Dead End Street

by Sheila Connolly

  My passionate speech was greeted with silence. I wasn’t surprised: it had taken me days to arrive at my current viewpoint, and I couldn’t expect staff members to have an immediate response.

  I smiled at them. “I’m sorry that I dumped all this on you all at once. It’s been a hard week for me, and I’m looking at things differently now, and I think it’s important to share it with you. We don’t need to make any decisions right now. There’s no timetable or agenda, and I haven’t promised anything to anyone. But I want us all to think about what I’ve said. Talk about it with each other. What is it we believe the Society is and should be? That’s a pretty fundamental question, but one we need to look at.”

  Latoya spoke again. “How will the board react?”

  I turned to her. “To either of these ideas? A fair question, and I have no idea. I don’t want to take this to them until there’s some sort of plan or proposal. I could use the excuse that it’s too late to include it in next week’s meeting agenda, but I’d like them to start thinking about these things, too. I may give them a verbal summary, like I’ve just given you. Hey, if neither one works out, no harm, no foul. But it seems to me that these two projects both reflect our institutional mission and how we see history. I welcome your input. That’s all I’ve got for now. Thank you for listening.”

  Everyone stood, looking uncertain. Some wandered out. Shelby came over and said, “Hey, you don’t mess around.”

  “Think I scared them all?”

  “Well, maybe the ones who like to get up in the morning and go to a safe, predictable job. But I for one think you’re right: it’s something we as an organization need to think about now and then. Maybe we’ll all go back to sleep for another century, but at least you tried. Let me know when I have to rewrite all my boilerplate letters, will you?”

  “Of course, Shelby,” I said, and she left as well.

  Marty and I were left alone. “You sure you know what you’re doing, Nell?” she asked.

  “Nope. But I feel like I have to try.”

  “Then I’ll back you. Don’t say anything to the board just yet. I might have some ideas . . .”

  “You always do. So let’s get to work!”

  CHAPTER 14

  Marty too disappeared to do whatever it was she did. I patted myself on the back. I had started one ball rolling, or one hare running, or something. I had faith in my staff—they were a smart, creative bunch, and I was sure they would come up with some new ideas.

  I was pondering what to do next when I realized Latoya was standing in the doorway. “A moment, Nell?” she asked.

  “Sure. Is this about what I said at the meeting? Please, sit down.” I was a bit puzzled: Latoya seldom came to me, and our relationship was cordial at best. Maybe I’d struck a chord? Or she was going to tell me I was crazy?

  She sat. I sensed she was choosing her words carefully. “Aren’t you suggesting a rather political problem to take on?”

  “You mean external politics, in the case of the neighborhoods project? Yes and no. Yes, in that any meaningful change to the underlying problems will have to come from city government, maybe even with federal funding, and definitely with the help of community-based organizations, and certainly all those are political. What I see the Society doing is assembling the documentation, artifacts, images, or whatever we have here for each target neighborhood and making those resources available to whoever we believe will do the most good. I see that as a part of our mission, one aspect that we’ve kind of neglected.” Maybe I was treading on risky ground. After all, I could easily be labeled a suburban bleeding-heart liberal, and maybe I had no right to try to push the Society in my direction. I really wasn’t sure where Latoya stood. I knew her academic interests were directed to the Pennsylvania Abolition Society, whose papers resided in the Society’s collections. In fact, when Latoya had first been hired, she had negotiated a four-day week to allow her to pursue her own research using those documents. But I had no idea whether her current participation was more active than that, and I had never asked. I waited to see what she’d say.

  She tilted her head at me. “We’ve never really talked about personal issues, have we? I know only what staff gossip tells me about your home life, and I have no clue what your political or religious orientation might be. I believe you’re a fair and honest person, and a reasonably good administrator, but up to this point you’ve never really stepped up and articulated a philosophy for this place that you’re responsible for.”

  I was careful in my answer. “I think that’s a fair assessment, and I don’t know much more about you on a personal level. Look, this week I’ve had a wake-up call. I’m still processing it, but what came through to me loud and clear is that we’ve been ignoring a large chunk of history, and that doesn’t seem right. Because that history, at least for the city, nearly cost me my life this week. Okay, maybe that’s melodramatic, but being shot at in a slum I’d never even seen, no more than a mile from here, got me thinking. I was shocked at how much I didn’t know about the city, and that’s my own fault. Do I think I can change the course of this place? Hardly. But I want to try. Do you have an opinion? Because I’ll listen.”

  “Because I’m black?” she said, then retreated quickly. “Sorry, that was uncalled for. You’ve never shown any discrimination toward anyone. But you have to admit it is a factor in Philadelphia and its history.”

  “Of course it is, and the Society should acknowledge that. You can certainly make a contribution, because you probably know more about the relevant records than anyone else in this building. If you’re interested.”

