The Way Home

by George Pelecanos

  “You do the same,” said Thomas Flynn.

  He and Moskowitz walked her outside. Moskowitz was seeking a few words with her away from Chris, and Flynn intended to ask about the procedure involved in the release of Ben’s body. He wanted to know how he could get authorization to gain possession of it.

  Chris stayed in the living room, rubbing behind Django’s ear. Soon Katherine joined him, kissed his mouth, and sat close to him on the couch.

  When Flynn reentered the house, he went to his bar cart in the dining room and poured himself several fingers of Jim Beam. He killed the drink quickly and poured another. He saw Amanda looking at him from the kitchen.

  “What?”

  “Easy with that,” said Amanda.

  Flynn tipped his head back and drank.

  Out on the street, far down Livingston from the Flynn home, two men sat in an old black Mercury. They were waiting for the man called Chris to emerge from the house that doubled as the business office for Flynn’s Floors. They intended to follow him. They wanted to see where he lived.

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE FUNERAL service for Royalle Foreman, nineteen, was held at a large Baptist church on Nannie Helen Burroughs Avenue in Burrville, in the 50s in far Northeast. Ali and Chris arrived early, pulled into the parking lot, and sat in Juanita Carter’s black Saturn, letting the air conditioner run. They talked about Ali’s conversation with Detective Bryant earlier that morning, and they spoke fondly and bitterly about Ben. They were in no hurry to get out and stand in the summer heat by the front door of the church, where a line had already formed.

  “Looks like it’s gonna be full,” said Chris.

  “Royalle touched a lot of people,” said Ali. “He played football for Ballou before he dropped out, and he shined. That right there gets you some positive notoriety. He had a charming smile on him, and he was funny. People liked Royalle.”

  “What happened?”

  “The usual. Peers pulling him down. No one at home strong enough to keep his head in the books or tell him to stay indoors at night. He was a repeat offender. Possession first, then sales. Nonviolent stuff, but after multiples they’re gonna lock you up. He did a little time with the hard boys out at Pine Ridge. Did a second jolt on a parole violation, and that set him up with new contacts and problems. I was tryin to work with him, and I did find him some employment. I had him with this auto body dude I know, as an apprentice. But Royalle couldn’t stay out his own way. He had some kind of long-standing beef with someone, over a girl. Last Saturday night a car, three deep, rolled up on him in while he was walkin to his aunt’s house, where he stayed. He took one in the neck and bled out right on the sidewalk. Another bullet had eyes for a row house window. Kids in there had the presence of mind to get down on the floor when they heard the first pops.”

  “City kids learn young,” said Chris. “The police know who did it?”

  “No witnesses. I’m guessing that some of the young men at this funeral know who was in that car, and who the shooter was. But they won’t talk to the police.”

  “They’re gonna settle it themselves.”

  “No doubt,” said Ali. “You know, I went to court and pled for lenience on behalf of Royalle before they sent him back to the Ridge a second time. I was tryin to get him into this charter high school they have now, where the kids eat and sleep on the premises.”

  “Like a boarding school?”

  “Exactly. Gets the boys out of their environment but doesn’t put them into a prison environment. Judge wouldn’t listen. I guess he was reading those editorials in the newspaper about how the juvenile justice system is letting too many bad kids back out on the street. You know, ‘I grew up black and poor, and now I’m a professional journalist. You have to be extra tough on these boys and keep them locked up. I made it; why can’t they?’ All that bullshit. No question, some boys, the gunmen and killers, they do need to be jailed and off the street. But Royalle wasn’t one of those boys. Juvenile prison just kept him low.”

  “They’re letting them in,” said Chris, watching the line move.

  “Yeah, let’s go.”

  They walked across the parking lot, now nearly full. Chris and Ali wore sport jackets over open-necked shirts and jeans, in the medium range of dress for those who had come to the funeral. The majority of the attendees were young, some in suits, others in T-shirts bearing Royalle Foreman’s likeness with mentions of love, the Lord, heaven, and RIP.

