Tough Lessons

by Chris Freeman

  Joseph glanced at his watch. He would be a little late, but Brigitte’s firsthand knowledge of the gangs intrigued him. “Then enlighten me. I’m curious about it.”

  “Why?”

  “I have a son,” he said, by way of explanation, not wanting to tell her about the tag on Eddie’s door. “I worry about these things.” He waved the waitress over and she refilled their coffee cups. “So who are these gangs?”

  “There’s a whole bunch of them. Some are based on the two big gangs, the Crips and the Bloods. They have hundreds of thousands of members all over America but the kids aren’t usually directly affiliated to them.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The small gangs are like those Little League baseball sides that name themselves after the Mets or the Yankees but aren’t really anything to do with the big clubs. They just model themselves on them.”

  “I see.”

  “Then you’ve got the local gangs. When I first started here, a lot of the Hispanic kids in the South Bronx were in the Latin Kings, but they’re not as strong as they used to be. The police arrested most of their leaders a while back, but I guess they’re still around. Their main guy was sentenced to two hundred and fifty years in jail for murder. It was some sort of record, and he gets to spend the first forty-five years in solitary.”

  Joseph let out a whistle at the prospect of forty-five years in solitary confinement. “They were sure out to get him.”

  “I guess they were.” She was stirring her coffee but her eyes never left his. “The Dominicans have their own gang, the Trinitarios, and then there is the DOD.”

  “The DOD?”

  “Stands for Do Or Die but they aren’t so much a gang as a crew, or so I’m told.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just what the kids say. They will tell you stuff sometimes. I think they view it as educating me for a change. The ones who aren’t in gangs like to explain it all to me so I know how tough their lives are. I guess they are like, ‘How can I possibly do my homework when the Bloods are standing on my corner?’”

  “Yeah, that’s probably it. Are there any other gangs or is that everybody?”

  “Let’s see, there’s MS13 and Six Wild. Then there’s the DDP, which means Dominicans Don’t Play, and a whole heap of others. I once heard there are an estimated fifteen thousand gang members in New York alone and they say it is nowhere near as bad now as it used to be in the eighties and nineties.”

  “And these tags they spray everywhere? Marking their territory?”

  “Yep, either that or sending some other message to rival gangs, like when they paint over another gang’s tags or spray a line through the name of a gang member, which means they are going to get him.”

  Joseph took a sip of his coffee. When he spoke he tried to sound unconcerned. “I saw a tag once in my neighborhood. It had two initials on it—CK. Know what that means?”

  Brigitte nodded. “That would be Crips’ Killers.”

  “Right,” he said, trying to figure out how concerned he should be about the message sprayed on Eddie’s door. “There was another symbol right next to it, an inverted arrow.” He made a pointing gesture toward the floor.

  “Mmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, you know what that means?”

  “No,” he admitted and she copied his gesture and then aped the gangsta style of talking, putting on a deep voice and rolling her head about like she had an attitude.

  “It means somebody’s going down.”

  Brigitte continued to talk about gangs and their tags and the problems the school had with them. Joseph tried hard to listen to her without distraction but it wasn’t easy. His good friend Eddie had been sent a clear message: the tag on his door was a death threat. The old man was in way too deep, far more so than he had admitted to Joseph, and now it was hard to see how he could be protected. Joseph had to work for his living and was in his cab more often than not. He couldn’t be with Eddie twenty-four-seven, even if the old man permitted it, which he wouldn’t. Brigitte was still talking about her school and the measures the principal was promising to take to make it safe for staff and pupils. Joseph was not really listening. Then he suddenly stopped her. “What did you just say?”

  “I said, I guess we’ll hear all about it tomorrow at the parents’ meeting. Everyone will be there: staff, parents, and police. You got the letter, right?”

  “Yeah, sure, it’s tomorrow night, right?” he asked absentmindedly.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, because he was already climbing to his feet, pulling small bills from his pocket to pay for the coffee and tip.

  “Nothing. I’ve just got to get back that’s all. Like I said I’ve got to see Eddie.”

  Joseph banged a little too hard and a little too long on Eddie’s freshly painted door. It would need another coat, because you could still make out the faint, red letters, CK, followed by the inverted arrow through the layer of white paint the old man had applied.

  Eddie wasn’t the quickest on his feet these days, but he would normally have answered his door by now. Joseph knocked again, knowing Eddie wouldn’t have gone anywhere without telling him, but no reply came.

  This wasn’t like Eddie, and Joseph began to fear for his friend. He knocked again and again, banging his fist harder and harder against the old man’s door but all he got in return was silence.

  8

  Joseph had his cell phone in his hand and was dialing the emergency number when a harsh voice inside the apartment finally called, “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” The door was opened cautiously, like the retired cop was braced for trouble. “Oh, it’s you,” he said but he resisted the temptation for a wisecrack when he saw the look on Joseph’s face.

  “What the hell was wrong? I’ve been banging on your door. Were you both asleep in there?”

  “We had the ball game on. I didn’t hear you,” growled Eddie. The TV was indeed at a deafening volume. Eddie obviously liked to feel he was actually at the game, judging by the noise of the crowd. Joseph wondered if the old man’s neighbors minded living next to Yankee Stadium.

