Authors: Ardella Garland
Doug just shrugged.
“You don’t care?”
“He’s not part of my posse. I care about me and you, period.”
One of the men took a knife and did something to the Whupped One’s hand and the rest of them circled around him and embraced each other. The Whupped One could barely stand up.
“Fool,” Doug whispered. “Stupid, ignorant fool.”
Two of them helped the Whupped One into one of the cars. Two others exchanged a hug and some kind of a shake and one pointed to the fire. The one man left waited until the other cars drove away. Then he began heading up the incline.
“He’s coming!”
Doug leaned into my face and blew, “Sssh!”
I tensed. Doug took aim as the man climbed up higher, over the stone-hard garbage as if it were steps. His head was down. He was dressed all in black, with two yellow bandannas tied around his thighs and one around his head. I looked away. My eyes eager for something to do, searched the sky for a seam of light. I found nothing but darkness.
Doug steadied his gun just as Bandanna Man stood up on the edge of the incline.
Hold tight, I thought. Hold tight.
“Represent,” Bandanna Man said. Doug had pushed me down and back where I could no longer see much of what was going on.
“The shield is a rock,” Doug answered.
“Nothing can shatter the rock,” the man responded.
“I got your page. You know where Butter is?”
I held my breath and prayed.
“Naw, man. I keep telling you, I’m not high up like that. But I do have some T for you. Whoever grabbed her is in trouble. They must’ve been trying to grandstand to get into the top circle but they done fucked up.”
“How’s that?”
“Whoever snatched her didn’t go through security. Never cleared the move. That’s enough to get your butt stomped, maybe taken out. Who knows? So nobody will own up to having her. Everybody’s edgy, man. They-they think there’s another problem, too.”
“Shit,” Doug said worriedly. “They’re not onto you, huh? They think there’s a snitch?”
“Yeah, but I’m not talking about our hookup here. We think someone is tippin’ our hand to them punk Bandits.”
“One of your boys?” Doug asked.
“Yeah, stuff ain’t as open as it usta be. We had a meetin’ and the chieftains made it clear to the rank and file that whoever had the kid shouldna grabbed her but whoever got her shouldn’t hurt her. They put the word out. We don’t need that kind of heat. But somethin’ is about to go down that might peep where she at. You heard that chick in the hospital faded?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the trouble is bought tight now, and y’all five-oh are about to come down strong on everybody. That’s why a move is about to be made. I know for a fact that Little Cap is leaving town tomorrow. We can’t afford to hide him out no more now that he’s staring down a murder rap.”
Little Cap. Finally someone who could at least lead us to the shooter in the drive-by.
“Where is he?” Doug asked.
“Don’t know. Just know he leaving town tomorrow sometime. You know Little Cap knows where Butter is. He had to have one of his tight boys hide her, who else would break security and take a chance like that but him and some super-tight partners of his down for theirs? Little Cap is the one with his nuts on the butcher block. You get Little Cap and I believe he’ll know where the kid’s at.”
“I need to know where Little Cap’s hiding. I need that info. Get that shit, man!” Doug said, his gruff voice beginning to rise.
“Look, man, I’m takin’ a chance tellin’ you anything. I ain’t ’bout to ask no extra questions and get smoked! I get smoked and then what, huh? Shit, I’m at the crossroads and you still here tryin’ to bribe another motherfuckah into being your snitch.”
“Chill, just chill, man!” Doug said, trying to placate the rising anger in his informant. “I’m frustrated. I need what I need. If you find out something, I wanna know right away. Understand?”
“If I find out when and where, I’ll get to you. For sure. Peace. Hey, don’t forget to do that for me like I asked, huh?”
“Okay,” Doug said, nodding. Then I saw him crane his neck as the informant walked away.
“I—”
“Sssh!” Doug whispered. “Wait.”
I did until I heard the car screech as it pulled off. “This guy has been feeding you inside information?”
“All along. The little information he’s provided has helped.”
