As the harrowing story of Sybilla Frye was revealed to the public for the first time, Ednetta Frye and her daughter Sybilla appeared stiff with fear, or anxiety; at Reverend Mudrick’s insistence they were seated just behind and to the left of the podium at which Reverend Mudrick stood to speak. Mrs. Frye was perceived to be an attractive black woman in her early forties, who looked as if she’d been through an emotional ordeal; her gaze was downcast and she was dressed in the dark, somber clothing of a mourner, with a skirt that fell nearly to her ankles, and black leather pumps with a low heel. Around her neck was a small gold cross on a chain. Close beside her, so that the two could grip hands, sat Sybilla Frye, who wore schoolgirl clothes—dark pleated skirt, white cotton long-sleeved blouse, white socks, prim little patent leather shoes. Sybilla’s hair had been fashioned into pigtails: she looked much younger than fifteen. Her face no longer bore obvious marks of the beating she’d received several weeks before but when she was observed walking she carried herself like one who anticipates pain in her back, hips, and legs.
Sybilla, too, wore a little gold cross on a chain around her neck.
To the right, rear of the podium sat Byron Mudrick, known also to most of the individuals in the room. To some, Dr. Mudrick was their mentor, their professor. Small of stature, yet stern-faced, he resembled
the more flamboyant Marus Mudrick like a younger, less consequential but staunchly loyal brother.
Reverend Mudrick wore one of his custom-made dark three-piece suits, with an elegant silver silk necktie and a gold watch chain across his vest. His oily, dense hair had been freshly barbered. His gold-rimmed eyeglasses shone. Those who were familiar with Marus Mudrick’s sermons and public addresses were not surprised that the Reverend began speaking so very softly, individuals at the back of the room could barely hear him; by degrees, his beautifully modulated voice that was a subtle blend of New Jersey and Virginia would rise, gain strength, fill every corner of the room. Outrage was Reverend Mudrick’s highly combustible fuel—stoking the outrage of his listeners. In a voice quavering with emotion he described the “Nazi-racist white atrocity” that had been perpetrated upon the “black child Sybilla, on her way home from school” in Pascayne, New Jersey, just the previous month, that had never been reported in any newspaper or on any news program: “A shameless ‘whitewash’—‘white boycott.’ A ‘gag-rule’ from on high, some are sayin the governor of New Jersey conspirin with the Pascayne police chief an head of the state police.”
In Pentecostal tones, fierce, then subdued, then again fierce, and again subdued, with grandiloquent gestures of his beringed hands, and tears brimming conspicuously in his large, alert eyes, Reverend Marus Mudrick continued to shock and outrage his audience, as Sybilla Frye hid her face in her hands, weeping, and Mrs. Frye comforted her, as one might comfort a young child. All eyes in the room were riveted on the Fryes—the loving and protective mother, the stricken and abused daughter.
In the audience were several photographers who’d been encouraged to take photographs when they wished. If it seemed surprising to some observers that a child-rape victim was to be so publicly identified, and openly photographed, no one remarked upon it, or protested.
“That which has been
concealed
, will now be
revealed.
”
Often it happened at Reverend Mudrick’s news conferences that Ednetta Frye would have to comfort her weeping daughter, as Marus Mudrick spoke in his ever-escalating, stormy and impassioned voice; sometimes, both mother and daughter broke down, and had to be escorted from the room as audiences stared in rapt silence.
“My sisters and brothers, you seein brave people here—Sybilla Frye an her mother Ednetta Frye darin to come forward to charge their accusers an not hidin away like the ‘white cops’ been expectin these black sisters to do—under threat of death not just to them but their family. Jesus watchin over them—but they need our prayers! They needin all the help we can give them.”
Within hours of the first press conference, word began to spread of the abused black girl in Pascayne: the Care Ministry was flooded with calls, answered by Reverend Mudrick’s staff who directed callers to the Pascayne Police Department and the
Pascayne Journal
, as well as soliciting donations to the Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye; in time, callers were also directed to the mayor of Pascayne, local New Jersey state congressmen and U.S. congressmen, U.S. senators, the govenor of New Jersey. Angry and incredulous callers were urged to walk into Pascayne police headquarters and demand justice for Sybilla Frye, and to “ply” the media with appeals for justice.
