I said, leaning back to look up at him.
“Listen, speaking of fire,” he whispered, his forehead wrinkling, “I can roll you one if you want.” Bass looked around as if a DEA agent might leap out from behind the marble columns, when he and I both knew that, even in a luxury building like this, at any given moment and on any floor, you could smell that distinct aroma wafting through the air.
“Don’t tempt me,” I said, and I was tempted, but I am accustomed to forgoing such self-indulgences like dessert or one last shot before the bar closes, particularly if I have an early morning. I hear it from friends all the time—“Jordan, you’re always putting work above fun. Lighten up”—and I’m sure I’ll hear it again when I tell Lisette I won’t make it to Saugatuck after all.
“Thanks, Bass Man, but I’ll pass. I’m already tired and if I puff-puff, I’ll be asleep before the ten o’clock news comes on.”
“You always say no,” Bass said, looking disappointed.
“That’s the trade-off,” I said. “I can’t do both.”
I headed toward the bank of elevators, then stopped and turned around. “If that ass gets out my parking space tonight, hit me up on my cell. You know, I’ve got that soft top; I don’t like my car on the roof.”
“Okay, I will. No stairs tonight?” he asked.
“Not the way my feet hurt right now,” I said. “I’m about to put my whole face in this sushi and try to stay up long enough to see how my Masey James story turned out.”
“Yeah, I heard something on the radio about that on the way to work. That’s messed up.” He shook his head, his expression somber. I imagine he thought about his own daughter.
I nodded my head and turned to step into the elevator. Just as the doors were about to close, I shouted, “By the way, we still need to talk about you and Sabrina getting married. Your flower girl is right here waiting!”
“Woman!” Bass laughed. “Go to bed!”
* * *
Finally, inside the apartment, I practically threw the bag of sushi on the kitchen counter, so anxious to begin my ritualistic physical dismantling. I started stripping on the way to the bathroom and dropped my clothes in a pile outside the door. My shape-shifting wouldn’t be complete without a hot shower, where I could scrub off the day and the on-air makeup that I had touched up at least a dozen times, and allow it to dissolve along with the stress down the drain.
How nice it would be to step out of the shower and into a big thirsty towel handed me by a lover. It’s just not as sexy with a shower cap on my head.
I laughed at the chameleon in the bathroom mirror, unrecognizable from the Jordan Manning of News Channel 8, even from the person I was just a few moments ago. I reached for my home staples—a pair of cotton leggings and a frayed oversize Dallas Cowboy sweatshirt long overdue for replacement—and put the TLC CD into the disc changer and blasted “No Scrubs,” my all-time dating anthem.
I turned my dinner splurge into a full-on production, with bamboo place mats and the scalloped appetizer plates that made their way home from Bloomingdale’s after a barrage of commercials during hours of TV watching. I set up on the table in front of the camelback sofa and grabbed the bottle of room-temperature sake and the tokkuri on top of the bar cart, filled it to the top, and heated it up in the microwave. Courtney always says, “You should never pour your own sake; someone should poor it for you.” Tonight I would pour my own and savor the solace, and thank God for being able to blow fifty bucks on dinner.
I thought about calling my mother but started to doze as the sake worked its magic. I propped my head up on a pillow and lay back on the sofa to rest my eyes, as my dad used to say. I apparently dozed off and was jarred awake by the newscast’s theme music and voice-over. I panicked. Did I miss it?
Coming up, Chicagoans descend on the Bronzeville community tonight, remembering Masey James, the fifteen-year-old tragically killed. Channel 8’s Jordan Manning was at the scene of the community vigil and spoke with students who went to school with Masey and a group of moms who drove in from as far away as Naperville and Aurora.
Shit! It was 10:06. I missed the first part of the broadcast, possibly the interview with Pamela and the footage of the roundtable. I have the ten o’clock news scheduled to record on TiVo every night. So I grabbed the remote and hit rewind to go back to the beginning.
I moved to the edge of the couch and leaned into the TV as close as I could without blurring my vision. I was glad to hear the anchor, Iris Smith, mention “moms as far away as Naperville and Aurora.” That meant the April Murphy interview made the cut. But I was nervous about “students from Masey’s school,” praying the editor excluded the part where Masey’s friend, Shawn Jeffries, mentioned her getting rides from school in the weeks before her murder.
My heartbeat moved to my throat. No matter how many times I’ve stood in this moment, as a reporter I never stop worrying about the storytelling being sacrificed for time, because they’ve got to get in other stories or the end-of-show kicker, which sometimes seemed more important than the lives of people who are struggling. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. The segment led the news. The first part alone lasted longer than the usual one minute and ten seconds, which is an infinite amount of time in TV. Tracy did an amazing job of editing all the footage. The one-on-one with Pamela, the roundtable with community leaders, and the vigil flowed like a documentary short.
Nice.
I checked my cell phone and was happy to see several congratulatory text messages from friends and colleagues.