  She looked at me squarely. “That’s something I have to think about, Nell. I like my job. I also like keeping my research separate from my job, even though they both take place in this building. I’m not sure I want to upset that balance, but having said that, I’m not sure I feel that way only because I don’t like change. So, like you, I want time to think.”

  “Fair enough. But if we move forward on this, I would value your help.”

  “Thank you, Nell.”

  As she stood up to leave, I added quickly, “One more thing: Tyrone. I don’t mean to tread on your personal life, but can you tell me if he’s an honest man? A good man?”

  Latoya wavered. “I can’t say that I know the man he’s become. But he was always very committed to what he believed in, and he wanted to do good. I think one of the things that drove us apart was the intensity of his commitment. I was always more restrained, more rational. But even now I wouldn’t believe that he is involved in anything suspect. Is that what you want to know?”

  “I think so. I don’t know him well, but I had the same impression. Thank you.”

  I watched her leave, but I stayed in my chair. Was I going off the rails? Had the shooting completely upset my equilibrium? And worse, clouded my professional judgment? At least I’d reached out for opinions from my colleagues. If I was wrong, they’d rein me in, I hoped.

  Now what? It occurred to me that a visit to Cherisse’s City department might give me some more insight into the problem with the property—and into Cherisse’s character. I had some legitimate questions. Cherisse had come to see me about the Society’s property. I wanted to know how she’d come across it and what we could or should do about it, from the City’s perspective. Then I could compare that to our lawyer’s opinion.

  They couldn’t turn me away, could they? After all, I had seen Cherisse die. That should give me some leverage. And it seemed highly unlikely that Licenses and Inspections had sent a hit man to take us out, all over one pathetic building. So I would go take on city hall, or more specifically, the Municipal Services Building, where all the business actually got done.

  I went back to my office and gathered my things for the short trek over to the Municipal Services Building, more often known as the MSB. I had looked up the pertinent information, so I knew where I was headed once
I was in the building. Whether they’d let me past the desk was another question. I was hoping that the name Cherisse Chapman would get me in. Maybe I was on a fool’s errand, but I was still too wired to sit in my office and do paperwork.

  “Eric, I’m going over to the City offices to see if I can find out anything about our North Philadelphia property. I should be back in time for lunch.”

  “Duly noted, Nell. Nice day for a walk.”

  “That it is.” I set off, armed with no more than the address of our orphaned property. My strategy was minimal: mention Cherisse, talk to anyone who had worked with her, and as a distant third, see what the status of the property was in the queue. It wouldn’t surprise me if whoever was in the office refused to jump me to the head of the line, and I wouldn’t blame them. On the other hand, I was something of a public figure myself, and I wasn’t there to complain about something, which probably put me in the minority.

  The walk took no more than ten minutes. Bless James for his solicitude, but I kind of liked walking from the train station to work, and I was pretty sure I needed the exercise. The MSB stood on the far side of city hall, a tall, gray rectilinear building that was all windows, shaped like dominos. Its only distinguishing feature was the large gold eagle over the entrance. I went under the eagle and found myself in front of a large reception desk. Everyone was so security-minded these days! But better safe than sorry, especially when a government was involved.

  “Excuse me?” I said to the man in uniform behind the console. “I need to speak to someone in Licenses and Inspections about Cherisse Chapman?”

  “She’s, uh, no longer with the department,” he said, looking uncomfortable.

  “Yes, I’m quite aware of that, since I was with her when . . . it happened. I only wanted to talk to someone about something she was working on for me.” Which was actually true.

  The man gave me a once-over and decided I was not threatening. “Eleventh floor. Sign in, please. And I’ll need to look in your purse.”

  I signed while he riffled through my bag to make sure I had no weapons or explosive devices. Then he handed it back to me and waved me toward the elevators. On the way to the eleventh floor, I tried to remember whether I’d been in this building before. I had some vague memory of a meeting about City grant applications, although I couldn’t remember what department had been involved. In any case, it had been years earlier. When the doors opened, I glanced around. While the exterior of the building presented a brave face to the public, the interior working offices looked like any other office space—messy. There was a department name on the glass door, but beyond that stretched half a floor’s worth of battered old desks, filing cabinets, and Bankers Boxes. There were people behind most of the desks, and many of them were women. I stood wavering in the doorway until someone finally noticed me and called out, “Can I help you?”

  I took that as an invitation to move farther into the room. Up close she looked closer to thirty than twenty, and she hadn’t bothered with makeup. Her clothes were best described as business nondescript.

  “I hope so,” I told her, smiling. “I wanted to ask about something that Cherisse Chapman was working on?”

  The woman’s face fell. “Oh, well, she’s not here anymore.”

  “I’m afraid I know that,” I said. “I’m Nell Pratt.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, right, you’re the one . . . How terrible for you. And what a shame. Nobody’s touched her stuff yet. Well, maybe there was a policeman here who took anything personal. Not that there was much. She wasn’t into pictures and souvenirs. Oh, please sit down. Can I get you some coffee or anything?”

