As the Wicked Watch(31)

“Why, what were they doing?” I asked.

“Just standing there doing nothing!” he said.

So, standing around doing nothing is code for what?

As we circled back to Louise’s block and rounded the corner, sure enough, there were three young Black men in their late teens, early twenties, standing on the corner beneath a blue-and-white CTA sign.

“Dude, it’s a bus stop!” I said. “What else are they supposed to do while they wait for the bus but stand around?”

Scott frowned. I could tell that he felt exposed and slightly embarrassed, and he didn’t like feeling that way at all. But it was a teaching moment I couldn’t pass up.

“You know, how a person sees three Black men looks different depending on who you are and how and where you grew up,” I said.

“Yes, I know. Fine. Let’s drop it. I didn’t see the sign,” he said.

“Hear me out,” I continued. “Do you think it’s possible you were so focused on the three Black men that you didn’t notice they were at a bus stop?”

“Everything’s not about race, Jordan,” he said.

No, he didn’t.

“It is for those three young Black men. How people see them through the lens of race impacts how their teachers see them, how police interact with them. Will they see a suspect when he’s the victim or just a guy waiting on a bus? Black people have been killed for less.”

Scott remained silent, and I backed off. Maybe I was taking out my frustration over Clark’s comments on him, and that wasn’t fair. But he needed to learn, and if being a little uncomfortable was required for him never to forget, then so be it.

Scott parked in front of a two-story redbrick bungalow with a large shaded porch. I wonder if she uses it much. Misdirected gunfire and stray bullets were very real dangers in this community.

“You call me in ten minutes and let me know what’s going on,” Scott commanded, clearly irritated. “I don’t want to sit out here for thirty minutes,” he said emphatically, with a disquieting expression.

I reached over and put my left hand on his right and flashed him a smile. “Okay, I will. I promise.”

I was met at the door by a boy who looked to be around eleven or twelve.

“Grandma, you’ve got company!” he yelled toward the back of the house.

“Show her the way!” Grandma yelled back.

“Follow me.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He looked back but kept moving forward. “Marcus.”

He faced forward once more, but then twisted around a second later, pointing his index finger at me. “Aren’t you on TV?”

“Yes, I am. I’m Jordan Manning from Channel 8 news,” I said, extending my hand.

“You’ve never been here before,” he said with certainty.

“You’re right. I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand lightly, sizing me up. “You’re very pretty.”

“Why, thank you, Marcus.”

I followed the Little Charmer down the hallway onto a screened-in sunporch just off the kitchen. Louise Robinson was sitting in a tan wicker chair with red-and-white-striped cushions, her leg propped up on a pillow on the matching wicker ottoman. She wore a dark blue sleeveless shirt and a gray skirt that hit her at the knee, with one sandal on her left foot. Her right foot was expertly wrapped in an Ace bandage. It was neither formal attire nor typical loungewear, but I could tell she had made an effort to get herself together.

“Hello, Ms. Robinson. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry to see you’re injured,” I said. “What happened?” pointing to her lame foot.

“I know you didn’t come here to talk about my foot,” she said, a little terse.

“Well, no, of course not,” I said, managing an uncomfortable smile.

Where’d that come from?

When I opened my mouth again, I relaxed my well-trained vocal cords and dropped my voice down an octave. I sensed from that small exchange that maybe she was a little nasty, as Clark had said. Even if that was true, I was determined not to let her take me there. In my experience, people often give back what I give them. In times like this, I imagine myself extending an olive branch. It helps me keep my vibe even.

“Ms. Robinson, I came here today to talk to you about your valiant fight to improve the Ida B. Wells-Barnett playground, which has now become a crime scene?”

“Oh. That,” she said. “I have to be careful, you know,” she said. “This poor mother has lost her child in the most vicious, desecrating manner. Even if the death didn’t happen on the playground, this neglected property was going to be somebody’s tomb.”

Shit. I should be getting this on-camera. Scott can say he told me so all he wants.

“Thank you so much for letting me come into your home to speak to you today. I want to applaud you for what you tried to do with the playground.”

“Tried?” she said, sounding indignant. “Tried? Honey, I did that thing. The Park District is the one that failed. Not me.”

“Well, yes, absolutely,” I said.

I felt myself slipping down a rabbit hole that I had somehow managed to dig in less than three minutes. The warmth we had established over the phone was getting chillier by the second.