I felt ashamed that was the first thing that had come to mind.
Barack joined me at the chapel door. “Thinking about joining? I’m sure they could use another baritone.”
We listened to the choir run through “Tell It,” a gospel track I hadn’t heard in some years. Even with the frequent starts and stops, they were knocking it out of the park. They didn’t need Joe Biden’s raspy windpipes.
“You know this one?” Barack asked.
I realized my foot was tapping along. “This might come as a shock, but I’ve been to a few black churches in my day. And not just for campaign stops.”
He nodded. Under the harsh hallway lighting, he looked much older than his age. It wasn’t just the gray hair. It was everything. What did my weathered mug look like right now? On good days, the years lined my face like growth rings on a tree. The only comfort was that I wouldn’t be the oldest bag of bones running for president. Bernie had already entered the race, taking that dubious honor.
“The trouble is kids think they’re going to live forever,” I said. “Lord knows I was a hellion at their age, but I wasn’t running around robbing freight yards and shooting off pistols.”
“Maybe they know they’re not going to live forever. What have they got to lose?”
I turned to him. “A lot. I’ve been living on borrowed time most of my adult life. I’ve had two aneurysms. I looked Death in the face and told him to scram. Look at everything I’ve accomplished since then.”
“Think about it from these kids’ perspective, Joe. They’re living in a violent world. They know that any day they wake up could be their last. It’s not the life they chose to lead.”
“But nobody forces them into gangs.”
“What’s the alternative? We have twenty kids in Rising Stars now, all from Chicago. All paid for by Caruso, who even takes the time to do some of the mentoring himself. I’m sure he had other things to do today besides visit one of his kids in the hospital. I don’t know if you saw how many applications we had when you were in the records room, but it was over three thousand. For twenty openings. They need after-school programs. Jobs. But what do they get? A little religion? I wish it were enough.”
I shook my head. Crime and poverty went together like peanut butter and jelly. It was a situation even the best of kids couldn’t pull themselves out of. Not without help. It also wasn’t a problem that the country could arrest its way out of. We’d already tried that.
Barack nodded along with the choir.
“It doesn’t mean Michelle and I won’t keep trying to reach these kids,” he said. “They just need some help seeing that they have futures. That’s why we’re building the community center on the South Side. They need hope.”
Hope. It had been a while since I’d heard that word come out of Barack’s mouth with such conviction. Now I just needed to believe in it again myself.
34
The pastor listened to our story, nodding his head as Barack laid out our hypothesis: find the thieves, find the shooter. He didn’t seem surprised in the slightest that we’d come to see him for help with the Crooks. In fact, he seemed to take it as a source of pride.
“They’re one of the gangs we have to deal with from time to time,” he said, leaning back in his plush chair. We were in his office, which was adorned with paintings of Martin Luther King Jr. and a dark-skinned Jesus. “I’ve had to step in between the gangs to negotiate ceasefires when things get out of control. Gang wars aren’t good for anybody: the gangs, the neighborhood. Nobody.”
“I’m sorry,” I cut in. “You know who the gang members are, you know the leaders. They’re selling drugs on the streets, in your neighborhood. Why don’t you go to the cops?”
Pastor Brown scrunched up his face like I’d just called Mike Pence a decent guy. “You remember the War on Drugs? You know who won, right?” He paused, but not long enough for me to respond. “The drugs. The losers were the addicts—their families, their friends. We were all losers.”
What he was saying was true, but it didn’t mean I had to accept it. There were other ways to live. Giving up and letting gangs control your neighborhood without any resistance? I didn’t like it.
“What do you think would happen if the police grew a pair and arrested every gang member?” he continued. “I’ll tell you: another gang would move in. Because the customers are here. People like to get high. Especially when they don’t have anything else. Unemployment around here is close to fifty percent. That hasn’t changed in generations. I wish it weren’t the case, but I’m a realist.”