“What kind of a hold do you have on him?”
“Tight. Dude’s been in the gang since he was thirteen years old. When you’re initiated into their gang, you have to have a sponsor. A big brother. Someone who is responsible for you and your actions until you’re grandfathered in after five years of service. His sponsor saved his life on more than one occasion. But now he’s in Joliet serving time on assault and drug charges. I’m making sure his time is sweet. Nobody bothers him on the yard and he’s got a easy gig in the jail library.”
Doug stood up and held out his hand to me as if he were asking me for a dance. I took his hand and he pulled me up, but I was a little unsteady from lack of sleep and sitting so awkwardly for so long. I stumbled into Doug and he caught me around the waist and squeezed. “Careful, Georgia. Don’t get tripped up now. We’ve got a long way to go together.”
D
oug took me straight home and I crashed. It was my off day. My plan was to sleep until 1:00
P
.
M
., get up to shower, eat, and then throw on some seventies sounds to relax before going to the rally at seven. I told the station that I wasn’t about to let anyone else cover the candlelight vigil so I had already hooked it up where a crew would meet me in the neighborhood around 7:30
P
.
M
. so I could set up and cover the story for ten.
It was Zeke’s off day, too, and I asked them to call him in on overtime—work half a day but get paid a plus eight at time and a half. I know Zeke. He’ll whine but he’ll take it. They agreed. I wasn’t going to let go of any piece of this story.
That was the plan. Who was it who said the best-laid plans tend to get screwed up? Bad paraphrase but that surely was what I was thinking when my phone rang at 9:30
A
.
M
.
My Caller ID said WJIV-TV.
It was work! I wanted to cry for my mama. Answer it or don’t answer it? They could be calling me to pull a double shift on my off day. But I’m beat. Some jobs will work you to death and won’t shed a tear or blow snot in a hankie about it. Television news is one such profession. But maybe it was something about Butter? Then maybe it wasn’t. I couldn’t chance ignoring the call. I answered the phone, putting my head along with the receiver beneath my juicy feather pillow.
“This is Georgia.”
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” Clarice said.
“Girl, I’m so tired. I need Z’s like I need breath. Let me ring you back, ’kay?”
“No, I need your help, Georgia. I’m in the slot today, running the assignment desk by myself. I need a reporter to come in and turn a package for the noon show.”
“Clarice, I’m out on my feet. I was the late reporter last night and you know I’ve got to cover the rally this evening. Get somebody else.”
“Can’t. We’re vacation heavy and two reporters called in sick.”
I groaned; my body ached for more rest. “Who’s on call?”
“Brent. And you know he always blows off his page on the weekend, claims he left the pager in his gym bag or his kid was playing with it and turned it off …”
“That guy gets away with murder, doesn’t he?”
“Girl, it boggles the sane mind. But who needs Brent Manning anyway when I’ve got you?”
“Sorry, girlfriend, sucking up ain’t gonna work this time. Get somebody else.”
“Just listen. You’ve got a leg up on this story. One of the suspects charged with the double homicide in Fellows Park is having a hearing at Twenty-sixth and Cal.”
“Which one?”
“Regal Romere. He wants reduced bail.”
“So? Who do you know in county jail who doesn’t want out? Clarice, that sounds like an anchor voice-over of file tape from the murder scene with a sound bite from Romere’s lawyer. Slam-bam and can I get some Z’s now, ma’am?”
“No, Georgia! Romere’s lawyer says he’s got special grounds. If it turns out to be something big and I’ve got a camera but no reporter on the story, Bing will be in my ass!”
And everyone at WJIV knew what that could be like.
“So you gonna do a solid for me or you gonna leave a sister hanging?”
“Okay, okay!” I threw my pillow away from my head. I had to try to fight it just on principle. “I’m coming, but I turn this bad boy for the noon show only. After that, you have one of the afternoon reporters relieve me on this story. After my live shot, I’m out of there, okay?”
