As the Wicked Watch(34)
“Ms. Robinson, in the Sun-Times article, you warned of criminal activity at the neglected playground. Were there any occurrences or arrests that took place there that you know of?” I asked as a chime filled the room.
“Excuse me. That’s my cell phone,” she said, retrieving it from her skirt pocket. “Hello, this is Louise Robinson.”
Seconds into the call, I gathered that it was one of the pastors who’d be speaking at tonight’s vigil on the phone. She relayed the order of the program to him, and I discreetly jotted down the names she mentioned. Pastor Bowman, Pastor Harper, Bishop Toney. After a few minutes, their conversation drifted onto something entirely different: she brought up funding for a kids’ camp at a community center over the Christmas holiday break, which was months away. I checked my watch. It was 11:57. Shit! Louise was taking her sweet time on the phone. I held up a finger to get her attention and pointed to my watch.
“Oh, okay, Pastor. I’m sorry. Can I call you back? You’re good. We’re all set. Okay, see you this evening,” she said. “Forgive me, Jordan, we’re still adding folks to tonight’s program.”
“Sure, that’s quite all right,” I said. “Ms. Robinson, unfortunately I’m going to have to go. I’d already set up an interview at twelve-thirty with the police superintendent. But before I leave, I want to ask you about tonight at your niece’s house. Can we film a sit-down with you, Pamela Alonzo, and community leaders before the vigil starts? Just me, though. No other media.”
“Yes!” she said, so enthusiastically it startled me. “Yes! We’re on the same page! Let’s do that. I’ll be there no later than five-thirty.”
“Great! I’ll meet you there.”
I don’t know that I agree with Louise that we are on the same page, but at least I got part of what I came here for. I checked my phone and Scott had texted me a series of question marks.
“My grandson will see you out. Marcus!”
“Ma’am?” he called.
“Please see Ms. Manning out, son.”
“Yes, Grandma.”
The jury was still out on Louise, but Marcus I liked instantly. I followed the canny mini-man down the narrow hallway past framed family pictures, some in color, some weathered and faded, along the wall. There was the familiar school portrait of a younger Marcus with his two front teeth missing. He’s incredibly astute to be so young. He already has a presence.
Where will he end up in twenty years? Will he possess a fraction of the social acuity he has displayed today even five years from now?
Marcus stopped at the door, turning toward me and extending his right hand. “Goodbye, Miss Jordan. Nice meeting you.”
“Why, thank you, Marcus,” I said, smiling broadly. “I feel the same way. You have a good day.”
The instant I stepped out onto the front porch, I heard the news truck engine turn over and a thundering VROOM, the sound an engine makes when the gas pedal is floored while the car is in park. Maybe I was being paranoid, but the sound spoke to me. It sounded like “Fuck this.”
Was Scott upset that I didn’t ask him to come in?
I opened the door to the van, “Hey. Sorry about that. I just saw your text message. You okay?”
“Yeah,” Scott responded a tad too quickly.
“You didn’t miss anything here. In fact, she spent half the time on the phone talking to one of the pastors leading the vigil tonight.”
I didn’t tell him about Louise Robinson’s bizarre Red Moley story. Frankly, it made her sound like a crackpot. I’d had higher expectations of her after what Clark had shared. And if I felt that way, I could only imagine what Scott would have thought if he’d heard her. It was like Clark said, people don’t have to fight for their community. He had given Robinson credit, and for now, so could I. Who am I to rush to judgment from my West Loop address? I didn’t have to live in any of the communities she’s fighting for to respect her hustle. Even if part of her motivation is self-serving, all of it couldn’t be, and I had an obligation to protect that.
I pivoted. “Here’s the good news. We’re set to film Louise with Pam and some of the pastors and community members tonight at Tanya’s house. Just us. No other media!”
Scott let out a sigh of exhaustion and annoyance. “All right then,” and pulled away from the curb.
“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t thinking. You have to go in at six, don’t you?” I asked, remembering the union rules that restrict Scott’s hours. I got the feeling Scott had had enough of me for one day anyway.
He took his time responding. “Well, technically, I’m not working for two hours now, but I’m in the truck,” he said. “I don’t have the kids tonight, so what else do I have to do?”
“Okay, thanks. I appreciate it.”
I truly did. I didn’t want to end up with afternoon shift camera guy, George Spivey, a heavy mouth breather with some serious BO.
“I’d like to get to Pam’s sister’s house fifteen minutes early,” I said. “She’s a grieving mother. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to need the extra time.”
*
I should have felt grateful that the day, with all its intensity, was passing quickly. But the closer I came to interviewing Pamela, the more I was dreading it. These were real people, real lives. The psychological game that reporting such tragedy plays on you—that’s the part of the job people don’t see. On the outside, I appear to be competitive and driven, but inside I sometimes question whether this is the way I want to cover people and tell stories. The irony of a day like today—one filled with hustling, running and gunning—is that a part of me wants to end the race. I was concerned not just about Pamela’s demeanor; I was worried about my own. I had interviewed the parents of young victims many times before, but that didn’t make me immune to nervousness or reflections on trauma from my past. On our way to Masey’s aunt’s house, I could feel a low-key panic attack coming on. Ever since Masey was identified as the victim on the playground, I’d done all I could do to suppress thoughts of my cousins Stephanie’s and Jaden’s deaths at the hands of her abusive ex-boyfriend. It’s been ten years, but there are moments when that feeling of tragic disbelief resurfaces like a light switched on in a dark room.