  “Coffee would be good. Is there someplace we could sit that isn’t such a goldfish bowl?”

  “Oh, right, sure. There’s a table in the break room. Follow me.”

  I followed her around a corner and down a windowless hall, until she turned into a dingy room with a table and a couple of plastic chairs. A counter with a sink in the middle held coffee supplies, and there was a small refrigerator that I assume was intended for employee lunches.

  “Sit, please.” She waved vaguely at the table.

  I sat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  “Oh, sorry—again. I’m just so flustered. I’m Melanie Saggiomo. I hadn’t known Cherisse for long, and then, boom, she was gone! Black or creamer? It’s the powdered stuff.”

  “Black is fine.” I waited until she had managed to put together a cup of coffee and set it in front of me, along with some sugar packets and a plastic stirrer. “Thank you.”

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Well, I’m not sure where to start. You see, Cherisse and Tyrone Blakeney came to see me on Monday because of a property that the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society apparently owns, although we thought we’d sold it decades ago. We went out together to see the place, and you know what happened after that. But I spent only a couple of hours with Cherisse, and we never even discussed how she identified the ownership, or what we need to do now. Maybe you can help me?”

  “Well, I can tell you about the program, but I’d have to track down the file for any other details.”

  “That’s all right. Anything you can give me would be a plus.” I sipped the bad coffee and tried to look expectant.

  “Are you aware of the Vacant Property Strategy?” When I looked blank, Melanie hurried on. “Of course you’re not. I don’t know why you would be. Well, about five years ago the City created a new initiative within our department, with the goal of doing something about the vacant properties around the city. It’s been working well; we’ve managed to inspect nearly half of them, and we’re trying to force the owners to register them as vacant—which means they acknowledge responsibility for them, for the record—or sell them, or rehabilitate them. We’ve managed to work with the courts, so we have some leverage—the owners can no longer just ignore us, and that’s been pretty successful too—the department has brought in more than six hundred thousand dollars in licenses and permits in just the last year.”

  “So what was Cherisse doing?”

  “She was hired a year or two ago when the department staffed up to handle the initiative. She was really into it, almost like it was a crusade, not just a day job. That’s probably how she found your property.”

  “So why did she come to see me, rather than just sending a notice of some sort? Did she do that with everyone she tracked down?”

  “No. Wait—Tyrone was with her, right? They were working together—he’s part of some kind of neighborhood group in North Philly, and that’s the area she was focusing on most recently. I gather he’s got some big plans, and I think she was trying to help him with the paperwork so he could consolidate some of the abandoned properties, make the neighborhood more appealing to potential developers.”

  “That seems logical. I feel so guilty—maybe that doesn’t make sense, but if someone hadn’t messed up the paperwork long ago, we wouldn’t have been there on Monday.”

  “It’s not your fault!” Melanie hurried to reassure me.

  “I know, but still, I feel bad. What was she like?”

  Melanie once again looked uncomfortable, if only briefly. “She was a hard worker—always in early, and stayed late.”

  “No husband or kids waiting at home for her?”

  “No, although I think she was seeing someone. Anyway, she was real careful with her paperwork—she made sure it was correct and she turned it in quickly, which is not always true around here.”

  “Was she from here? Did she have family in the city?”

  Melanie shrugged. “I don’t really know. Cherisse wasn’t a group kind of person, if you know what I mean. She was nice, and she said hi and stuff, but she didn’t hang out with anyone in particular. She didn’t buddy up to anyone here, not even our boss. She wasn’t a suck-up. Mostly she kept to herself.
It was hard to complain about her, because she was doing a really good job.”

  I nodded. “When we were together, in that neighborhood, she seemed really committed to what she and Tyrone were doing. I don’t know anything about him, either. Has he worked with a lot of people in this department?”

  “Not me. But I know he’s been working hard on clearing the titles to a lot of these properties so he can move forward.”

  “He’s not an investor, is he?”

  Melanie shook her head. “No, and he’s not working with the big developers, either. I think he just really cares about that neighborhood. He’s a lot better with people than Cherisse was. Maybe that’s why they made a good team. Sorry, that’s really about all I know.”

  “I appreciate your telling me. Now, what do I need to do with the property we apparently still own?”

  “Why don’t I take a look at Cherisse’s desk and see if she left anything about it?”

  “That would be really helpful,” I told her as I followed her out into the big room. Melanie headed for a desk that looked like a fish out of water in the room: while there were still files and documents stacked up, they were all carefully labeled and aligned and sorted into categories in a tiered rack. There was a single container with pens and pencils, and a middle-aged phone, but not much else on the desk.

  “What did you say the address was?” Melanie asked.

  I told her, and she riffled through one of the stacks from the middle of the rack—presumably the “pending” category.