Ellen: PHENOMENAL COVERAGE!
I texted back: Thanks, Ellen! It’s been a long day. I’ll be in an hour late tomorrow, OK? See you around 11.
Zena: Saw your story. Girl, this is unbelievable! You owned it. No one could have reported it the way you did.
Text: Awww thanks, sweetie!
Scott: The piece turned out really nice. Congrats!
“Yeah, whatever,” I said out loud. “No thanks to you.”
And Courtney: So full of emotion after watching your segment tonight. I know it wasn’t easy. Love you, girl.
Love you 2! I texted back.
Ellen, Zena, and Courtney, without even realizing it, had validated a need in me to feel that the work I do is important, that it matters. That a two-minute clip, for me, is the culmination of ten hours immersed in the inextricable pain of sobbing family members, exasperated community leaders, frightened residents, and insolent cops, all along carrying the knowledge of a terrifying medical examiner’s report, then standing at the crime scene where a child was discarded. Who wouldn’t welcome an “atta girl” after all that?
My cell phone chimed and Thomas’s name popped up.
How was your day?
Before I could text him back, the phone beeped again
WANT SOME COMPANY? the text jumped off the screen like it was in 3D.
Really, Thomas? If you had watched my newscast, you would know how my day was.
I wasn’t in the mood to respond. I set the phone down on the kitchen counter and went for the bottle of pinot noir on the bar cart that Amanda had brought over for brunch that we didn’t get around to opening. It had one of those screw-off tops that I’ve come to appreciate. If I’d had to wrestle with a corkscrew, it would’ve been a nonstarter. But this was too easy to pass up, so I said screw it and poured myself a glass. Feeling somewhat guilty for blowing Thomas off, I walked back into the kitchen and picked up my phone to text him.
I’VE HAD ALL THE SATISFACTION I CAN HANDLE FOR ONE DAY. BUT I’LL SEE YOU SOON. XX.
I plopped back down on the coach, hit rewind, and watched the Masey James segment again. I paused on the shot of the overblown picture of her wearing a puffy pink jacket, holding up a peace sign. As I lingered on her face, the image of the girl next door came into focus. I’ve always resented that ideal—the girl next door—because mainstream society had always portrayed her as White, blond, and upper middle class, but in reality, she is Masey. And by the way, she’s also the White girl with brown hair whose parents have no money. This ideal of the girl next door puts a lot of girls on the back burner, not just girls of color.
How’d this happen to you?
Tears streamed down my face. I leaned forward, and with my face in my hands, I silently asked God, “Send me a sign, Lord. I need to know what happened. And, Masey, if there’s another realm that we enter when we die, and I believe there is, beautiful girl, send me a sign.” It just might come to this, because I’m not confident that anyone in this world will ever know what happened to you.
Wow! It’s come to this. Breaking my own rule not to wake up with alcohol on the nightstand.
I stripped down to nothing but my skin and dissolved into the cool cotton sheets. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and forced myself from the depths of despair as I struggled against the inevitability of sleep. I thought sleep wouldn’t come easy, but I was wrong. It came so quickly that when the phone rang, just for a second I felt disoriented as I fought against sleep paralysis. I clumsily reached over onto the nightstand for my cell phone. It wasn’t there, but the ringing persisted. It took a moment for me to realize the ring was coming from my house phone on the dresser by the window. Only a handful of people have that number. It truly is my “in case of emergency” line.
I got out of bed and felt my way over to where the ring was coming from, my movement stilted and clumsy. Half present, my brain finally registered that it was probably Bass calling to let me know my parking space was open.
“Mmm . . . hello?” I cleared my throat.
“Hey, Jordie. It’s Bass.”
“Hey, is this about the parking space?”
He laughed uncomfortably. “No, not that. You have a visitor.”
I turned around to look at the clock by the bed. It was after one a.m. “A visitor? Who?” I said, getting my bearings.
I heard a voice in the background say, “Let me talk to her.”
“I’ll let him tell you,” Bass said.
“Hey, babe, it’s Thomas. I’m in the lobby.”
I rubbed my eyes and checked the time again. “What’s wrong? Why are you here?” I asked.
I heard a throat clearing in the background and muffled voices. Why was HE covering up the receiver?
“What are you doing? What’s going on down there?”
“Sorry, I’m back, babe. Listen, I know you had a tough, I mean a really difficult day. Oh, and I heard about the long walk from the roof.”
“Bass told you that,” I said. Why is Bass in my business?
“My buddy’s looking out for me, that’s all,” Thomas said. “And you, too.”
In the background, I heard Bass say, “Uh-uh. I’m Bennett and I ain’t in it!”
I laughed.
“What’re you laughing about?” Thomas asked.
“I’m laughing at you two co-conspirators,” I said.
“Guilty as charged,” Thomas said. “But I would love to come up and see you, and maybe even a foot massage?” he said, his voice rising an octave in a rare display of insecurity for fear I’ll say no from a man who usually displays confidence.
