As the Wicked Watch(24)
6
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.