  In the lobby, Chris took a program and looked up at the memorial wall adorned with more than a hundred photographs of deceased teenagers and young adults from across the city, victims of shootings and other violent acts. Ali tugged on Chris’s jacket, and the two of them walked into the sanctuary, where female ushers were handing out Kleenex and paper fans to sweating mourners. A large video screen was set up behind the pulpit and altar, and on it was the image of Royalle Foreman lying in an open casket. Gospel music played through a PA system. A receiving line had formed, and a woman in it was crying loudly.

  A minister stood in the pulpit and leaned into a lectern’s microphone. “Please turn off your cell phones. And please, let me remind you, there is no drinking in the parking lot.”

  Chris stood in a pew beside Ali. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. He was not religious, but he felt, in an uncomplicated way, that there had to be something higher, some reason that he and the people he loved were here and alive, and others had been taken. In his mind he saw Ben, a dog beside him, both of them walking in a field, the dog’s tail switching back and forth, Ben smiling. It should have made Chris happy to envision his friend this way. But instead his thoughts went to violence, and he found that he was no longer speaking to God but fantasizing about murdering the men who had murdered Ben.

  “No,” said Chris very softly.

  Not in church.

  ALI HAD an appointment to meet with Ken Young, the most recent director of the District’s Department of Youth Rehabilitation Services, and Reginald Roberts, the superintendent of Pine Ridge. Because it was Young’s day to visit Pine Ridge, Ali had planned to meet them both out there. Chris, after a bit of prodding from Ali, agreed to come along. He knew that Ali wanted company. Also, he did not want to go back to his apartment and be alone with his thoughts.

  They drove out to Anne Arundel County in Maryland. The facility was less than thirty miles from the city, but it was country, with stretches of highway running past woods, the occasional new housing community, warehouses, government agencies, and company headquarters. It felt a world away.

  Ali turned off the two-lane and went down a long road that wound back into more country and dense stands of trees. Chris felt a sense of dread creep up on him. He wondered if Ali, who made the trek out here regularly, still felt it, too.

  “No pines,” said Chris.

  “None that I ever seen,” said Ali.

  They passed the site of the new facility, which was close to completion. A Democratic senator from Maryland had fought the building of it, as had representatives of neighboring residential communities, arguing that the D.C. jail for youths should be located in the District of Columbia, but they had failed, and construction had gone on as planned.

  “Ken Young put some of the boys to work on the crews here,” said Ali. “A lot of it was straight labor, but a few of them apprenticed with tradesmen and carpenters. When they get out, they’ll have skills. The new facility is gonna have a woodworking shop in it.”

  “What about private showers?”

  “That, too. The housing units are gonna be more like dorms than bunkers.”

  “Where’d this guy Young come from?”

  “Some big city with problems like ours. The mayor found him. He had years of experience implementing what they call the ‘Missouri model’ for juvenile rehabilitation. Basically, it stresses nurturing over hard punishment. Preparing these boys to succeed, playing to their strengths and interests rather than keeping them low. Bunch of states have picked up on it. It’s not chea
p, but it pays off later on, when you’ve got fewer boys graduating to adult prisons.”

  “Young must have enemies.”

  “They talk about the negative impact on the community when you let jailed boys out and put them under supervision. But when you lock up kids without looking at other alternatives, you destroy communities. There’s gonna be some failures, naturally. But there’s gonna be some success stories, too.”

  Ali parked in the lot among cars belonging to guards and administration. They walked along the link-and-razor-wire fence to the gatehouse. As if on cue, clouds had moved in, and inside the fence the palette was gray. This is how I remember it, thought Chris. This is how it always seemed to me.

  They passed through the security office of the gatehouse. Ali had called ahead and had Chris’s name added to the visitors list. Then they were inside the fence and moving toward the administrative offices, weeds and dirt beneath their feet. A group of boys were walking from one building to another, accompanied by a couple of guards. One of the boys chopped another in the back of the neck while the guards weren’t looking.