“Please, baby, baby, please,” Bass chimed in, giving his best Spike Lee impersonation while managing to control his laughter.
I’ll deal with you later, Bass.
I sighed heavily, letting go of skepticism and giving myself permission to want to see him. “Okay, fine. Come on up.”
Bass hit the buzzer, and it dawned on me that he was playing coy about Thomas the way I tease him about Sabrina. I could imagine him giving Thomas a thumbs-up with a big smile on his face.
Before I hung up, Bass came back on the line. “Don’t disown me. But you would’ve killed me for sure if I didn’t let you know he was here,” he said.
I laughed. “Yeah, you might be right. Good night, Bass Man.”
What did he expect me to look like at one o’clock in the morning? Vanity kicked in, but there wasn’t time to rifle through my lingerie drawer to find something more in line with how I was suddenly feeling. I don’t know if it was mixing the sake and red wine, or the urge to be transported to another place, to be someone and something else just for a little while, but I had put my Cowboys sweatshirt back on and pulled on a pair of fitted boy shorts before I heard knocking. By the time I reached the door, I’d made up my mind what was going to happen.
“You look beautiful.”
Something seemed different about him. I wanted to say, “This is quite bold of you showing up unannounced,” but the creaminess of his flawless skin set off a chemical reaction, a tingling sensation I felt in the top layer of my skin and fingertips. Clearly, we were on the same page about the rest of the night. I wanted to melt into him and him into me. I didn’t say a word. I just smiled, took his hand, and led him to my bed.
* * *
I awoke in a red wine/sake fog the next morning, which was regrettable knowing the day that lay ahead. Thomas was still asleep. For a second I had to remind myself that he was still here. Creeping at one o’clock in the morning was nothing new for us, though I’d always had a heads-up before. Last night was the first time he had spent the night. All night. Though I was glad he took the lead, because he was exactly what I needed last night, his surprise visit would have to be addressed. This isn’t the lane we’re living in. This is not a monogamous relationship by any stretch. This is a situation-ship. I don’t want him to stumble upon something one night that he doesn’t want to see and I haven’t shared.
My mind turned to the conversations I would need to have in the newsroom today to get what I’m aiming for—a special assignment designation that will anoint me untouchable for general assignment stories.
I turned away from Thomas to check the calendar and then my emails on my cell phone. I’d been scrolling through for a good three minutes when Thomas said, “Good morning.” I returned my phone to the nightstand and turned to face him.
“Good morning,” I said.
“How long you been up?” he asked.
“Just a few minutes.”
“Is this what you do every morning?”
“What?”
“Start your day loving up on that phone?”
“I have to check my emails and text messages, and oh God, my calendar. That’d be a big mistake not checking my calendar,” I said.
“So you just launch in like this?” he asked.
“Yes, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
In a single movement he reached out with his left arm and pulled me to his chest and playfully pecked me on the lips. “This is how you should be starting your day,” he said, and took my hand and began to slide it down toward his naked pelvis.
I pulled away. “Cut it out!”
“I wasn’t going to do it.” He laughed. “I’m just messing with you.”
“I should’ve known this was too good to be true,” I said.
Thomas squeezed me tight and our bodies, skin on skin, rocked back and forth.
“I’d love to make you some coffee, but since it’s our first sleepover, I don’t even know where you keep it,” he said. I took it as a slight dig at me for not letting him stay over before.
“It’s good to see you smile, though. As a matter of fact, let me look at that,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that smile before.”
“So, what, are you taking credit?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said without hesitation.
“I’m glad you came over last night,” I said. I figured I’d play to his ego before making it clear never to sneak up on me like that again. “But don’t make it a habit.”
His smiled dimmed, which wasn’t my intention. Something I know I need to work on is getting better at living in the moment, instead of always searching for the next one.
“I looked a mess last night,” I said, deflecting.
“No, you didn’t. You looked beautiful.”
“You were right about one thing—yesterday was a very difficult day emotionally.”
“I kinda figured that after I saw your story,” he said.
I leaned away, pulled the sheet up over my breasts, and propped myself up on my elbow, with rapt attention. “You saw my story?” I’d assumed he hadn’t.
“Yeah,” he said, scooching up in bed and sliding a pillow underneath his head. “That’s why I texted you right after it went off,” he said.
“Oh.” What’s the saying? When you assume, you make a what out of who and who? I perked up. “What did you think?” I asked.
“I thought it was kind of fucked up,” he said with a sour look. “That mother looked like a zombie. There was no life in her eyes. I don’t know how you reporters do that to people. That woman was in no position to be in front of a camera, and you guys were right there in her face.”
“That was her choice,” I said, abruptly sitting up in bed. “Don’t go there.”
He had no idea how insulting what he just said was to me.
“I’d better get up and get my day going,” I said before the conversation went any further. I turned my back to him and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.
“Wait. What just happened?” he asked.
