As the Wicked Watch(51)

I turned my dinner splurge into a full-on production, with bamboo place mats and the scalloped appetizer plates that made their way home from Bloomingdale’s after a barrage of commercials during hours of TV watching. I set up on the table in front of the camelback sofa and grabbed the bottle of room-temperature sake and the tokkuri on top of the bar cart, filled it to the top, and heated it up in the microwave. Courtney always says, “You should never pour your own sake; someone should poor it for you.” Tonight I would pour my own and savor the solace, and thank God for being able to blow fifty bucks on dinner.

I thought about calling my mother but started to doze as the sake worked its magic. I propped my head up on a pillow and lay back on the sofa to rest my eyes, as my dad used to say. I apparently dozed off and was jarred awake by the newscast’s theme music and voice-over. I panicked. Did I miss it?

Coming up, Chicagoans descend on the Bronzeville community tonight, remembering Masey James, the fifteen-year-old tragically killed. Channel 8’s Jordan Manning was at the scene of the community vigil and spoke with students who went to school with Masey and a group of moms who drove in from as far away as Naperville and Aurora.

Shit! It was 10:06. I missed the first part of the broadcast, possibly the interview with Pamela and the footage of the roundtable. I have the ten o’clock news scheduled to record on TiVo every night. So I grabbed the remote and hit rewind to go back to the beginning.

I moved to the edge of the couch and leaned into the TV as close as I could without blurring my vision. I was glad to hear the anchor, Iris Smith, mention “moms as far away as Naperville and Aurora.” That meant the April Murphy interview made the cut. But I was nervous about “students from Masey’s school,” praying the editor excluded the part where Masey’s friend, Shawn Jeffries, mentioned her getting rides from school in the weeks before her murder.

My heartbeat moved to my throat. No matter how many times I’ve stood in this moment, as a reporter I never stop worrying about the storytelling being sacrificed for time, because they’ve got to get in other stories or the end-of-show kicker, which sometimes seemed more important than the lives of people who are struggling. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. The segment led the news. The first part alone lasted longer than the usual one minute and ten seconds, which is an infinite amount of time in TV. Tracy did an amazing job of editing all the footage. The one-on-one with Pamela, the roundtable with community leaders, and the vigil flowed like a documentary short.

Nice.

I checked my cell phone and was happy to see several congratulatory text messages from friends and colleagues.

Ellen: PHENOMENAL COVERAGE!

I texted back: Thanks, Ellen! It’s been a long day. I’ll be in an hour late tomorrow, OK? See you around 11.

Zena: Saw your story. Girl, this is unbelievable! You owned it. No one could have reported it the way you did.

Text: Awww thanks, sweetie!

Scott: The piece turned out really nice. Congrats!

“Yeah, whatever,” I said out loud. “No thanks to you.”

And Courtney: So full of emotion after watching your segment tonight. I know it wasn’t easy. Love you, girl.

Love you 2! I texted back.

Ellen, Zena, and Courtney, without even realizing it, had validated a need in me to feel that the work I do is important, that it matters. That a two-minute clip, for me, is the culmination of ten hours immersed in the inextricable pain of sobbing family members, exasperated community leaders, frightened residents, and insolent cops, all along carrying the knowledge of a terrifying medical examiner’s report, then standing at the crime scene where a child was discarded. Who wouldn’t welcome an “atta girl” after all that?

My cell phone chimed and Thomas’s name popped up.

How was your day?



Before I could text him back, the phone beeped again

WANT SOME COMPANY? the text jumped off the screen like it was in 3D.

Really, Thomas? If you had watched my newscast, you would know how my day was.

I wasn’t in the mood to respond. I set the phone down on the kitchen counter and went for the bottle of pinot noir on the bar cart that Amanda had brought over for brunch that we didn’t get around to opening. It had one of those screw-off tops that I’ve come to appreciate. If I’d had to wrestle with a corkscrew, it would’ve been a nonstarter. But this was too easy to pass up, so I said screw it and poured myself a glass. Feeling somewhat guilty for blowing Thomas off, I walked back into the kitchen and picked up my phone to text him.

I’VE HAD ALL THE SATISFACTION I CAN HANDLE FOR ONE DAY. BUT I’LL SEE YOU SOON. XX.



I plopped back down on the coach, hit rewind, and watched the Masey James segment again. I paused on the shot of the overblown picture of her wearing a puffy pink jacket, holding up a peace sign. As I lingered on her face, the image of the girl next door came into focus. I’ve always resented that ideal—the girl next door—because mainstream society had always portrayed her as White, blond, and upper middle class, but in reality, she is Masey. And by the way, she’s also the White girl with brown hair whose parents have no money. This ideal of the girl next door puts a lot of girls on the back burner, not just girls of color.

How’d this happen to you?

Tears streamed down my face. I leaned forward, and with my face in my hands, I silently asked God, “Send me a sign, Lord. I need to know what happened. And, Masey, if there’s another realm that we enter when we die, and I believe there is, beautiful girl, send me a sign.” It just might come to this, because I’m not confident that anyone in this world will ever know what happened to you.