Brooklyn Secrets

by Triss Stein

  Now I was up and awake for real. I raided the refrigerator, watched re-runs of a television show I had never even liked in real time. It seemed better in the dark of night. I did not feel awake but knew I would not get back to sleep. Another night on the dawn patrol. Damn

  I thought I’d do some work but I was sidetracked by a middle of the night message on Facebook. It was Zora and it wasn’t personal.

  Y’all heard what happened? Those nasty little creeps who hurt my girl? Now they’re out walking while she is in the hospital tied up to every machine. And that SOB lawyer. Oh, I know him. He’s only interested in making his big name. Did you see him on TV? All up in the microphones about justice? Alibis, pul-leeze! We know what we know.

  And he’s going to get his ass bit over it, too. We are planning a demonstration, right over there at the cop shop where he had his news conference. Two days. Details up tomorrow AM. Sometimes you just got to holler. Know what I mean? Pushing those fool cops to do their job and get the right ones off our streets.

  Information attached. Y’all come and make some noise

  There was a ping from my mail. Something else from Zora and this time it was personal.

  You come too. See it in person. It will be big. It’s going up on Facebook and we got posters up all over the hood and beyond. We got to make something happen. Ya know? Not just for my child but other people’s children too, I’m going to send you a flyer. Be good for you to be making some noise.

  Chapter Ten

  Zora was not exaggerating. All the local Brooklyn neighborhood listservs and bulletin boards—and there are plenty—had a blizzard of notices. I belong to one though I seldom have time to participate. When I saw the activity on it, I started exploring. Crime in Brownsville? Work, right?

  I emerged a few hours later, having gone down the social media rabbit hole. The one thing I knew for sure was that many people were writing about Savanna, and the caught-and-released boys, and how to make a noise. Or if it was worthwhile to try.

  Even Chris had picked up a reference to it, a flyer from somewhere in downtown Brooklyn.

  “This is the girl you told me about, isn’t it? So I was wondering…?”

  “No,” I said immediately. “Not a chance. It is a school day and you are not going. It could get ugly.”

  Deep sigh. “I figured.”

  I didn’t tell her I was going. Maybe I should have, but I was not up to having an argument about it.

  In the next day, there wasn’t a word on the news media that I could find. Not television, not radio, not the newspapers. Then, the night before, finally, there was a small reference to it on the local evening news, with a brief video showing some of the posters up around the neighborhood and a photo of the police station. The officer in charge said, “We protect everyone’s right to assemble and speak up and at the same time, we are preparing to make sure a peaceful assembly doesn’t become a riot. That will not happen here.” I wondered where he got his public relations training.

  I looked at my calendar for the last of many times. I knew what I should be doing tomorrow, and I knew what I would be doing. Yes, sometimes you have to make some noise.

  That didn’t mean I wasn’t nervous. Even without a public demonstration, it was a neighborhood where feelings ran high, tempers were short, and guns were common in spite of our activist mayor’s efforts to stop the gun trade.

  Nevertheless, I was on the subway the next morning, I’d be crazy to take a car today. My wallet and phone were easily zipped in an inner pocket of my light jacket. Clothes were my usual student-sloppy style. I wasn’t representing anyone today, not a job, not looking like a serious scholar, not a mother. I was not responsible to anyone today. Only myself. And besides, the clothes would make me a little invisible, I thought. I hoped.

  I found the precinct without any trouble, and there it was, a full setup, with a platform for speakers, some news cameras and microphones, lots of cops standing in the back, a block closed to traffic I wondered how Zora pulled that off, or if it was someone else.

  I found a spot next to a building, a little sheltered, where I thought I could see and observe as the closed off street slowly filled up with people.

  Most of them were dressed in shabby clothes or the flashy styles sold in cheap local stores. Neighbors, I guessed. But there were others, too. The tall, gray-haired man in the dignified suit was the long-time congressman. I wondered how Zora had gotten him to come out for this. A matronly woman in a smart spring coat and churchgoing hat was the city councilwoman. And there was the lawyer representing those boys.

  Was he invited? After what Zora had said about him? How was that possible? I was keeping my eyes on him, waiting to see what happened as the others began to take their places on the platform. An older man in a circle collar and a younger woman in clerical robes with stylish high heels peeking out underneath. A white man in a suit, very busy on his phone. I was betting he was the mayor’s rep. A black man in police dress uniform with a lot of gold on his cap.

  People continued to stream in from all directions, some in groups carrying signs. One group, all ages and sexes and colors, had signs that said “For Savanna. Brooklyn Tech Teachers and Students.” The adult faces were grim; the teens were teary. Another was a group with a big sign from the municipal workers union. A group from a semi-socialist fringe political party that has never gotten any traction that I knew.

  As the street of people turned into a crowd, I saw that most of them looked grim and solemn, but some—and they were not just the teen-agers—were acting as if it was a social event. High fives, loud scolding of children, teens jostling and joking around.

  The crowd grew and I was glad I had found my little spot early.

  The platform seats were full, the mics were being tested with the usual shrill noises, and the man who was clergy was standing with Zora at the podium.