I turned around and faced him. “You offended me, that’s what,” I said. “You make reporters sound like thrill seekers forcing people to talk. Like I get paid for tears or something. Pamela Alonzo wanted us there. She was using us to her advantage.”
Just then, the sun bore through my bedroom window with a flash of hot blinding light like it was agreeing with me. I ran my hand through my hair and tried to settle down a bit before I went on. “And I’m glad she did, because you know what?”
“What?” he said, pouting like a seven-year-old man-child, his arms folded across his bare, prodigious pectorals.
“This little girl, Thomas, from what I’ve learned, was the girl next door. Our girl next door. Smart, ambitious, beautiful. I’m just baffled how her life came down to this.”
Thomas sat up and leaned his back against the headboard and drew his knees to his chest in a contemplative pose.
“What?” I asked.
“What I don’t get is how come she was riding a bike home that night when it was getting dark?” he said.
“Well, supposedly, she took off before it got too dark out. Her mother told me her cousin was throwing a birthday party for her boyfriend that night and she didn’t want her there. The people were too old for Masey to be hanging around, and her mom probably suspected there would be a lot more going on than Masey was ready for. But she let her go to the mall with her cousin that afternoon. So you make a good point. Why didn’t she just drop her off at her house?”
“She’s probably kicking herself right now,” Thomas said, reaching down to pick up his shirt off the floor.
“Or worse, blaming herself,” I said. “I drove over to Englewood yesterday before the vigil and tried to figure out the route Masey might have taken. It’s not destitute or anything. In fact, it’s busy as hell over there. There’s a church on every corner. A liquor store on every other block. This section of Englewood is very busy and not always in a good way. The closer you get to Auburn Gresham, the quieter the streets get. It’s a mystery. I also feel like Pamela may not have known her daughter as well as she thought. She might’ve fit in a lot better at that party than her mother realized. Does anyone really know their child? I can think of at least six things I did around that age my mother will never know about.”
“Her mother seems like a nice person,” Thomas said, pulling his club jersey over his head.
“She is. That’s not to say Pamela isn’t nice. But I don’t just mean her mother. Her cousin, the one she was with that day. That’s who I want to talk to,” I said. “As soon as possible. Meanwhile, this guy is still out there, and I’m worried he’s going to hurt somebody else.”
“You really get into this stuff, don’t you?” he asked. “Are you a reporter or an investigator?”
“At this point, I’m whatever I need to be to figure this out,” I said.
“Okay, police lady,” he said. Thomas swung his legs to the other side of the bed and yanked on his workout pants in a single rapid motion, then half laid back down.
“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but along with a journalism degree, I have a degree in forensic science. But not because I want to be a cop. Trust me. I would hope the level of incompetence I’ve seen by police wouldn’t be my MO.”
“Well, yeah, I hear ya,” he said.
I sensed Thomas was starting to lose interest in the conversation. I recognized the shift. This is where I often struggle in relationships, when my job may seem more important than his, and fifteen minutes after “good morning,” we’ve talked only about my job and the story I’m following and my life, but nothing about his. I’ve seen it enough times where a guy feels intimidated or says I think everything revolves around me. I’ve found that the things men love about me are also the things they end up resenting.
Thomas propped himself up on his right elbow to glance at the clock. It was going on eight. “Ah,” he said, dropping back down into the pillow.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. I’ve gotta get going.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said.
As abruptly as it had started, it ended.
* * *
As much as I wanted to stay in bed for another two hours, when I arrived at the station, the energy inside the newsroom bolstered my spirits, and so did my colleagues.
“Bravo!” Ellen said, clapping as I walked toward her desk.
“You killed it yesterday!” she said. “Channel 11 ran an interview with the mom, but they didn’t have the community leaders or the great people you interviewed at the vigil. I know Peter wants to talk to you.”
“Great! Thanks for the heads-up,” I said. I wasn’t concerned, though. When Peter Nussbaum, the station’s news director, wanted to have a word with me, it was usually good news. And if he really was as impressed with my performance as Ellen just suggested, it shouldn’t be hard to convince him to allow me to stick with this story exclusively, even if it meant working overtime and on my regular days off, and pushing the day-to-day police blotter crime stories to general assignment reporters.
“How’d you do working with George last night?” Ellen said with a smirk.
“Good! He was late getting there, but it wasn’t his fault,” I said.
“You know what I mean,” Ellen said, twitching her nose.
“Oh, that. It must have been shower day,” I said. “Please don’t share that with anyone. He did a great job last night.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t. Never,” Ellen said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Keith Mulvaney, aka Tonya Harding, coming out of Peter’s glassed-in corner office. Ellen and I exchanged dubious looks.
“I wonder what that’s all about,” I said. Ellen shrugged her shoulders just as Peter leaned halfway out the door and waved me over.
“I’ve been summoned,” I said to Ellen. “Talk to you later?”