Barack looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth shut. He’d been a community organizer on these same streets. If anyone knew what Pastor Brown was up against, it was Barack Obama.
“The Church used to say drugs were tools of the devil,” I said. “You don’t see the devil’s handiwork when you look around and all you see is broken lives?”
“If by ‘the devil’ you mean ‘the white man,’ then I definitely see his handiwork. I see it all over. But if you’re asking about Satan—the great deceiver—I’ve got news for you, friend: the fire and brimstone days of preaching are long gone, at least around these parts. Ain’t nobody got time for the devil. We got too many man-made problems to be worried about him.”
“Can you help us?” Barack asked.
“Help you, or help Shaun? I’ll do what I can. I hear you all put some extra security up in St. Bernard’s.”
“We thought whoever shot him might return to finish the job,” I said. “You don’t think it’s necessary?”
Pastor Brown shrugged. “I could tell you that gangbangers don’t go around shooting up hospitals, but it happens. I’m asking because as soon as word gets around that there are Feds in town, nobody’s going to want to talk. Mouths are going to shut up, and fast.”
“It’s just us,” Barack said. “And Steve.”
Steve, standing near the door, didn’t say anything.
“There are three reasons you get shot in the hood,” Pastor Brown said. “One, drugs are involved. Buying, selling, that sort of thing. Miscommunication, robbery. Two, you’re messing around with somebody’s girl. Don’t do it.”
“And the other reason?” I said.
“Racist-ass cops.”
The clerk whom the pastor had shot in cold blood hadn’t been involved in the drug trade, and he hadn’t been hitting on anyone’s girlfriend, as far as I knew. He’d simply been doing his job.
I could tell by Barack’s narrowed eyes that he was thinking along the same lines, that perhaps Pastor Brown wasn’t being quite as forthcoming as he seemed.
Still, I believed Pastor Brown when he said he would do what he could. He didn’t know why Shaun had been shot—none of the kids who knew Shaun through the Red Door had heard rumblings of him messing around with a gang member’s girl, as far as the pastor knew. They insisted that Shaun wasn’t into drugs—not cocaine, not crack, not heroin, not pills. Drinking a little, here and there. The idea that Shaun would help anyone—especially a gang like the Crooks—steal a shipment of guns was the most ridiculous assertion of all, Pastor Brown said. Shaun’s mother had lost her life in the crossfire of a shootout. Whatever Shaun’s rap sheet looked like, he’d never so much as touched a gun.
I wondered if Barack and I should maybe talk to some of these kids—presumably, a few were in the choir rehearsing in the auditorium. But I didn’t think I could get any of them to talk to me. If they weren’t willing to confess to Pastor Brown, then they weren’t going to let anything slip to me. I imagined they’d be too star-struck to talk to Barack. I would be if I was them.
We didn’t have a motive for the shooting yet, which still distressed me. Pastor Brown assured me we’d find one once we found the shooter.
“If you will excuse me now, I’ll make some phone calls and see if we can’t get this resolved,” he said.
We stepped outside. I turned to Barack. “Doesn’t this make you nervous? That this supposed co
mmunity leader has gang lords on speed dial?”
“Stop and reflect for a minute, Joe. What is it you think I did as a community organizer? I fought for change, acting as a liaison between the neighborhood and City Hall. When you’re involved in the community, you need to reach out to all parties. Sometimes, that means talking to gangs; sometimes, it means talking to the police. It may look like a war zone from the outside, but if you know the rules, you’re a lot less likely than you’d think to get shot.”
“That’s what’s bugging me. Every indication is that Shaun knew the rules.”
“Maybe he made a mistake. He seems like a strong-willed kid, though. Don’t count him out. It’s like Hemingway said: The world breaks us all, but we become stronger in those broken places.”
“I wish he wasn’t alone,” I said.
“His mother’s still with him,” Barack said, tapping his temple. “Inside here. Those voices…the ones that shape you…you can’t ever shake them from your head.”