  “Knuckleheads,” said Chris.

  “That ain’t never gonna change,” said Ali.

  “They don’t make them walk with one hand grabbing their wrist behind their back anymore.”

  “Young stopped that, too. I mean, shoot, they’re caged up in here. Where they supposed to go?”

  They met Reginald Roberts, Pine Ridge’s latest superintendent, in his office. Roberts had modest height, a bodybuilder’s physique, and wore his hair in braids. He was a reform warden, handpicked by Ken Young. Young was tall, thin, middle-aged, and shaggy haired, unable to stay seated, with the kind of nervous energy that kept him standing next to the wall. Roberts took a seat behind his desk, and Chris and Ali settled into chairs before him.

  “Chris here is a Pine Ridge alumnus,” said Ali. “I’ve spoken of him before.”

  “Good to finally meet you, Chris,” said Young. “Ali also told me that your father has employed some of our graduates.”

  “He’s tried,” said Chris.

  “We appreciate it,” said Roberts.

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend,” said Young. “Ali mentioned this morning that the two of you were tight. I read about his death in the paper.”

  “The whole paragraph?” said Chris.

  “Ali says that all three of y’all were together out here,” said Roberts.

  “Unit Five,” said Ali.

  “I closed that one,” said Young.

  “Anyway,” said Roberts. He pushed a manila folder across the desk toward Ali, who picked it up. “Let’s talk about these boys right here.”

  For the next half hour they discussed inmates who were about to come out, either released to their families or to residential treatment centers. Ali reported on the progress of several young men and talked about others who were struggling and might be headed back into the facility.

  “You might want to make a bed up for William Richards,” said Ali.

  “When he was in he talked about culinary school,” said Roberts.

  “Half the boys say that,” said Young. “When you ask them what they’re gonna do, it’s the most popular response. ‘I’m about to go to culinary school.’ ”

  “We’re gonna graduate a lot of chefs,” said Roberts.

  “There’s always McDonald’s,” said Ali. “That’s one way to start.”

  “Coupla years ago the big thing was barber college,” said Young. “I had this one kid, Morris Weeks, said in his last level meeting that he wanted to go to ‘haircut academy.’ He had just got off punishment for cold-cocking a guard. I said to him, ‘Morris, who’s gonna put a scissors in your hand when you’re always acting so violent?’ ”

  “Boy learned, though,” said Roberts.

  “He did,” said Young. “Morris got a chair in a shop on Georgia and Piney Branch Road.”

  When they were done, Ali and Chris shook hands with Reginald Roberts.

  “Walk with me, guys,” said Ken Young.

  They left the building and headed toward another. Chris could see the basketball court, its pole and backboard standing out in the field.

  “That rusted old hoop,” said Chris.

  “We’re gonna have a nice court in the new place,” said Young.

  They entered the school building and walked through its halls. Guards were standing outside the doors of the classrooms, all with handsets. Many nodded perfunctorily at Young and a few gave him more genuine greetings as they passed. Down the hall, an inmate, his arm pinned up behind him, was being pushed out the exit door by two guards.

  “Who’s that?” said Young to a burly guard wearing a Cowboys ball cap. “Is it Jerome?”

  “Yeah, that boy swung on Bobby.”

  “Take him out and let him cool down.”

  “That’s what we’re doin, Mr. Young.” Chris saw the guard roll his eyes slightly at the guard beside him.

  They walked on. The colors of the walls were brighter than Chris remembered. Paintings done by inmates were pinned up on bulletin boards.

  “We’ve got a new foundation running the school,” said Young, seeing surprise on Chris’s face. “New teachers. The classes are smaller because I have fewer numbers in lockup. Almost sixty percent of the boys here are Tier One, the high-security youth. Only about ten percent are low security. The majority of the kids committed to the DYRS are in their homes or in residential treatment. They don’t belong in cells.”