“Sure.” She smiled, clapped her hands twice, and rested them in a prayer position. I chuckled and headed over to the senior managers’ row overlooking Michigan Avenue, with spectacular views of the Chicago River, the neo-Gothic Tribune Tower, and the Spanish Colonial Wrigley Building. I had a huge smile on my face. I felt good, confident. I lived for days like this and decided to enjoy it. You’re only as good as your last story, and I was already back at the starting block.
Along the way I received accolades from colleagues. I got a thumbs-up, a nod and a smile, a high five, and a verbal “Kudos!” “Nice job last night, Jordan!” “Thank you.” “Great segment last night.” “Thank you.”
As Keith drew nearer, I scanned his appearance, thinking: There is nothing extraordinary about him. Not one thing. He’s not even handsome. He has no striking features. Not even an air of confidence. No it factor. Even among the most generic men, he fails to rise to the top. What he is, though, is masterful at working the reps. He knows whose offices to stay in and how to skillfully stir gossip and besmirch his colleagues, while concealing his own sins but never his motives. In that way, he is transparent as fuck. In others, he’s a human grenade. You don’t notice him until he explodes. And yet he doesn’t have to contemplate going from network to network to advance his career, even with his marginally successful résumé with no exclusives, no awards, just a penis and a lot of fake bravado.
I didn’t expect Keith to congratulate me on my story, nor did I want him to. I didn’t need his false admiration. I felt empowered and greeted him with a genuine smile. “Hi, Keith. How are you?” I said in my best golf-buddy voice.
“Good,” he said, a couple of beats too late, unmasking his inner asshole. My smile broadened into a sly grin. I didn’t bother turning around and picked up the pace to Peter’s office. I was energized, sensing it was a good time to ask for exactly what I wanted.
I knocked before entering. Nussbaum was sitting on the corner of his desk with his back to the picture window that framed downtown’s architectural splendor, his feet barely touching the floor. Peter is about an inch shorter than me when I’m wearing high heels, so I avoid standing too close to him whenever possible to protect his ego, in case it’s fragile. I just wish he or his wife would do something about that errant swath of hair that lays across his forehead like half of a bang. It isn’t that I’m not fond of Peter. For the most part, he’s an okay guy. I’d just like to walk into a news director’s office at a major metropolitan news station and see a woman sitting behind the desk, or a person of color. Not since I’ve worked in television has that ever happened. What has been consistent, though, is there’s always a reporter, an assignment editor, or a news director, all of them men, looking for a reason, any reason, to push me off the crime beat. Covering violent crime is often viewed as a masculine pursuit, and a lot of editors assign the top crime stories to male reporters by default. I’ve seen female assignment editors who are just as guilty of enforcing this unspoken patriarchy. Intentional or not, they need to check themselves. It’s one of those hidden assumptions I have to push back against time and again.
“Jordan! Please, have a seat,” he said. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I just wanted to tell you that I think you did a helluva job last night on a very complicated, very emotional story.”
It was unusual for Peter to describe a story as emotional. Masey’s murder was so devastating, it pierced the heart of a cynical newsman, and that was saying something.
“Thanks, Peter. I appreciate that. I really do,” I said, then immediately launched into my pitch. “You know, last night, I think I might have picked up on a potential clue in this case. I’d like to put my forensic hat on and dig deeper into this story. The nature of the crime, the outcry from the community, all of it, demands focused attention. And I’m willing to work overtime, weekends, whatever I need to do to stick with this story, because if we—”
Peter held up his hand and interrupted me. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cut you off, Jordan,” he said.
You’d better have a good reason.
“I see where you’re headed, and listen, you don’t have to convince me. I’m all in. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Now, the overtime I’ll have to figure out, but look, you’ve got your finger on the pulse of this story, and what’s more, you’re in the community, which is a big part of this. So yes, we’re in agreement. Stay close. And see what you can get out of Dr. Chan, though I don’t have to tell you that, do I?” Peter said.
“Well, exactly,” I said confidently. “Dr. Chan is out of the country, and when we last spoke, it sounded like he was going to be gone for a good three weeks to a month.”
“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Peter said.
“No, it’s okay. I’ll shoot him an email. He told me that he was sending some evidence for testing to the state crime lab before he left town. Unless he’s lying flat on his back somewhere, I’m pretty confident he’ll respond,” I said.
“Sounds good, Jordan. Thanks for making us look good out there,” he said.
“My pleasure, Peter. Thank you.”
As I exited Peter’s office, something he said struck me as odd. “You’re in the community,” he’d said. In my mind, that could mean either one of two things. He was acknowledging the way in which I’d skillfully inserted myself into my subject’s lives and gotten them to open up—an outsider from Austin, Texas, with no roots on Chicago’s South Side. Not even a third cousin. Or he simply meant, “You’re Black and they trust you. So you might as well stick with the story.”