I nodded. “Like ghosts.”
We stood in the hallway in silence, but for the heavenly sounds of the young men’s voices singing in the choir.
35
“Did either of you see a restroom around here?” I asked, stretching. We were still waiting for Pastor Brown to emerge from his office.
Steve pointed down the hall. “Around the corner, then to your left.”
“You been here before or something?”
“It was on the fire-exit map when we first came in.”
Steve was observant, I’d give him that much. He was also undersized, so you couldn’t duck behind him in a crisis. A good agent, though. I’d never believed he would last long on the Counter-Assault Team, no matter which president he was working for. Sure, you got to dress up like a SWAT-team member and carry heavy military artillery around, but you spent your life riding in the back of a black van, trailing the president’s motorcade from city to city. That had to be hot as a Russian sauna. Steve sweated enough as it was. He was born with overactive sweat glands, he’d told me once. I’d seen a commercial on TV for sweat gland laser surgery, where they zap them and then you don’t sweat anymore. Ever. Something about it didn’t sound safe to me, and when I mentioned it to Steve, he said that he knew someone who’d had it done and good golly, Miss Molly, it worked…but the sweat still had to get out of your body somehow, some way, and this poor fellow started to sweat from his forehead and his butt cheeks. I noticed at that moment several perspiration beads forming on Steve’s forehead. He’d been talking about himself. Which made it all the more heroic he’d agreed to wear his suit into the sauna and put on a show pretending to overheat.
Inside the men’s room there were three stalls and two urinals—a tall one for men, a shorter one for boys (or Steve). I was all alone. Good. I’d heard horror stories from Barack about autograph hounds in public restrooms. I’d never been approached in one, which I assumed was because I used a very defensive posture at urinals. A wide stance, like a cowboy who’d been riding a horse for three days. I’d been told my stance was very intimidating, and that was how I liked it.
I didn’t need a urinal today. I entered the first stall and closed the door.
I didn’t take my time, but I wasn’t quick about my business, either. Pastor Brown was making us wait, and we’d still be waiting, I guessed, no matter how long I took. I wanted to see this thing through—the whole nasty business with Shaun and the Crooks—but it was time to be realistic about the situation. How long was I willing to hang out in Chicago?
There was no shame in heading home after giving it my all. I was a fighter, but I was no dummy. I had decisions to make about the country. About my family. A dark part of me wondered if I wasn’t running away from those decisions by refusing to leave until I’d personally seen justice prevail.
As I washed up, I refused to meet my own eyes in the mirror. How could I even think such thoughts? Shaun wasn’t some stall tactic. He was a kid. The real reason why I was rethinking staying in town was because I was scared—scared of what I would do with all the anger coursing through me.
If Pastor Brown found Shaun’s shooter, I prayed that he turned the suspect shooter over to the police before we got a look at him. Because I was afraid I might take a swing at him, and another, and another, until either my fists gave out or his face did. My bones might have been old, but they’d been hardened, not weakened, by the years. The skin on my knuckles was tough as leather.
On my way out of the restroom, I felt a draft coming through a door that had been left propped open. Inside, I could see a warehouse stocked with boxes. At the far end, a garage door was open—the loading dock. The air outdoors was cooling down now that the sun had set. What was the heating bill on a place this size? They must have had some sizable donations coming in. Not that it was any of my business. The Catholic Church wasn’t exactly known for its fiscal conservatism.
I couldn’t stand to see doors left open like that. I used to harp on it at home with my kids, and at work with the vice-presidential residence staff. Leave a door open and you were burning money by the handful. Besides, hadn’t our poor environment been through enough? We owed it to future generations to make wiser choices about energy usage. This was their planet, not ours.
The argument worked better on staff than on teenagers.