  “I need to speak to Yomi,” he explained. “Right away.”

  “Sure,” said Eddie. “He’s right here.” He called over his shoulder, “Yomi, it’s your pop. Hurry up now.”

  “Thanks, Eddie,” said Joseph.

  “No problem,” he said. Yomi was off the sofa and slowly pulling on his jacket, so Eddie used the interlude. “Listen, Joseph, I think they’re back.”

  “Who is?”

  “Those damn kids, using the lockup to store their stolen shit.”

  “Right, well.” Joseph shrugged. This didn’t seem like something he could become involved with and right now what he really needed was a moment alone with his son. “What do you think we can do about it?”

  “Well, we could check it out, the two of us this time, like you said.” Joseph frowned. Had he really said that? Had his lecture to the old man about the danger of acting on his own been somehow lost in translation? Still, Eddie did seem to feel strongly about this intrusion of the gangs onto their project. “All right, but not now, okay?”

  “Sure,” and the old man suggested they go down there a couple of days later. Joseph agreed he would set aside the time to take a look at the lockups. Between them they could evaluate what was going on down there and what, if anything, could be done about it. “Are you okay, Joseph?” asked Eddie.

  “I will be.”

  Realizing something was wrong, Eddie said, “I won’t stop by tonight, leave you guys to talk.”

  Joseph just nodded his thanks and then he glared at the boy as he emerged.

  “What?” asked Yomi.

  His father didn’t answer. Instead, he jerked his head in the direction of the staircase and walked silently behind his son all the way along the corridor and up the stairs until they reached their apartment. Joseph opened the door and nodd
ed at the armchair. “Sit,” he said.

  “I ain’t no dog,” answered Yomi, but he sat down anyway.

  “Shut up,” said Joseph quietly, startling his son.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the parents’ meeting?”

  “Oh,” said Yomi. “How’d you find out about that?”

  “Never mind how I found out, I found out. That’s all that need concern you. Why didn’t I find out about it from you?”

  “I forgot.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Yomi.”

  Now Yomi had adopted the sullen sulk approach, arms folded across his chest, mouth sealed, eyes staring off out the window of their apartment as if he were gazing at a distant horizon.

  “Okay then,” said Joseph. “Let’s assume you don’t want to go because you’ve been carrying a knife and you are worried someone’s going to mention it to the police while we are there. Can we assume that?”

  Yomi shrugged. “You’re the detective.”

  “Right! That’s it!” Joseph rarely shouted and his raised voice made his son start. “I’ve had just about enough of this. I am sick and tired of your attitude, your backchat, and your wiseassed comments. Son, I should have torn into you when I caught you with that knife but no, I was wrong. I cut you a lot of slack when you gave me that speech about the horrible apartment you live in, the crummy school you’ve got to go to, and the fact you are so ashamed ’cos your daddy’s just a cab driver. Well, that’s all a crock and you know it. You are old enough to know better and, whatever your age, carrying a knife is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. Only thing that guarantees is someone is going to get hurt. Probably you.” Joseph had his son’s full attention now. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out the way I planned when Mom died and I brought you over here, but life is like that sometimes. I drive a cab and I see a lot of bad people every day but do you see me carrying a knife or a gun? No. We haven’t got enough money but do you see me on the street corner selling drugs to make more? No. Instead, I work. Why? Because it’s the right thing to do. I know you know the right thing to do, Yomi, so start doing it, as of now. You and I are going to that meeting tomorrow night and we are going to listen to the police, the principal, and anyone else who wants to shoot their mouth off there, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us feel. You got me?”

  Yomi nodded like he suddenly realized just how far over the mark he had stepped.

  “Now go to bed,” he told the boy, and Yomi went without a word. When he had gone Joseph sighed and slumped into the old armchair. Somewhere down below, off into the distance, police sirens were blaring.

  The school hall was packed. All the teachers were there, each one standing like a sentry at the end of a row of chairs. On the stage in front of the lectern was a giant photograph of Hernando Lopez. It looked like the kind of thing you found in a school yearbook and it had been blown up so large the image had become a little blurred. Flowers had been placed on top of the hastily framed portrait.

  The parents and their children packed into the hall and gradually filled the chairs that were set out in front of the stage. Joseph noticed McCavity, dressed in one of her dark power suits, walking slowly up and down at the side of the room, surveying the scene before her as if she might be able to spot guilt written across the young faces in the crowd. Is she looking for another suspect? Had Jermaine admitted to having an accomplice, or had he confessed to taking the knife from Yomi?