Either way, he’d given me the green light to take my reporting to a whole other level. And Tonya would have to suck it up. I just pulled off the news equivalent of a triple axel in his face, and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
As I walked back to Ellen’s desk to share the good news, I contemplated where I’d test out my newfound freedom first. Should I call April Murphy or Pamela Alonzo? Or should I start with Lieutenant Joseph Samuels—just to see what I can learn from him about the investigation?
“Well?” Ellen said.
I smiled wide and opened my mouth in a silent scream. “I’m on special assignment,” I told her. “Well, Peter didn’t use that term, exactly, but I’m off the day-to-day crime stuff for now. He’s moving that to GA,” short for general assignment.
“That’s great!” she said, and tilted her head slightly toward Keith, who was looking directly at us. “Did he say anything about Tonya?”
“What about him?” I asked.
“He’s a parasite. We know that. He could see this as an opening to push in on your beat,” Ellen said.
I paused before responding, because frankly I was slightly annoyed that she would bring this up. I was still basking in the good fortune that Peter had bestowed on me. Then I spoke slowly and deliberately. “This is the right story for me right now,” I said. “I have neither the time nor the energy to worry about him.”
Ellen shrugged her shoulders. “Okay, I’m just saying.”
“Gotta go. Talk to ya later,” I said, and hurried to my desk. By the time I sat down and picked up the phone, I’d decided who to call first. I reached into the side pocket of my purse and pulled out April’s business card.
Let’s see what you’re all about, Ms. April Murphy.
I dialed the mobile number handwritten on the back of the card.
She picked up on the first ring. “Hello?”
“Is this April?” I asked.
“This is April. Jordan?”
News Channel 8 must have popped up on the caller ID.
“Yes, this is Jordan Manning. Sorry about last night. Pamela Alonzo left the area right after she spoke.”
“No problem. That poor woman was in no shape to meet anybody last night. Honestly, I don’t know how she got her words out. I was awestruck, frankly.”
“I know. I was as well,” I said.
“The depth of the loss she has suffered, the way it happened, it’s enough to stop a mother’s heart,” she said. “No matter how long I do this type of work, even with my own personal experience as a benchmark, I’m still amazed by the way survivors deal with trauma. I always say, though, the day I get used to it is the day I’m no longer effective as an advocate.”
“The women against violence group . . . do you do that full time?” I asked.
“I used to, oh, about the first seven or eight years. But in the last three to four, after my divorce, I had to go back to work. I renewed my life and accident insurance license with the state. The good thing is, I’m able to make my own schedule.”
I surmised from her emphasis on had to that April’s lifestyle changed after her divorce. She might yet be affluent, to a degree, but certainly not like before.
“Oh,” I said.
“I have to tell you, full disclosure, I watch a lot of court TV shows. I’m obsessed, really. I’m a little embarrassed to say how much,” April said.
She need not be embarrassed around me. Not about that. I understand women’s attraction to those types of programs, especially the ones that are based on true crime stories. My theory is that women are drawn to such shows because no matter how strong a front we present, we harbor a fear of something horrible happening to us. The nagging question “What would I do if I were ever put in that position?” is always in the back of our mind. The what-if motivates me to walk up eight flights to my apartment. It’s why I took the stairs from the rooftop last night instead of the elevator. The feeling nags me, perhaps more than most, because I confront other people’s misfortunes for a living. I’ve watched people dig through memories turned to ashes in a fire and searched my soul, wondering, What would I grab if my home were ablaze? What if I lost that one picture of my now-deceased grandparents that I keep in my living room? Or the one of Stephanie and me standing by an ice sculpture wearing those itchy lavender lace bridesmaid’s dresses from our cousin Thelma’s wedding?
“I’m still interested in meeting Pamela,” April reiterated.
“And I definitely want to connect you two, but I can’t say right now when that will happen. She still has a funeral to get through, and after last night, I don’t know her state of mind,” I said.
“Understandable,” April said. “I can wait.”
I approved of the way our conversation was flowing but was wary of becoming too casual with her, so I switched into my work voice. “Something Pamela said to me the day before the vigil makes me think you won’t have to wait long,” I said. “She told me that her mission in life is to catch her daughter’s killer. My heart sank hearing her say that, because I know how cold cases can, far too often, stay cold. Where does the average citizen get the time, money, and resources and even the media attention required to keep a homicide case on the front burner?”
I said average citizen, but I really meant that cases involving Black victims go cold and stay cold, and don’t get the same level of media attention, something April alluded to last night. It was a leading question I hoped would help me better assess April’s intentions.
“That’s where my organization comes in,” she said.
Elbows on my desk, I leaned into the phone as if I was talking to April in person.
“Last night, do you remember when you asked me if I was looking for other members of my group to join us?” April asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, in fact, I was scanning the crowd for anyone who looked suspicious, hanging around the family, doing a little too much, being a little too helpful. A lot of times, a killer will come back to the scene of the crime to see how people are reacting to what he’s done. Or they’ll hang around the victims’ family in an attempt to eliminate themselves as a suspect. Some will sit back and get off on watching the people whose lives they’ve destroyed pick up the shattered pieces.”
