As the Wicked Watch(3)
Scott broke down his tripod and was halfway to the news truck by the time I pried my shoes out of the mud that now encased them, and the sky burst like a thumped pi?ata.
2
October 11, 2007
Scott and I drove up and down Martin Luther King Jr. Drive searching for the perfect spot to set up for the live broadcast. Numerous posters of Masey James’ dimpled face become the morbid bread crumbs leading us to where we want to be. She’d been missing for nearly three weeks, and the posters were a sign of time moving forward with no answers. Some were melted into a blob of ink, her face no longer decipherable or the hotline number half missing, erased by time and weather. The worn posters paled in comparison to the signs of time gone by as we looked around the historic Bronzeville community for a place to park. In the 1930s and ’40s, this community was known as the Black Metropolis, an enclave of upper-middle-class artists and entertainers, business owners and numbers runners. It possessed the same sentimental notes as Harlem in New York, Baldwin Hills in L.A., or Detroit’s Paradise Valley. They were all landmark communities built on black wealth, but the ups and downs of an economy not built on fairness had taken its toll. Today, under a slow boil appreciation, it was slowly gentrifying into something new but remained a crown jewel of a broader South Side community.
Earlier, Scott and I grabbed breakfast downtown before heading south to police headquarters. We didn’t want to be late for my one-on-one interview with Detective Mitch Fawcett. This interview was the talk of the newsroom, and the pressure was on for me to hold his feet to the fire. He had been adamant about not sitting down with me to talk about what he called “the case of a potential runaway.” It was a surprise to everyone on the crime beat that he had his comms team reach out with the stipulation that he wanted to talk with me. Was it because I was the most visible Black woman at the station? I viewed his offer with suspicion. I refuse to be his middleman to get out some generic message to tamp down the anger. The ol’ “We take this seriously and we are working so hard . . . harder than you could even imagine” spiel. Ellen told me I was overreacting.
“Oh, just go for it. Build the relationship. He knows you don’t suffer fools, Jordan.”
“Look, I know Mitch Fawcett. Either he has an agenda or his boss is making him do it. Let’s hope I don’t have to call him out.”
In contrast, his boss, police superintendent Donald Bartlett, was a pure softy, with a mild-mannered demeanor and a strong resemblance to Santa Claus. I struggled to take him seriously and often wondered how he got the job. This was a tough town. Under all that fluff must be a guy you didn’t want to meet in an alley.
Scott and I arrived at Chicago police headquarters a few minutes early. Walking up to the front desk, I felt dwarfed by the massive flags framing the entrance, leading to a well-worn desk. As I approached, it hit me that I hadn’t followed instructions. I was supposed to call Fawcett first to let him know we were parked out front.
Strike one! Great. Now this guy has an opening to scold me before we even get started.
I pulled my phone from my bag and called, realizing that since every camera in the lobby was recording my every move, he probably already knew I was in the building.
“This is Fawcett.”
“Hello, Detective Fawcett. It’s Jordan Manning. We’re here. I mean, we’re in the lobby.”
“Jordan, I told you to call from the parking lot.”
“Sir, I got distracted,” I said, trying to sound apologetic, but the snark came out anyway. “We are here. Should I go back out to the lot and call again?”
And here we go, Jordan!
“Just have a seat in the lobby,” he said. I sensed he was attempting to maintain control.
I can’t seem to get off his shit list. I guess I can expect a few extra parking tickets for the next year.
A uniformed officer who introduced himself as Ramirez met us at the security checkpoint. I felt like the kid picked up last from school after her parents admitted they forgot. Ramirez escorted us past the beat-up front desk to a fortified door leading to a series of cubicles, the detectives’ wing. I caught a few glances on the way to an elevator bank in the middle of the building. As we waited, I glanced at the many photos of officers recognized for outstanding performance on one side, those killed in the line of duty on the other.
“Ma’am, go ahead,” said Officer Ramirez, regaining my attention from the rabbit hole of reading every plaque and framed article on the wall.
“Where are we going?’’ I asked.
“Lockup,” he said with a smirk, proud of himself for injecting humor in what he must have processed as an awkward situation.
“Good,” I replied. “I should feel right at home. I’m sure it’s just like my newsroom.”
Ramirez remained silent after his cop humor fell a tad flat. Scott never said a word.
We got off on the third floor and were directed into a room with double doors already propped open.
“Ma’am. Sir,” Ramirez said, motioning for us to go into a conference room with a long rectangular table and a display of the American flag in one corner and the four-star flag of Chicago in another.
Scott surveyed the room to establish the best camera angle. “Can we dim the fluorescent lights?” Scott asked the officer.