Soon then, brief articles on
Sybilla Frye
began to appear in the press and on TV. In a few, photographs of Reverend Marus Mudrick and the Fryes began to appear.
The first news item in a major, white publication was in the Newark
Star-Ledger
on November 15, 1987; though on page six of the Metropolitan section the article was beneath a striking headline—
ABDUCTION, RAPE CHARGES MADE AGAINST UNIDENTIFIED PASCAYNE POLICE OFFICERS
The Newark
Star-Ledger
was the preeminent daily newspaper in New Jersey, one of a chain of papers that included the Trenton
Times
, in which a similar article appeared on November 16, on page three of the first section.
On November 18, Reverend Mudrick scheduled a second news conference, this time in an auditorium at Rutgers-Newark Law School, which had been secured by Byron Mudrick. To this conference came an unexpected number of persons, estimated to be as many as three hundred; predominantly black, yet including a number of white-skinned individuals as well, many from out of town. Black publications like the
Chicago Messenger, Black Digest
, and
Essence
were represented by more than one reporter each. As many as a dozen photographers arrived, as well as TV news reporters and camera crews from local New Jersey stations, to whom Reverend Marus Mudrick willingly gave interviews.
At last the
Pascayne Journal
published its first story on the subject beneath a headline on page three of the first section: “Pascayne PD Denies ‘Groundless’ Charges in Alleged Rape.” The Newark
Star-Ledger
and the Trenton
Times
, as well as other Jersey papers, featured articles titled “The Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye”—“Cover-up Charged by Reverend Marus Mudrick in Alleged Rape Case”—“The Mysterious Case of ‘Sybilla Frye,’ Pascayne, NJ.”
In all of these articles, Reverend Marus Mudrick, identified as an African-American Episcopal minister and a civil rights activist, a “former aide” of Reverend Martin Luther King Jr., was quoted, at length. In some articles, “Civil Rights Activist-Attorney” Byron Mudrick was also quoted.
Neither Ednetta Frye nor Sybilla Frye was quoted in the press, for both were inaccessible to journalists.
The Pascayne Police Department was flooded with calls. Reporters arrived at police headquarters and at the Red Rock precinct. There
were roaming photographers. TV news reporters appeared with camera crews, stationed on the street and causing traffic jams. Initially these were local New Jersey stations, then they were network affiliates of NBC, CBS, ABC. Pascayne patrol officers were approached on the street by reporters before they’d been informed who “Sybilla Frye” and “Marus Mudrick” were. Reporters and photographers for the Associated Press, the United Press,
USA Today
arrived. There was a frantic search for Sybilla Frye and her mother Ednetta, but canny Marus Mudrick had made arrangements for them to stay with friends of Reverend Denis in another area of the city; eventually, Ednetta and Sybilla would be moved several times, as Marus Mudrick said for their “protection.”
Photographs were taken of the Frye residence in the weatherworn brownstone at 939 Third Street. Photographs were taken of the derelict Jersey Foods factory from the outside, and inside the dim-lit cellar. If there’d been a “crime scene,” this scene was thoroughly trampled.
Then, a great leap to the front page of the tabloid
New York Post:
“Black Minister Charges Cover-up in Pascayne, NJ, Race-Rape Case.”
After a cautious interlude, quick in the aftermath of the
Post
the
New York Times
began to report, initially on an inside page in the city news section, then on the lower-left front page.
“Man, this crossin the Rub’icon! Crossin the Hudson! We in the
New York Times
now! An this just the beginning.”
To his staff, Marus Mudrick appeared jubilant. And on the phone speaking with “Sister Ednetta” (who never saw a newspaper but watched TV news and listened to the radio through the day) he was triumphant. To his brother Byron, Marus appeared slightly dazed, like a man who has had too much to drink, too quickly.
“They believin the girl—lib’ral white folks? Jews the kind sure don’t want to be
racists
like the redneck crackers.” Marus’s jowls shook with laughter.
They were in Marus’s inner office at the Care Ministry. Telephones had been ringing through the day. Reporters were even now waiting out on Fort Street. Reverend Marus Mudrick was to be interviewed in the morning on NJN-TV—New Jersey Network—and later in the day, by a reporter for the Trenton
Times.