I didn’t want to interrupt April, but I was familiar with the pattern she was describing. People kill people they know. Serial killers hunt where they live. The boogeyman doesn’t drop out of the sky upon his victims. He walks out of his house and kills usually within a three- to five-mile radius, a fact crime shows don’t reveal very often. Instead, I listened and waited for an opportunity to ask the question that was burning me up.
“Do you think he’ll kill again?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But interesting you would ask, because I was about to ask if you thought we are dealing with a serial killer.”
Dr. Chan had planted the seed in my mind a few days ago, but that wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned a suspected serial killer in Chicago targeting Black women. When he first became special consultant to the chief medical examiner, he told me that he reviewed hundreds of cold cases and discovered a dozen unsolved murders of Black women going back eight or nine years. The victims, he said, were characterized as indigent, homeless, or engaged in intravenous drug activity or prostitution. That shouldn’t matter—a victim is a victim. But it could explain why nobody cared enough to find their killers.
“I think it’s a possibility, yes,” I said.
“Me too,” April said.
After a long silence, April spoke. “About a year ago, I teamed up with a group out of D.C., started by a bunch of retired law enforcement officers and prosecutors. They track cold cases. Ever since Ted Bundy, when the FBI first developed personality profiles of serial killers, they’ve been adding on more crime-fighting techniques, like algorithms to identify patterns of behavior and styles of killing. I’m sorry if that sounds morbid.”
“No, not at all. I grew up knowing that I wanted to be a reporter. And one of the people I always envisioned myself interviewing was Henry Lee Lucas. Ever heard of him?” I asked.
“Uh, yeah,” April replied. “I got the chills just hearing his name.”
Lucas was the notorious Texas serial killer who confessed to more than a hundred murders. Investigators kept him alive because they kept believing his stories about hidden bodies, though not all of them proved to be true. He was by far one of the most despicable human beings on earth, but he wasn’t executed. He died of natural causes in prison.
“Listen, when I first moved to Chicago, I drove by John Wayne Gacy’s house, just to see it. I was disappointed when I found out it’d already been torn down,” I said, relaxing into the conversation. April and I had only met, but eventually, I hoped, she would stop apologizing for being interested in murder and realize whom she’s talking to.
“So, all good,” I said. “Continue.”
“Well, we created a database to store and share information. When we hit upon something interesting, we reach out to local authorities to see if they would consider reopening a case,” she said. “Sometimes they do. Sometimes they write us off as crackpots with nothing better to do.”
“You said this group is out of D.C., so do they track cases around the nation, or just in the Chicago area?” I asked.
“No, they’re national, but in recent years, they have been tracking a growing number of unsolved murders of Black women in the Midwest, including Chicago and the surrounding suburbs, St. Louis and Kansas City.”
Oh my God! They’ve picked up on the same trend as Dr. Chan.
“Did they release their findings?” I asked.
“To the police? Frankly I think they were hesitant because many of the victims were women who clearly had struggles, some living on the streets trying to survive,” she went on. “I know. It’s infuriating.”
I huffed incredulity. “Did they come up with a profile of the killer or killers? Do they think there’s one, two, three? What’s the motivation?”
“Unfortunately, they didn’t,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking, but the victims’ profiles don’t line up with Masey’s case. I could be way off base here, but I can’t help but wonder how in the hell a girl like Masey James, a good student from a solid, loving family, ended up being murdered in such a terrible way.”
She had no idea what I was thinking.
“That’s something of an indelicate question, isn’t it? How does someone like Masey end up a victim? Aren’t victims always victims?”
“Well, yes, of course! It shouldn’t matter. All I’m saying is that nothing about the way Masey lived and who she was pointed to her life ending in this way,” she said.
I didn’t mean to put April on the defensive, but what’s the point of collecting the data and then not sharing it? “I agree with you there,” I said.
“She’s too young for it to have been a crime of passion. No, this is a psycho. Question is, did this guy lose it one day, because he got triggered, or did he plan this?”
I remained silent as I thought about that.
“You think I’m being irrational, or that I watch too many made-for-TV movies, right?” she asked.
“No, not at all. I was just thinking. I’m impressed, really, by the fact you care this much,” I said to try and soften what might have felt to her like an attack, not simply my journalistic nature. Still, I hesitated to share Dr. Chan’s speculations about Masey’s killer or that he, too, had identified a similarly disturbing pattern among Black female victims in Chicago. I told April I had some other leads to follow, and we promised to stay in touch.
Dr. Chan had been gone only two days, but surely they would fast-track this sample under the circumstances. Calling the lab directly wouldn’t do me any good. I would need a Freedom of Information Act request and maybe even a court order to get that type of information released directly to a journalist. Even Joey might experience a lag unless he was listed as an investigator on the case.
