As the Wicked Watch(47)
“My name is Monique Connors,” she said.
“Great. Now we’ve officially met. Nice to meet you, Monique, but I’ve seriously gotta go.”
“I thought you’d like to know that I was a friend of Masey’s,” she said. “Well, yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Her words halted my movement. The last person who had described themselves as a “friend” of Masey’s provided information that could potentially be a lead in this case. But this girl didn’t sound so sure that she was even Masey’s friend. “There are friends and there are acquaintances,” my mom used to say. “A lot of folks don’t know which one they are. But you’d better know the difference.”
“Oh,” I managed as my empty insides twisted, “I’m very sorry for the loss of your friend, Monique. Very, very sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“But you’ll have to excuse me. I really have to get something out of the news van before things get started, okay?”
I reached into my pant pocket. “If there’s something you want to share with me, here’s my card. Call me tomorrow.”
She took the card and stared down at it, looking disappointed. “Okay then, bye,” she said in an unnecessarily sassy and dismissive tone.
I nodded and forced a smile and went on my way. I was light-headed by the time I reached the van and pulled open the side door, startling the interns. “Hi, guys. What’re you up to?”
The other intern, named Chad, stammered nervously, “We’re labeling the tapes like George told us to do.”
“Okay, that’s fine. I’m not here to check up on you. Hey, Grace, do you see a cooler in the back?”
“I dunno. I’ll check,” she said, and hollered back seconds later. “Yes!”
“What’s in there to eat or drink? Is there any candy? A Snickers bar?”
“Um, let me see.”
Please, hurry.
“There’s a bunch of protein bars and a can of pop,” she said, using a word for soda that is characteristic of Chicagoans.
“No candy?” I asked.
“Nope, I don’t see any.”
I normally don’t drink soda, but today I would make an exception.
“I’ll take ’em. I’m dying here,” I said, trying not to sound less than gracious to the young woman who had earlier described herself as a huge fan. I managed a smile when she handed me dinner.
“Thanks, Grace. Please forgive me. I’m hangry,” I said, and she smiled.
*
By 7:30, darkness advanced and the candles transformed the block into a sea of lights. At 7:32, the family, the Black Pastors Coalition, and the South Side Community Council members emerged from the McMillan home. The women wore Tshirts, like Tanya’s, with Masey’s image on the front. Tanya had handed me a shirt, too. It would be inappropriate in my role to wear it, but I accepted it from her out of respect.
They lined up, paired off in twos, and locked arms for the brief walk to a makeshift stage flanked by two blown-up images of Masey someone must have just put up: the ninth-grade school picture that was now embedded in my mind and that of anyone who’d seen the posters, and another picture of Masey wearing a backpack and a pink quilted jacket, holding up the peace sign, looking deadly serious, like a model pose. Pamela, who locked arms with her childhood sweetheart, and Masey’s gorgeous relatives each carried a single pink rose. Their faces long and somber, they held on tightly to each other so they wouldn’t collapse in the street from their overwhelming grief.
A hush fell over the chattering crowd as the family and the community leaders took their places. The stage wasn’t large enough to hold everyone, so Masey’s relatives walked around and stood in front. Tanya had sent me an email earlier with the order of the speakers, beginning with a prayer by Bishop Toney, who, as he’d done during our interview, set the mood. Louise was supposed to be up next, but instead Pamela and Anthony James stepped up to the front of the stage and someone handed her a microphone. She was visibly shaking and had trouble raising the mic up to her mouth. Anthony had to reach in and hold it steady for her. The atmosphere became eerily quiet except for the resonating sound of traffic swooshing down nearby King Drive, the screech of a passing train, and the occasional squelch of a police officer’s two-way radio.
“Hello? Can you all hear me?” she asked. The crowd responded “Yes, sister, we can hear you” before quieting down again. “I want to thank you all for coming to be with us,” Pamela said, and turned to her right and placed her hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Me and Masey’s father, we are humbled by your presence. I didn’t realize how much I needed my community until I saw all of y’all standing here.”
Pamela appeared to run out of breath before she got to the end of the sentence. She paused and took a deep breath, and Anthony pulled her in tightly against his shoulder. “I’m so tired,” she muttered, struggling to hold up her head.
“When I look out at you,” she continued, “all I see is my baby. My beautiful, smart, lovely daughter. Her future had just taken off like a rocket.”
Her words reminded me of one of my favorite Stevie Wonder songs.
Pamela lifted her head slightly and caught the gaze of the young woman with blond streaks in her hair I’d noticed hugging Louise. Standing right next to her was Monique Connors. I had accounted for all the other relatives who were present except one, Yvonne, Masey’s cousin on Pam’s side. Seeing as how this woman looked nothing like the women of the James clan, through deductive reasoning, I concluded she must be Yvonne.