by Brad Parks
“Yo, Pritch, it’s Carter Ross,” I said breezily. “What’s shakin’?”
“Sorry, you got the wrong number,” Pritch said, then hung up.
I was just about to drop Pritch from my Secret-telling Buddies List when he rang me back.
“Sorry about that,” he said in a hushed voice. “It’s hot around here.”
“So what’s going on with this Byers thing?”
“I don’t know, man, you tell me,” Pritch said. “I mean, who the hell just takes a councilman? You have to be either very pissed or very dumb.”
“Who’s handling the case”
“Fellow named Raines caught it.”
“He any good?”
“He’s okay.”
“Would he talk to me off the record? Tell him I won’t quote him, but I’ll find lots of ways to make him look like a dogged and heroic investigator in print.”
“I don’t think it would matter,” Pritch said. “Raines isn’t in it for the newspaper clippings. He’s pretty by-the-book. I’ll be honest with you, he’s so straight, I don’t even think I can ask him for you.”
“Fair enough. What about you? You hearing anything? Watercooler talk?”
“What have we told you guys officially?”
“That all of Newark is playing a game of Where’s Windy and your guys seem to believe he didn’t just wander off to Florida for the weekend without telling anyone.”
“Well, we got a good reason for believing that.”
“I’m listening.”
“We found blood in his house,” Pritch said.
“Really,” I said as I grabbed a notebook and started scribbling. “Like, a lot of blood?”
“A little blood, from what I hear.”
“How little? Are we talking ‘oops, I cut myself shaving’ or ‘oops, a samurai left his sword in my head.’ ”
“Probably closer to the shaving accident,” Pritch said. “But I don’t know a lot of people who shave in the foyer of their house, and that’s where we found it.”
“Is it definitely his?”
“We don’t know. Labs aren’t back yet. But who else’s could it be?”
Anyone’s. Cops were so short on imagination sometimes.
“By the way,” Pritch said. “You didn’t get this from me, right?”
“Of course not. I don’t even know you,” I assured him. “What is the current thinking on why anyone would feel like stealing Windy Byers?”
“It’s too early. Our guys either don’t know or ain’t sayin’. Between you and me, I don’t think they have a clue.”
“But it doesn’t sound like some botched robbery or something?” I said. “I mean, you take a councilman, it’s because you meant to take a councilman, right?”
“Well, I’ve heard his laptop was missing. But it was just the laptop. I’ve had too many cases where people report one thing ‘stolen’ and then it turns up somewhere later.”
“Sure,” I said. “So we’re told the wife reported him missing. What’s her deal?”
“From what I hear, she was out at some church group thing on Sunday night,” Pritch said. “She comes back home and her husband isn’t there, but she doesn’t think anything of it. She just thinks he’s out at a political event or something. Then the next morning she wakes up to an empty bed and calls us.”
“Our story said she called Monday night.”
“Yeah, we probably just told you guys that so you wouldn’t jump all over us for not calling you about it earlier. The public information office does stuff like that all the time.”
Didn’t we know it.
“Anyone think the wife has something to do with this?” I asked. “You know, she found him cheating, killed him, got rid of the body, then reported him missing?”
“That’s a theory.”
“Is it the official theory?”
“I don’t know,” Pritch said. “Look, I gotta run. I’m crouched in the stairwell talking to you like you’re the girl I keep on the side. And I just don’t like you that much.”
“All right. Do me a favor and keep your ears open. I owe you lunch.”
“You owe me more than one,” Pritch said, then hung up.
* * *
My next call was to Tommy Hernandez, our fabulous gay Cuban intern. Since Tommy was now one of our City Hall beat writers, Councilman Byers was one of his responsibilities. General rule of thumb in journalism: if one of your key sources vanishes suspiciously, you’re going to be busier than a paisley top with plaid pants.
He answered after half a ring.
“Hey, I’m in Byers’s neighborhood,” Tommy said, not bothering with salutations. “Come meet me here.”
“Got cross streets for me?”
“It’s on Fairmount, just north of South Orange Avenue,” Tommy said.
It took six minutes to get from Tee’s neighborhood to the scene and only a few seconds to figure out which house belonged to the councilman. If the police tape didn’t clue me in, the TV trucks parked out front did. I parked, got out, and had a look around.
The councilman’s neighborhood had clearly seen better days. Uh, make that better centuries. I’m sure sometime around World War II it had been a great little place to raise a family. Now, after decades of mortgage redlining and highway construction, absentee landlordism and slumping schools, the GI Bill and white flight—and all the other things this country allowed that led its suburbs to prosper at the expense of its cities—there were only faint memories of what had been.
The slate sidewalks, once a smooth runway for baby boomers’ strollers, were now a jagged moonscape of broken rock. The elm trees that once lined the street were down to a few straggling, struggling survivors, creating a more desolate effect than if they had all been chopped down.
The same could be said for the houses. Some had long ago been flattened and turned into vacant lots. Others looked so unkempt, unwanted, or abandoned you only wished they would have a sudden meeting with a wrecking ball. Then there were a few that defied the odds and, with regular painting and maintenance, had aged gracefully. It only made me more wistful, wondering what the street would look like if it had just been cared for a little more through the years.