Dr. Chan was still the fastest way to find out. Rather than email him, I decided to try and reach him by phone. I could tell by the delay and sound of the telephone ring that he wasn’t in the country, so I was ecstatic when he picked up.
“Hello?” he said. Dr. Chan usually answered the phone by calling my name, but his caller ID might not be working outside the United States.
“Dr. Chan! Hi, it’s Jordan,” I said. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“Oh, Jordan, hello. Well, actually—” he said before I cut him off.
“Listen, I know it’s only been a couple of days, but I’m calling to see if you’ve gotten those tissue results back yet. You know, the tissue from Masey you sent to the crime lab.”
“Well, you said it yourself, Jordan. It’s only been a couple days,” he said.
“I thought it might be on the fast track. Does anybody else know about it?” I asked him.
“Sure, my assistant. I asked her to get it to the state crime lab,” he said. “She knows.”
“No, no, I mean, other reporters?”
I regretted the question the moment I’d asked. I didn’t want Dr. Chan to think I was accusing him of anything. He’d clearly promised me the exclusive.
“Well, no, Jordan, I didn’t speak to anyone else before I left. I told you that,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Listen, Jordan, I’ve got to go. You caught me in the middle of something,” he said. For the first time, I noticed lethargy in his voice.
“Are you okay, Dr. Chan? You sound exhausted,” I said.
“Look, there’s no way the results are back already, okay?” he said, sounding slightly annoyed. “Let’s talk some other time. I have to go now. Bye.”
The call disconnected and I stared at my phone, baffled.
Where did he say he was? Switzerland? You idiot you didn’t even think about the time difference. You probably called him in the middle of the night.
My cell phone felt hot and clammy in my hand, but I didn’t hesitate to call Joey. It went straight to voice mail. My heart pounded and my mind raced as if I were running out of time. To do what? I didn’t know. There were so many aspects of this case to think about. I turned my focus to last night’s vigil. I hadn’t begun to process what I’d learned there, in particular Shawn Jeffries’s revelation about Masey’s getting rides from school. I walked back over to Ellen’s desk.
“Hey, I’m going to run downstairs and grab a coffee. You want something?”
“Sure,” she said. “I’m buying,” and reached into her wallet and pulled out a ten.
“Thanks, you don’t have to do that,” I said.
“Is everything okay? You’re scrunching,” she said.
When I’m deep in thought or ticked off, my eyebrows curl up like they came with a drawstring.
“No, I’m fine. I’m just trying to process everything from the vigil last night. Monique, Louise hugging Masey’s cousin Yvonne. What’s their connection? I just feel like everybody knows more than they’re saying, and I don’t understand why.”
“Like what?” Ellen asked.
“Well, first, the young lady from Masey’s school named Shawn. She told me that Masey had gotten rides from school in the weeks before she disappeared.”
“Really? I don’t remember that detail from your reporting,” Ellen said, her brows now scrunched up. “Did I miss that?”
“No, you didn’t,” I said. “I asked Tracy to cut it. I’m not sure even the police know that yet. My instinct told me it might be a clue, and I didn’t want to put this girl’s life in danger.”
“You sure her mother or a relative didn’t pick her up from school?” Ellen asked.
“I don’t know. Her mother never mentioned it to me. In fact, she made a big deal out of telling me about the long bus route Masey took from her house to the West Side school. And then there was this other girl named Monique, Monique Connors, who said she was a friend of Masey’s. Well sort of. That’s how she said it, like she didn’t sound so sure about that. She was a little off-putting. I didn’t interview her on-camera, but I saw her hanging around Masey’s relatives later. She was standing next to Masey’s cousin Yvonne. That’s the older cousin that Pamela said Masey hung around her house all the time. Well, she did. And Louise Robinson knows Yvonne. That’s how she got involved in the vigil, I suspect. At first I thought it was because her niece lives across the street from the crime scene, but I think it’s deeper than that.”
“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that Louise Robinson’s niece lives across the street from the crime scene? That’s one helluva coincidence, isn’t it? Did you talk to her?”
“Yes, her name is Tanya McMillan, the young woman I did the live interview with the day the body was found. Next thing I know, Tanya is calling me and telling me about the vigil. I didn’t realize they knew Masey’s cousin Yvonne until I saw Louise hugging her last night.”
“Wow, the world is small, isn’t it? In this case, it’s almost too good to be true,” Ellen said.
It was a coincidence, but I didn’t want to make too much out of the dots that connected Tanya to Louise to Yvonne. Chicago is a city comprised of neighborhoods and streets, and people who live in certain neighborhoods, on certain streets, know one another. From what I can tell, besides the trip to school, Masey’s life was an amalgam of streets and the houses she’d been in and out of because of where she lived, hung out, and played. As far as the people in her life, only one or two degrees separated them.
“Maybe,” I responded. “In either case, I think my next move is to see what’s up with Masey’s cousin Yvonne.”