I poked my head out the garage door to see if anyone was around. The moving truck was parked against a far wall, underneath a carport, alongside three white vans—the kind used by contractors and churches everywhere, the kind of vans that were so ubiquitous and anonymous they often sat in plain sight on streets without being noticed. I’d heard one story of a cable technician who had died at the wheel in a van like that parked on the streets of Midtown Manhattan. It took three full days before somebody noticed his slumped body and called the cops, by which time the guy was stiff as a two-by-four.
I almost hit the garage door button but decided I’d let the pastor know that someone had left the barn door wide open. Not my circus.
On my way back, I took a closer look at the boxes. I truly didn’t think they were filled with anything more than canned goods from a food drive, but I couldn’t resist taking a peek.
There were Patriot shipping labels attached to the sides and tops of every box, with the addresses blacked out in marker.
I didn’t know which containers had been robbed at the freight yard, but I remembered seeing that same eagle logo. The eagle looked more like Delaware’s state bird, the blue hen, but then again I was no art aficionado. The real question was whether the boxes were from the same shipping containers that I’d seen at Norfolk Southern. If they were, it would go a long ways toward explaining how the police knew who had hit the freight yard, but Pastor Brown—buddy-buddy with the local gangs—supposedly hadn’t heard a peep.
I knew what Pa Biden would have said: Only blind men believe in coincidences. The rest of us can see the connections. If you don’t, it’s because you’re not looking hard enough.
I’d asked if he knew anyone who was blind, and he said he’d known a few umpires back in the day. That was Pa Biden for you.
I backed up slowly into the hallway…and ran smack dab into Pastor Brown.
36
Barack and Steve exited the men’s room to see the pastor and me engaged in an epic staredown in the warehouse doorway.
“I was wondering where you’d gone off to,” Barack said. “Thought you might have fallen in.”
Steve winced for some reason.
“I didn’t fall in,” I said. “I just got lost on my way back. You OK, Steve?”
“Touchy subject,” Barack said. “Steve here was a well baby, you know.”
Steve’s face flushed red. “Please, Mr. President, I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Oh, come on,” Barack said. “You fell down a well when you were, what, three?”
“Twelve,” Steve said.
“Little old for a well baby,” I said. “Who was the big one? Back in ‘87? Ba
by Jessica. I had just declared my first presidential run and was nearly eclipsed by her news coverage. You ever meet her?”
“Of course,” Steve said. “There’s a whole convention circuit. Me, Baby Jessica. The spooky girl from The Ring.”
Pastor Brown ignored our tomfoolery. He was still staring through me. I hadn’t been lost, and he knew it. However, he didn’t know what I had or hadn’t seen while snooping in the warehouse. I had my suspicions, but that was it. If I held my tongue until later, when I could discuss things with Barack, there was a chance that the boxes would be cleared out. If there was anything incriminating in them, it would be long gone by the time we returned.
A big “if.” Did I want to stake my friendship with Barack on a suspicious feeling?
This isn’t about you and him.
This is about justice.
“Were you looking for something, Mr. Biden?” the pastor asked. An electric charge passed between us. I wasn’t the only one who felt it. I could see Steve’s nostrils flare, which was this little thing he did when he tensed up.
“If you were looking for the vending machines, I’m sure we can pick up some Gatorade en route to the Tribune Tower,” Barack said. “Unless, of course, you’d rather head home. Your call.”
“What about the Crooks?” I asked.
“We’ve got that all under control,” Pastor Brown said.
Barack put a hand on my shoulder. “The pastor has a meeting set up next week with the gang leadership and a couple representatives from the Chicago PD. He’s going to mediate, see if he can’t negotiate a settlement between the two sides.”
I shrugged off his hand. “Do the Crooks know who shot Shaun? If they do, they need to turn him over. Screw this ‘negotiating.’”
“It’s not that easy,” the pastor said. “You think they’ll give up his name without getting something in return? That might be how you do things in your neck of the woods, but this is Chicago.”
Hope Rides Again Page 13