  “Dear friends…” he began. That got nobody’s attention and the crowd’s buzz only grew louder. He dropped his voice to a lower register and moved closer to the mic. “Friends! All you all here! Listen up. Let us begin.”

  That time it worked and the buzz subsided, as all attention was turned to the platform.

  “Let us begin with a prayer asking our Lord’s help in making our voices heard in the highest offices.”

  Most of the crowd grew silent and many heads were lowered. He kept it brief and to the point, and the final “Amen” was joined in by almost everyone. Even me.

  He introduced Zora. She stood up tall and very straight, dressed in a bright green dress with a leafy pattern.

  “I do not wear black today,” she began. “I do not wear mourning. My precious child is with us still, though her life is hanging by a thread. She is a fighter and in tribute to her, I am wearing her favorite of my clothes. She pushed me to buy this. She said, ‘Mama, you are still young. You need to have something pretty and bright sometimes.’ Honey, this is for you!” Her voice caught in her throat; then she went on.

  “She is not in the hospital due to an accident. She is not lying in the hospital, fighting for her life, due to an illness. She is there because of strictly human evil. And the cops got the wrong guys. Give them credit—they got someone! Later, we’ll have some people up here to talk about why that doesn’t happen more often. And they had good reasons to suspect them, but, my, my, those boys had better alibis. Who would have thought that was possible? Let me hear you. Who expected that?”

  There were some shouts. She said again, “Let me hear you again about those so handy alibis.” This time there was a much louder response.

  “I hear you saying you don’t trust police and I am with you on that. I know. I know. We all have our experiences. But today isn’t about that. It is about knowing who did this to my child. And see that they get what’s coming to them. Someone knows. You, or your friend who left town or your neighbor with a hangover? I am asking you to man up
, whatever sex you might be, and see that these animals are not still out there. Going after your child next.”

  She separated each word in that last sentence and emphasized them like sticks hitting a drum skin.

  “I thank you all for coming out and showing love for my little girl. Please keep her in your prayers. Now I’m going to turn the mic over to the Honorable T. Darrel Thomason, our own congressman. He has kindly offered to speak himself and introduce everyone. Please put your hands together for him. We can make some useful noise along with our protesting, right? Because this is not a funeral, and Lord, we are praying it won’t become one.”

  A young man near me stage-whispered to his companion, “Who that be in the suit? I couldn’t hear good.”

  His friends looked back at him in disbelief. “You fool! That be T. Tommy. A big man around here.”

  An older woman snickered and they turned to her in a split second. She looked at them through hooded eyes. “Don’t you be giving me that look. It was funny how she say ‘He kindly consented.’ He’s a politician. He likes to get his face on TV. Kindly! And for all his work you boys don’t even know him.” She snickered again.

  I knew that in a neighborhood where only the really interested are organized and motivated enough to get out and vote, he’d been sent back to DC for ten straight terms, usually unopposed. He was doing something right.

  I didn’t feel the need to join their conversation. And I assumed I would not be welcome. Today I was an observer, a witness to an event as it unfolded.

  The congressman kept it mercifully brief. He outlined his efforts to get more money for the district, hoping to use it for a new recreation facility. “We all know,” he said—and I heard a loud buzz of agreement around me—“our young people have too much time on their hands and too few productive activities They are young, active, bored. No wonder they get in trouble, whether making it or—” he turned toward Zora—“being on the receiving end.”

  He acknowledged no one knew, yet, what had happened to Savanna. Or, he said carefully, very carefully, no one knows enough to make it stick in court. Ha, I thought. So he too thinks they had the right guys.

  I was not the only one who took that meaning from his carefully worded phrase. There was a buzz around me and then the boys’ attorney stood up in the audience and shouted, “You are libeling my clients. I cannot and will not allow that to happen.”

  “Now why would you think I was doing something like that?” By his smooth response, I could guess the congressman had been heckled before. “I mention no names.” Now his glance swept across the audience. “Come on, you all. Did you hear me mention names or accuse anyone? Can I get some support on that?” This time the buzz was loud, with a few louder shout outs. “No you did not.” Then from the other side, “Isn’t like we don’t know they did it though.” And louder. “Yeah, been bad apples all this long time and the cops did nothing.”

  The Congressman said, “Let’s not use this solemn occasion for shouting insults. You hear me? That’s not respectful.” He nodded to Zora and then turned his gaze back to the attorney. “Sir, I am not sure why you are here today, but perhaps you’d like to confer later?”

  “I’ll be waiting,” he responded and then moved to the sidelines, and stationed himself where the persons on the podium would have to pass him. Was I only imagining that two men in suits, tall, fit, one black, one white, moved quietly to have him in their sights?

  The Congressman was speaking again, “Now I want you to give a welcome to Lieutenant Leo, who will talk about police efforts and try to put the rumors to rest. My friend, Lieutenant Leo.” He enunciated it very clearly.

  Applause was scattered and spotty, certainly reluctant. It takes more than that to faze an NYPD career officer. Cops lined up along the building seemed to tense and move in a little, as if preparing for something. For anything.

