As the Wicked Watch(46)

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said on the air.

“Honestly, and I can say this, that if I, a White woman, or my White child had been missing, there would have been nonstop coverage.”

Did she really just say that? I like this woman.

“How does your group interact with families who’ve been victims of violence?”

“We provide access to free grief counseling and support from a network of people who understand what they’re going through. This is a dark and lonely walk that nobody should have to take by themselves.”

“And what kind of help do you hope to provide Masey’s family?” I asked.

“Anything we can do, really. Mainly we just want them to know there are people out here who care and who also want justice for their daughter.”

“Thank you, April,” I said, and turned toward the camera.

Those are powerful words coming from a mother outside of this community who has been touched by this tragedy like so many of the people gathered here tonight to show their love and support.

I gave George a nod to indicate I was finished and turned back toward April. Leaning in close, I whispered, “I can connect you with Masey’s mother.”

“Really?” she whispered back. “That’d be great. When?”

I really liked this woman. Her voice was full of urgency and resolve. She’s a doer, not a talker.

“If you can stick around after the vigil, I’ll see if I can introduce the two of you tonight. But in the meantime, do you have a card? Here’s mine.”

“Yes, I do.”

If April Murphy meant what she said and could be a valuable, commiserative resource to Pamela, then I would make it my duty to connect these two women. But more than that, to have the support of an organization led by a White suburban mom might just be the lifeline Pamela needed to keep attention on this case. It’s a sad reality, but getting the “white seal of approval” could in fact light a fire under the police and media.

I examined her business card, which included an AOL email address and a phone number. “Is this your cell number?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s it,” she said.

“Great!” I said.

I had no idea what shape Pam Alonzo would be in at the conclusion of this event. “If for some reason this doesn’t happen tonight, let’s touch base tomorrow. Okay?”

“Sounds good,” she said.

“Okay, April, talk to you soon.”

I made a note to self to be sure to tell the segment producer, “If you have to cut an interview from the footage, make damn sure it’s not that one.”

By now, it was 7:15. The chirp of car doors being locked with remote keys and car alarms silenced with a click of a button could be heard above the raucousness of the crowd, who continued to flow in from all directions. There had to be over two hundred people gathered now. George and I split up as he made his way over to the row of news cameras and I headed for the news van. The cube of pineapple had worn off and I was literally swooning from hunger. There was almost always something to snack on in the news truck.

“Nice work, George,” I said. “I’m going to stop by the truck, then move up closer.”

“No problem, Jordan. Thanks.”

Even though I was wearing flats, the back of my knees felt weak as fatigue set in. I was desperately in need of a sugar rush. As much as I hated to traverse the tightly packed crowd again to get to the van, I hated the thought of passing out on the asphalt even more.

On the way, I caught snippets of conversations from the audience, ranging from the mundane (“Hey, girl, I haven’t seen you in forever”) to the conspiratorial (“Her mama got a boyfriend? Usually the boyfriend did it”) to the somber (“She had her whole life ahead of her” and “I can’t even imagine what her parents are going through”).

I passed by the kids from Carol Crest, Shawn and Maleek, whom I’d spoken to earlier. Their group had swelled and there appeared to be an adult with them. I wanted to stop, but my stomach told me to stay the course toward the Snickers bar and a bottle of Gatorade I prayed were in the cooler.

Suddenly I felt a tug at my jacket.

“Excuse me,” a girl’s voice said.

I swung around, but there were so many people standing nearby, I couldn’t tell where the voice was coming from.

“Hi! Excuse me!” I heard once more.

There were two teenage girls standing between me and the person trying to get my attention, but she still managed to reach across them both to ensnare me, then ducked under one girl’s arm to plant herself directly in my path.

“Hi,” she said in a high-pitched voice.

“Hello. Can I help you?” I asked. I sized her up, unsure if she was a high school student or in college. Her mature face didn’t match her very childlike voice.

“You’re the lady on TV, right?” she said pointing at me with her index finger, like Marcus had done earlier.

She’s a kid.

“Yeah. I’m Jordan Manning. Nice to meet you,” I said hurriedly.

“Well, you haven’t exactly met me yet,” she said.

I’m going to meet this pavement if I don’t get some food.

My impatience with the exchange was on 10. “Hey, listen, I was just headed to the news van,” but I didn’t want to be rude. “Okay, so what’s your name?”