  The audience did not have to wait long for the opening address. Principal Decker walked out from the wings and stood stiffly in front of the lectern, right behind the portrait of the late Hernando Lopez. The principal slowly removed his glasses from a jacket pocket and put them on, using the maneuver to delay his speech long enough to bring the audience in front of him to a quiet. When he began to speak, his voice was deep and loud enough to reach the back of the room. Years of practice in front of a younger audience made public speaking easy for him. He gave a short speech of welcome, which turned into a eulogy for Hernando Lopez, “a teacher who was greatly loved and respected by both pupils and colleagues alike, a man whose life has been cut cruelly short in its prime by the cowardly hand of a murderer.” He then led the whole audience in a recital of the Lord’s Prayer followed by a minute of personal, silent prayer for their dear departed teacher. This moment of tranquillity was suddenly shattered when an outer door slammed shut somewhere at the front of the building. Two sets of parents then entered the hall sheepishly, shushing their offspring when they realized they had ruined the solemn moment. There was an uncomfortable interlude as people were forced to move along the aisles to admit the latecomers.

  Decker surveyed these new arrivals as if they’d just pissed all over Hernando Lopez’s grave, but he managed to keep his composure long enough to conclude the address. “Now I would like to welcome our friends from the New York City Police Department and would ask you all to do everything in your power to assist them in catching the killer of our dearly loved colleague. All of us owe it to the memory of Hernando Lopez to give our total commitment and support in finding his killer, nothing more, nothing less.” This indicated to Joseph that the cops may have arrested Jermaine Letts to assist with their enquiries but they had insufficient evidence to charge him for murder. It meant no confession had been forthcoming, so all options remained open. “I will now hand you over to Assistant Chief McCavity of the 41st Precinct.” He held out an arm and McCavity began her ascent onto the stage. She was greeted by an eerie silence, which was to be expected. The usual welcoming applause for a visiting dignitary was entirely inappropriate under the circumstances. McCavity took to the stage with the practised ease of the career politician. Right now she was where she always liked to be, thought Joseph, in the center of attention.

  “Thank you for welcoming me to your community,” she began, as if anyone there had even known she was coming, “and allowing me to speak with you here tonight.” She was adopting the posture of the humble public servant. “I am only sorry that the occasion is marked by such a far-reaching tragedy as this one. I am here to assure you that we in the NYPD are doing everything possible to maintain the safety of you, your children, and their dedicated teachers. We are devoting every available resource toward solving this heinous crime, a crime that in many ways was directed against us all.”

  Somewhere from the back of the hall there was a faintly audible, exasperated muttering of the word Jesus. Joseph got the impression that this was not uttered by a religious man.

  McCavity continued unperturbed. “I am also here tonight to plead for your help in catching the cold-blooded killer of your much-loved educator Hernando Lopez.” Lopez had been a teacher when he was alive, pondered Joseph. Now that he was dead, they had turned him into an educator.

  “You can help us in one very simple way. We are asking you all to grant your permission tonight for us to fingerprint your children in order to rule them out of our investigation and narrow the search for this callous killer.” She was doing pretty good until that point, thought Joseph, but now he realized she had completely underestimated her audience. He was heartened to hear the volatility of the reaction. The last thing he wanted was Yomi to have to stand in line with the other kids, waiting to get his fingerprints taken, knowing they were already on the murder weapon. There was an immediate ramping up of volume, which sounded like a collective sharp intake of breath, and then the comments began, hurled at McCavity like accusations.

  “You wanna do what?”

  This was followed by “No way you goin’ fingerprint my little gal.”

  Then there was the inevitable cry of “Get the fuck out of here!”

  After that the comments became indecipherable and all of them melded into one. McCavity was forced to repeatedly appeal for calm.

  In the end, Principal Decker had to come back onto the stage to plead with everyone. “Please! Please! Let the assistant chief speak. Please, let’s have some order here and
some respect for our fallen colleague.”

  There was a temporary lull, and McCavity attempted to explain her request. She held up a placatory hand. “I understand feelings are running high…”

  Someone shouted, “Damn right they are!”

  “That’s only natural, but we are not implying that your children are criminals.” She tried a little false laugh to underline the absurdity of such an idea. “This is merely to assist us in finding a killer. That’s what we should most concern ourselves with here.”

  A well-dressed black lady with an educated voice stood up and said clearly, “What I am most concerned with is the infringement of my son’s civil liberties.”

  There were loud cries of support and applause and McCavity looked a little shocked by the reaction she had provoked. “Please, this is America. I can assure you nobody is at risk of having their liberties infringed in any way.”

  “Tell that to those guys down at Camp X-Ray,” shouted someone from the middle of the room, to a mixed reaction.

  Some people shouted “Yeah” and “That’s right.” Others seemed to have decided that civil liberties were for citizens of the South Bronx only and not applicable to foreigners suspected of terrorist offences.

  “No, really,” continued McCavity, as if she considered that to be an entirely irrelevant comparison. “We have a number of sets of prints on or around the murder scene and we merely want to narrow our search for possible suspects.”

  Joseph had every reason to hope her plea would fall on deaf ears and he was pleased to see another parent stand up, an Italian American lady, who spoke calmly. “First, you have a number of fingerprints on or around the murder scene because it happens to be a classroom.” There were loud whoops of support at this abrupt debunking of the police methodology. “And second, I would like to ask what you intend to do if you match my daughter’s fingerprints to one of the desks in that room. Does that rule her out or make her a suspect?”

  More cries of “Yeah!” from the audience.