And you could blame the federal government, whose policies helped create this mess. Or you could blame the whites, who turned and ran when things started getting tough; or the blacks, who let it get even worse; or the schools, which warehoused urban kids instead of educating them; or the churches, which too often had their doors closed when they should have been open; or the economy, which no longer provided the kind of factory jobs that made a city go; or, well, take your pick.
It was everyone’s fault. And no one’s fault. And I wondered if I would ever live to see the day when the sidewalks were smooth, the street was shaded by trees, and the houses all had fresh paint.
None of which was going to get my story written. So I started going up and down the block until I found Tommy, dutifully going door to door, talking to neighbors. I caught him coming down the steps of a sagging old duplex, having just been shooed away by someone’s great-grandmother.
“Do you shop in a catalogue that’s called ‘Old and Boring’ or do you go to normal places and it just turns out that way?” Tommy asked. “I mean, khaki pants, blue shirt, red tie. Was that your boarding school uniform or something?”
Tommy was not a big fan of my fashion sensibilities, which he accused of slipping into a coma sometime around 1997.
“Oh, it takes many long seconds of work each morning to look this dull,” I assured him. “How’s the canvassing?”
“The usual,” Tommy said, waving toward the houses. “It happened at night and these are all old people who wouldn’t dream of going out after dark. They didn’t see anything.”
“And they keep their TVs turned up high to drown out the sound of the sirens,” I said, nodding in the direction of University Hospital. “So they didn’t hear anything, either.”
“You got it.”
<
br /> “Well, if it makes you feel better, I got a little bit of scoop for you,” I said.
“That the cops found blood in the front entrance?” Tommy replied. “Yeah, I know.”
Of course he did. Tommy was that kind of reporter.
“Who told you?” I said.
“One of the guys in the Crime Scene Unit hangs out at some of the same clubs I do, if you get my drift,” Tommy said, grinning mischievously.
“Ah,” I said. “But, let me guess: this is not well-known among his colleagues at the Newark Police Department?”
“At work, he’s so far in the closet you’d think he survives by eating hangers,” Tommy said. “But he’s definitely one of mine.”
Tommy and I started walking back up the block, toward an encampment of TV cameras.
“So what’s your theory about this so far?” I asked. “Did Windy Byers run off with his girlfriend?”
“His boyfriend maybe,” Tommy said.
“Boyfriend?”
“Oh, don’t act all shocked,” Tommy said. “Sometimes I think half the brothers in Newark like it on the down low.”
Sex “on the down low,” as it is known, involved otherwise straight, mostly married black men who get together under the pretense of masculine activities (poker, beers, bowling, whatever) and have sex with each other. I didn’t know how much of it to believe, but it was a never-ending source of gossip in Newark: who did what with whom and where, who pitched, who caught. It was never confirmed by firsthand knowledge—no one ever admitted being involved—but it was not unusual to hear it whispered that a guy liked it on the down low. And if anyone would know, it was Tommy.
“Okay, so why did his boyfriend kidnap him?” I asked. “Was he afraid Byers was going to go public or something?”
“Oh, I have no idea,” Tommy said. “I just always heard stuff about Windy Byers doing it on the down low with one of his council staffers. So…”
Tommy’s voice trailed off. We were nearly within earshot of the TV news foofs, who were standing around in a pack, preening.
“What’s this, a superficiality convention?” I asked.
“No, Matos is going to make a statement,” Tommy said.
Matos was Newark Police Chief Felix Matos. And sure enough, when I looked closer, I saw the preeners had congregated around a small podium that had been crammed with microphones, each with their ridiculous little logo box attached. Yes, indeed, I was in for one of the most useless events in all of journalism: the made-for-TV press conference.
* * *
I’m not going to say I loathe local TV newspeople, but if one of them were on fire and I had a full bladder, I’d still run off and find a urinal.
It’s not that they’re bad people, per se. On a one-on-one basis, most of them are quite likable. It’s their business that went bad. Regardless of the medium, newsgathering organizations always play on that fine line between informing and entertaining. If you walk it properly, there’s a nice balance: hard-hitting investigative stuff mixed with breaking news tossed alongside human interest features—and, of course, the comics. Some meat. Some potatoes. Some veggies. Some ice cream. Good meal.
But somewhere in the race for ratings—that great quest to find and titillate the lowest common denominator—local TV news had crossed a threshold where the desire to entertain swamped the need to inform. Some of the old-timers mourned it. The younger generation didn’t seem to know any better. They were trained to go somewhere, get their sound bites, find their visuals, acquire the bare minimum of information needed to do a stand-up, and then get out. Giving people ten-second blurbs and quickly flashed images may satisfy some simian urge to marvel at shiny things. But I’m not sure it served any real purpose beyond voyeurism.
Mostly, I found it abhorrent that people still called them “journalists,” because that’s not really what they were. Any group of people who collectively worried about their hair that much could not truly be classified as journalists. They were performers.