  “I see you got them doin art,” said Ali.

  “Yeah, and there’s a literary magazine. We even put on a Shakespeare play for officials at city hall. And I had some boys hook up with AmeriCorps, went down to Mississippi to rebuild some homes after Katrina. I’m trying everything.”

  “Some of those guards didn’t look too happy to see you.”

  “We call them youth development specialists now,” said Young. “They don’t like that, either. Matter of fact, a lot of them wouldn’t piss on me if I was running down the street on fire. The union reps gave me and Reginald a vote of no confidence, tried to have us fired. And they’ve fought to retain abusive or incompetent guards that I’ve let go.”

  “I read all that stuff on the op-ed page,” said Ali. “Their solution is to, what, keep kids locked up?”

  “Seems to be.”

  “What’d you do, forget to kiss that columnist’s ring? You damn sure aren’t gonna win a popularity contest with the press.”

  “I’m not looking to,” said Young.

  Outside the school, Young led them to Unit Five. He got a key from a chain hung on his belt loop and unlocked the building’s door.

  “I don’t know,” said Chris.

  “Come on,” said Young. “They’re going to tear it down soon. You should see it one more time.”

  “I see it every day,” said Chris, as he stepped inside.

  The smell got him. He had forgotten that. It was unidentifiable, but it suggested stillness and decay. They went into the common room. The Ping-Pong table was gone, as was the fake-leather chair with the arms studded in nail heads. The old couch was all that was left. Its back was now nearly completely shredded, and a spring showed from beneath its worn seat. Beyond the common room sat the media room, now in complete darkness.

  Young led them down the hall. Chris looked up at the tiled ceilings where he’d stashed marijuana many years before. Then they were along the rows of doors leading to the cells. Chris feared that if he closed his eyes he would hear Ben’s voice, talking to himself the way he used to do at night.

  Ali and Chris looked through clouded Plexiglas into one of the small cells. The gray blanket covering the bolted-down cot. The steel shitter and pisshole. The particleboard desk.

  “I’ve got the Joliet,” said Ken Young, touching the extralarge key hanging off the ring on his belt line. “If you want to go in.”

  “No,” said Chris.

  “I brought you in here so you wouldn’t forget,�
� said Young. “The more allies I have, the better it is for me. If people could see this, they wouldn’t be so eager to put kids in cages.”

  “They should tear this building down,” said Chris. “I’d drive the bulldozer if you’d let me.”

  Young nodded. “You’d have to get in line.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  CHRIS WAS quiet on the ride back to the city. It was more than circumspection. There was something on his mind beyond Ben and the awful memories rekindled at Pine Ridge.

  “What’s going on with you, man?” said Ali.

  “I’m thinking on something,” said Chris. He thumb-stroked the vertical scar above his lip. “When you spoke to that detective this morning, did you tell her about Lawrence Newhouse?”

  “No. I had a conversation with him last night. He said he didn’t know anything about Ben’s murder. He said he didn’t want to talk to police. I expected that, and I had to respect his wishes.”

  “How was he when you gave him the news about Ben?”

  “Bad,” said Ali. “He cried, and he didn’t care if I heard it. He was blown.”

  “I gotta tell you something, Ali. I didn’t say it to you before because I didn’t think it meant anything. But now I’m not so sure.”

  Chris told Ali about the money in the gym bag. He said that they had left it in the row house, but that Lawrence had gotten Ben wasted and Ben had told him where it was. Chris and Ben believed that Lawrence had gone to the house and stolen the money. They had done nothing about it because they felt that there was nothing to do.

  When Chris was done, Ali said, “And now you think there’s something with that money that connects Lawrence to Ben’s murder.”

  “I’m not sayin that.”

  “Lawrence loved Ben. When Lawrence was getting his ass beat by everyone and their brother at Pine Ridge, Ben stood up for him. He was the only one who did. If there was one dude who Lawrence considered a friend, it was Ben.”

  “I know that.”