We Are Not Like Them(86)
We hear the crowds at city hall before we see them. Bart angles the news van in line with a dozen others in the designated press area. Through the smudgy windows, I see that the swarm of protesters has divided into two groups facing off like regiment soldiers on a battlefield; rather than muskets, they carry signs proclaiming whose lives matter—Black or blue. The burden of keeping these two groups apart so their passions aren’t stoked into violence falls on a grim-faced line of Philadelphia police officers. I spot a young Black mother with her son perched on her shoulders carrying a sign that reads, IS MY BABY NEXT? Across the imaginary dividing line, a group of women stretch a blue vinyl banner between them—BLESS OUR HUSBANDS, THE PEACEMAKERS. BLUE LIVES MATTER.
Bart, in the driver’s seat, whistles. “This shit is intense.”
It is. If it wasn’t for my job, I would be out there too, sign in hand. I might even be screaming through a bullhorn at those women with the banner. “Tell your husbands to stop fucking killing us.” But that’s not my part in this.
As we leave the van and push through the masses, the energy is fervent, almost suffocating. A dangerous charge hovers in the frigid air, a sense of barely contained chaos, water seconds before a boil. I walk past the bronze statue of Frank Rizzo facing city hall and see that someone has defaced the likeness of the former mayor; a shock of red paint covers his pumpkin-shaped head, drips like blood down over the shoulders, onto a pile of old snow. There are still some people in this city who consider Rizzo a hometown hero, a scrappy cop who rose through the ranks of the PPD before serving his two terms as mayor. Others remember him as the guy who famously told Philadelphians to “vote white,” or who was captured in a photo showing up to a race riot in Gray’s Ferry in 1969 wearing a tuxedo with a nightstick tucked in his cummerbund. He looked like all he needed was a water hose or snarling dog. Pastor Price has been leading a charge to have this statue ripped down. The city finally seems to be listening.
The hush inside the stately marble lobby is jarring after the chaos outside. Bart and I pass through security and head down the hall to a conference room where other reporters are already milling around. A small dais has been set up at the front of the room, positioned carefully against the backdrop of the city seal. Bart and I edge in, find a place along the press line in the back. He busies himself setting up the camera, while I try to get a handle on the scene and who is already there.
It’s ten past two, and Sabrina is nowhere in sight. I wonder if something went wrong with the indictment. That it’s happening at all is unprecedented and speaks to Sabrina’s single-minded determination, if not public opinion.
Will this bring Tamara peace? Joy? Relief? I tried to call her and Wes at least three times this week, to keep the lines open, to see if I’d be able to get a comment after the press conference. I don’t know why I took it personally that I never heard back from Wes other than to direct me to their new media consultant. I let it hurt my feelings when I knew better. I’m sure they’ve been advised to close down all communications by their new spokesperson and lawyer, Jerome Gardner, who also happens, ironically, to be the partner at Sabrina’s old firm. He’s also tried at least a dozen different cases against the PPD. That’s the incestuous legal world of Philly for you. Sources tell me they’re starting to pull together a wrongful-death lawsuit against the city. Upward of forty million dollars—is that the value of a teenage boy’s life? The money would definitely change things for Tamara—with millions of dollars to spend, she can live anywhere, do anything, buy whatever luxuries her heart desires—but all of it blood money she would no doubt trade in a heartbeat to wrap her arms around her son one more time.
The press corps grows increasingly restless as we wait. Bart starts playing Candy Crush. I take a peek at the calendar on my phone to obsessively check that the conference was supposed to be at 2 p.m. and not two thirty, and another date stands out. February seventh. When I agreed to see Corey. Our date is marked right there, the one we made after three rounds of hyperformal emails. I should cancel. Opening, reopening, this can of worms on top of everything else? It’s too much. I just need to make it through this day first. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, employ a trick I read on some mental health blog. Breathe in a positive mantra and out a negative thought. Inhale: You are strong, Riley. Exhale: Everything is broken. When I open my eyes Sabrina is emerging from a discreet wood-paneled door, all six feet of her, shoulders back, head held high. She ascends the two steps to the elevated platform. Tamara, Wes, Jerome, and a woman I don’t recognize enter right behind her, and take their places solemnly as if it’s been rehearsed, which of course it has been. The woman must be their media consultant, Jackie Snyder, who made a name for herself in a Stand Your Ground shooting in Florida. Now she’s developed quite the niche flying around the country advising people who’ve lost children to gun violence. What a world we live in that that has become a full-time job. There’s some shuffling and settling in the crowd and on the platform. I see Wes reach in his pocket and quickly fiddle with his phone.
Sabrina waits a beat, against the soundtrack of clicking cameras. The buzz of my phone is jarring in the quiet. I peek down to discover Wes had just been texting me. It’s good to see a friendly face here. I know it’s your job, but nice all the same. I try to catch his eye, but he’s focused now on Sabrina, as I am too. Her expansive crown of curls aligns with the arc of the city seal behind her, forming a bronze halo around her hair. Sabrina usually wears a tight French braid for court or media appearances. The fact that she sports a voluminous Afro today feels intentional, bold, defiant, the same tone she uses when she begins to speak.