And press conferences—which had once been meant for the press and the press only—had become more like public performances, what with the all-news channels often carrying them live. Everyone was cognizant of being on stage, under the glare of the klieg lights and the eye of the wider world, and acted accordingly. The reporters asked questions meant to show how smart they were or demonstrate how beautiful they sounded. The sources, leery of verbal slipups, stuck to the script, which reduced them to automatons whose words and actions would seldom get them confused with real human beings.
The actual conveying of information—or, heaven forbid, real understanding of an issue—was, at best, a byproduct of the whole show. If you, as a reporter, wanted such things, you had to wait until the lights went off and the cameras were being packed up and hope you could get your source alone for a real conversation, however unlikely that was.
But I could tell from the way the chief’s motorcade of SUVs pulled up to the press conference—lights flashing, sirens blaring—that wasn’t going to happen this time. This was all about the show. The chief rolled out the passenger side of his truck in full dress uniform and made great display of placing his hat atop his full head of dyed-black hair, about which he was infamously vain.
Behind the chief, disembarking from the rear door, was a woman who had to be Rhonda Byers. She had a matronly, thick-ankled look about her and was dressed in a proper, slate-gray churchgoing suit and high heels that just had to be killing her feet.
She was quickly joined by a black man with no discernible neck, who took her arm. They were flanked by police officers, who helped her wobble toward the makeshift podium. The cameras ate it up, of course—the stricken wife, bravely doing what had to be done for her missing husband.
The cops finished steering Mrs. Byers toward the microphones, where she stood, still holding on to Mr. No Neck’s arm.
“Who’s the guy Mrs. Byers is leaning against?” I asked Tommy.
“Denardo Webster,” he said.
“And that is…”
“Windy’s chief of staff,” Tommy said.
Matos strode up to the microphones, appropriately grim-faced, clutching a photo and a small note card, because apparently he couldn’t remember his lines.
“It is my unfortunate duty to report the disappearance of Councilman Wendell A. Byers Jr.,” Matos read from his card. “Mr. Byers was last seen in his home Sunday night around sixteen hundred hours”—you had to love it when cops used military time—“by his loving wife, Mrs. Rhonda Byers. We have reason to suspect a crime or crimes may have been committed and we are asking the public’s help in locating Councilman Byers. Anyone who sees this man is urged to call our tips hotline.”
With his hand trembling just slightly, Matos held up a picture of Byers. The cameras zoomed in. It was marvelous theater.
“There is no cause for the general public to be alarmed, as we believe the councilman’s disappearance may have been politically motivated.” Matos continued reading. “We are currently investigating whether a crime or crimes occurred and are bringing the full resources of the Newark Police Department and the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office to bear in our investigation.”
Matos put the card in the breast pocket of his jacket, then half turned his body so he could look at Rhonda Byers.
“Mrs. Byers would now like to make a brief statement,” he said.
This was the moment the cameras were really waiting for, of course. There was no better sound bite on a missing person story than a distraught family member pleading for the return of their loved one, especially when they started blubbering all over the place and needed comforting. Big, emotional displays always played well at six and eleven.
But Mrs. Byers wasn’t going to give that to them. She was actually quite composed under the circumstances.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, in a voice that came across as strong, even authoritarian. “I would like to make a public plea to anyone who has seen my husband or anyone who knows an
ything about his disappearance: please, please help us bring Wendell home. He is a husband and a father and he needs to be back where he belongs, serving his community. Thank you.”
With that, she stepped away from the podium. I had to admit, I was impressed. She had natural stage presence and the practiced delivery of someone who was accustomed to addressing a large group. I could instantly imagine her speaking before her church congregation, telling parishioners that the Ladies’ Fellowship Group was holding its Tuesday night Bible reading on Thursday this week. And unlike her husband, who would have babbled on and made something of a fool of himself, she knew how to stand up, say what needed to be said, then step aside. She was clearly the brains of the Byers family.
Matos took back the podium.
“At this time,” he said, “I will take any questions…”
The hairdos all shouted at once; a perfect beginning to a question-and-answer phase was a breathtaking exchange of noninformation, delivered in fluent copese.
Was the councilman forcefully kidnapped?
“It’s too early in our investigation to answer that question. All I can say is we have reason to suspect a crime or crimes may have occurred.”
Why do you suspect that?
“We have information to indicate foul play was involved, but I can’t get into specifics at this time.”
Why do you believe it was politically motivated?
“We are not ready to discuss possible motives at this time. But we want to stress we believe there is no danger to the general public. Our officers are investigating any and all leads and are developing more information as the investigation progresses.”
Do you believe the councilman may have been harmed?
“We have not reached any conclusions on that subject. I have to stress, this is an ongoing investigation.”
How is the family doing?
“The councilman’s family is doing a lot of praying. No more questions please.”
Always good to end with God. Matos stepped quickly away from the podium. The cameras immediately swarmed Rhonda Byers to get the footage of her being escorted away by No-Neck Webster, which was perfect: it gave Tommy and me a chance to get the chief on the side for a little off-camera time. But the chief was striding quickly toward his SUV and didn’t appear to be in the mood to stop.