“No problem! That’s great, girl.”
Twenty-sixth and California Boulevard is where the Cook County Jail and Criminal Courts are located. It’s a drab structure, inside and out, and always off temperature. Too hot in the summer. Too cold in the winter. Cameras aren’t allowed in the courtrooms. I left my cameraman outside and I went into court. I waved at the station’s sketch artist who was sitting in the second row.
Of the two suspects arrested for the double murder in Fellows Park, Regal Romere was the most brazen. He was a chunky man, twenty-one years old, with a hard fade haircut and large, chilly eyes. Satin skin did not hide the hardness of his face. Romere was smirking that day when he was cuffed and walked out of the house, even though his mother stood on the front porch crying into the sleeve of her tattered housecoat.
I hardly recognized him now.
When Romere came into court he looked like hell. His face was drawn and his skin ashy, his eyes were listless and sunken in his head. He’d lost weight and there were bruises on his face worthy of a shot on Showtime Boxing. What happened to him? Who jacked him up?
Romere’s lawyer is a cagey joker trying to make a name for himself. Young, fat, balding before his time, the guy had an edge with charm that I’d only seen in successful politicians and up and charging defense lawyers. His name is Gus Wilks.
Wilks told the judge that bond should be reduced from $500,000 to $50,000 because his client’s rights had been violated in Cook County Jail. Wilks said that Romere was a diabetic and that he wasn’t getting the proper food or sleep because the jail was overcrowded. He also said that Romere had been beaten when he complained to the jail guards.
The state’s attorney’s office submitted sworn statements that Romere’s bruises were from a fight he’d had over food with another inmate. The state’s attorney also said the food was standard but Romere was getting his insulin; it was acknowledged that there was overcrowding but Romere did not warrant special treatment. Interesting story but no real bombshell. Most cons screamed abuse; no big deal.
The judge sided with the state. Duh-huh. Reduced bond, denied. Tough guy Romere looked like he needed a box of Puffs tissues. He snatched and yanked at the cuffs on his hands. The guards grabbed Romere’s elbows and as he turned around we caught each other’s eye. Then Romere did it.
Romere mouthed one word:
Butter
.
I jerked my body forward. Romere didn’t say her name again, but he kept staring at me, before nodding. I watched them take him away. What did Romere know? How could I get it out of him? I was among three other reporters in the hallway firing questions at Romere’s lawyer after court was dismissed.
I didn’t tip anything about what I saw. That was between Romere and me. After I turned my story for the noon, I cornered Romere’s lawyer and I told Wilks I wanted a sit-down with his client now. Wilks hemmed and hawed, and then I told him what Romere had done. Wilks rubbed his chin but he answered too fast for my taste. I think he knows more than he’s letting on. I had to be careful. Wilks was nickel slick, as my grandmother would say.
An hour later, I’m sitting down in a room with Wilks, Romere, and my cameraman.
“I know something,” Romere said. “If I tell you what I know, can you get me out?”
“I don’t know. Tell me where Butter is and—”
“Well, can you get me a cell to myself, huh? Better food?”
“Wait, why are you using me anyway?” I questioned. Was this a setup? Was this a desperate lie to get Romere what he wanted? “Why not cut a deal with the state’s attorney’s office?”
“Can’t trust them to keep their word. You’ll be my witness. I’ll be on record with you. I tell you first, you tell the cops to get the kid back, and then the state’s attorney’s office will do right or you blast them on the tube. They don’t want that!”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Fuck the Rockies—punks playing around with a little girl. I got a baby sister. I’m a Bandit and the Bandits got my back. You’re my insurance!”
Covering his bet. I swallowed and hoped. “Where is Butter?”
“I don’t know exactly—”
I stood up. “I don’t have time for this. Play with another reporter.”
“Wait!” Romere said, making a motion toward me.
His lawyer grabbed his shoulder. Wilks spoke to me: “Listen to what he has to say.”
I sat back down. “What do you know?”