  “I’m giving it to you straight. The young men we thought responsible had stellar alibis. Come on! You don’t want us to hassle young local men before they do something? But you want us to hold some of them when we can’t charge them? So if you know something different, come on and say it out loud. There’s a number. We’ve got it on flyers in the back. No one, and I mean that, I swear to that, will know who you are if you call in. And if you know something else, not about them but about Savanna, call it in. Here’s where we’re at on this: it’s no secret there is a great big gang problem hereabouts.” He looked over the audience. “You know about that?”

  The group of boys standing near me tried to hunch down into the hats and hoods when he said that but the adults were nodding in vigorous agreement.

  “Yeah, well, this attack doesn’t look a bit like a gang issue. Might have been a robbery that went all wrong but you know she’s a girl from the projects. She wasn’t carrying much. What animals beat a girl almost to death for nothing? You hearing me?

  “We are canvassing all around where she was found, her building, her school. Any of you out there her girlfriends and know something we maybe don’t? You want to see these snakes, whoever they turn out to be, put away? You know what you need to do.

  “We are going to get him or them or whatever. That is a promise.” This time, the applause was a little more robust.

  Congressman Thomason was back. “We have time for some questions and then the choir from Savanna’s family church has kindly offered to close this event with a hymn or two. We have people with mics so get your hands up.”

  “I got a question for big man attorney over there?” It was an angry looking man in coveralls.

  “I’m sorry, he was not part of the program, and that’s…” Zora whispered to him and then he said, “If he wants to come up and answer a question, he can.”

  And he did.

  The questioner continued, “How you squaring it with your own slick self, defending boys you must know are guilty? And if not for this, then for something else? They a menace to us all and you don’t look good, standing up for them.”

  The attorney leaned in to the mic. “And, dear sir, what would you say if it was your own son arrested?”

  The people around him laughed, and poked each other and I heard quite clearly, “He got you there.”

  The questioner became flustered and distracted, smacked away a woman’s hand, and finally said, “My son ain’t the issue today. Don’t you be changing the subject. You getting fame and money defending them, and they getting out, and what we getting except more trouble?” He nodded decisively. “How do you sleep at night?”

  “Just fine, thank you. And if this line of questioning continues, about my clients who—let me remind all of you!—” His voice was rising with every word. “Were released for lack of evidence—lack of evidence means there is nothing to say they are guilty!—you all got that? What are you saying, the cops always get the right person? We all know better!” Lots of muttering and loud agreement on that. “If this discussion about my clients continues, I’ll be taking legal action.” He strode off the stage, indignant. Holding the crowd’s eyes.

  I could see his face from where I stood. He was perfectly calm as he shook hands with a few people. In fact he looked happy. I thought his performance was just that and wondered what his goal was, but I didn’t get to think about it for long. Near me a woman was talking in a heated whisper with her friends. I could hear her saying, “What is so special about this girl? She not the only one ever got hurt around here.”

  “I believe her mama organizes…”

  “What the hell do I care? Every week some child in trouble threatened, hurt, dead, ODed. But oh, every fool person love this child! I only came ‘cause you all was coming.”

  Someone else, not from her group, turned and said, “If that’s how you feel, why you ain’t getting up and saying it out loud?”

  “I wasn’t talking to you.” At that moment, I was glad I was not the questioner. “But I believe I will,
no thanks to people who mind other people’s business.”

  She looked all around before turning to the podium.

  “What I want to know is where the hell you all been all this time? You think this Savanna so special? Maybe she is, no disrespect intended, but every child is special to someone, and we losing children all the time around here. Why all you big shots not coming around with promises sooner? Why we don’t have better policing, with police who see the difference between them gang boys and our good sons?” She gestured to the stage. “Why you not showing concern about my little nephew who was shot by accident when two gang fools had a beef?” She looked around at the crowd. “Why you all not marching about those girls who had a beat down about some stupid boy and one died? About the gangs in their nasty hanging-down-to-the-knees pants, threatening our younger kids?”

  She started to breathe hard, as people around her were clapping. She turned to a knot of teenagers near her. “Yes, I’m talking about you. Don’t you be looking at me with those eyes. You know who you are and what you done.”

  Three of them started shoving through the crowd, moving toward her, when a big man stepped in their path and the scene exploded. Punches were thrown. Yelling and cursing. People nearby were moving away as fast as they could, except for the ones who were piling on.

  And I watched with shock at how fast it happened. And fascination. It happened so fast, I didn’t even have time to be scared.

  In the melee I spotted a familiar face. Deandra. She was moving backwards, away from the fight, toward another girl I couldn’t see well. I tried to go talk to her but I couldn’t push through. Then the fight shifted, the crowd moved and she was gone.

  It was over as fast as it began. People pulled the fighters apart and dragged them away but not before the angry woman walked up to one of the original boys and threw a punch of her own.

  Does it make me a bad person to say I admired it?

  Friends led her away but I could hear her response. “I showed them. I showed them. I did it.”