Byron said: “They should believe her. It’s got nothing to do with ‘Jews.’ The girl is telling the stark, terrible truth.” He’d studied the articles in the
New York Times
with a stab of something like shock, dismay. It was astonishing to him—the “Crusade for Justice for Sybilla Frye” had made the priceless front page of the great newspaper that, for the many years Byron Mudrick had labored in civil rights litigation, for the many brilliant but hard-won cases he’d fought for his clients, for all the doubts, despair, misery and self-disgust he’d had to endure, had steadfastly ignored him.
“Until now, man. Now, them New York Jews gon chase after
New Jersey niggers.
”
Black girl, white cops, kidnap, rape, assault & left to die.
White cover-up, Pascayne police, Nazi-racist swine.
Calls had come for her at the precinct. Calls were routed to her. A trickle at first, and then a flood. Reporters, TV people wanting quotes, interviews with Detective Ines Iglesias who’d been identified as the only Pascayne police officer who’d spoken with Sybilla Frye and her mother Ednetta.
And was this because, Detective Iglesias, you are a woman, and you are of an “ethnic minority”?
And what can you tell us of the progress of the investigation? Have you identified the “white cops” in your department who are accused of having kidnapped, raped, nearly beaten to death the fifteen-year-old African-American victim?
“Yes, I am Detective Ines Iglesias. I am the Pascayne PD officer assigned to the ‘Sybilla Frye’ case.”
She’d been the investigating officer, she would bear the brunt of the blame.
She knew, her fellow officers spoke meanly of her. Maybe not the women—the few women . . . But the men, yes.
Iglesias was the sacrifice, was she? The detective burdened with an impossible case and (unspoken) task of exonerating the Pascayne PD.
It was no secret, the Lieutenant disliked her. When he happened to see her, in the precinct house. Passing on the stairs, in the parking lot. The man’s flushed skin, bulldog mouth, furious eyes.
Blame the female. Ethnic minority hire.
She wanted to protest—the investigation is continuing.
She wanted to protest—but you assigned me!
When she’d been a new hire on the force, this Lieutenant had seemed to like her. A lot.
She’d been smiling and friendly but not
in that way
. The Lieutenant was a veteran of the Pascayne PD, with a not-smooth history of dealing with “ethnic minorities” and he’d tried to make an impression on Ines Inglesias and when fairly quickly he’d understood that she wasn’t interested in him
in that way
his manner toward her changed—not mean, not nasty, but matter-of-fact, impersonal-professional. He’d been genial enough, even courteous to Iglesias, at least to her face; obviously, he had not sabotaged her promotion to detective.
But all that was changed, now. Since Sybilla Frye.
That first call. A rock thrown through a window of her life.
It had come to Iglesias, at home. In that dead time-lull after she’d returned from the precinct and changed into a sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers but before she’d prepared a meal and had her first glass of
wine of the day while watching TV; as, later, she would lie in bed and read until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, a book from the local library, often a novel by a woman writer frequently but not exclusively Hispanic-American. And so utterly unprepared she’d answered the phone with what would seem to her in retrospect a naïve hopefulness, a wish to speak with someone, a friend, a relative, anyone who knew her as
Ines
and not
Iglesias.
And it had been a fellow detective, in fact a former partner, who’d told her sneeringly to turn on her TV to channel four, the 6:00
P
.
M
. Newark news.
Iglesias’s first glimpse of fiery crusader Reverend Marus Mudrick.
She’d known the name, and something of the reputation, but she hadn’t realized immediately that the ranting black man on the TV screen, on a sort of stage, was in fact Marus Mudrick; she had no idea what he was talking about in such fierce, declamatory tones, like a Pentecostal preacher, until she heard a name—Sybilla Frye?
Iglesias groped for a chair, to sit. All strength had drained from her legs.
Sybilla Frye!
Iglesias’s first thought was that the girl had been murdered.
Sybilla Frye’s mother had insisted that Sybilla’s life was in danger. The lives of the Frye family were all in danger. Iglesias had supposed there might be truth to this charge, if not the truth the Fryes were insisting upon.
Since early October Iglesias had made little headway in the Sybilla Frye case. She’d been thwarted at every step. Yet, Iglesias hadn’t given up.