The Adam Enigma

by Meyer, Ronald C. ; Reeder, Mark;

Grange paused, a piece of apple pie teetering precariously on his fork. “I am told it might not be safe.”

  Ramsey pursed his lips. “We need to learn how the people of Blue Island see the world.”

  “You’re right,” Grange agreed. He washed down the pie with a swallow of coffee. “I’ll have the reverend set up a meeting at his church. That should be safe.”

  Ramsey looked at his partner in a renewed sense of how brilliant Grange was at establishing a baseline of community-shared values that form the nexus for understanding family structure, neighborhoods, law enforcement, and social services—and their relation to the state and federal governments.

  “Ron, I don’t think I’ve told you enough how much I appreciate your genius for understanding and bringing sensitivity to how geographically isolated groups are trapped by their mental boundaries.”

  Grange gave a thumbs up in appreciation. “It only works because of your capacity to see how a place restricts opportunity or empowers people to escape those mental boundaries.”

  “We’re a good team.”

  “Indeed.” Grange set his fork down. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I see by our bank account that you completed the New Mexico project. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Ramsey thought to himself that Beecher had paid up just like he said he would. “It’s a long weird story I’m still digesting. On the bright side I got to spend time with Pete Miami.”

  Grange chuckled. “Bet that was weirdly interesting.”

  “Lately that seems to be the way everything’s going.” Ramsey took the first bite of his dessert—New York cheesecake drizzled with an apricot brandy sauce. It was exceptionally good.

  April 7, 2016

  Blue Island, Illinois

  Agunshot rang out. Everyone in the lead state patrol car was startled. A second shot. The officer driving slammed on the brakes. The state highway patrol car skidded on the damp pavement and came to a halt in front of an old factory, its windows blown out and its faded red brick crumbling.

  Through the patrol car’s rain-spotted front windshield Ramsey and Grange watched a teenage black male stumble in front of an abandoned van and fall to his knees. The driver flipped on the cruiser’s lights. “Welcome to Blue Island, murder capitol of Illinois, gentlemen,” the driver said drily.

  Ramsey jerked in surprise. He’d seen this building before. It took a moment for his memory to clear and then he remembered the dream at Pete’s home in Taos. It was more than a coincidence. “Aren’t you going to help him?” asked Ramsey.

  “Not our jurisdiction. Besides it’s a prime place for an ambush.” The driver scanned the surrounding buildings warily. He keyed his vest mic and said, “Unknown black male, possibly armed, at the old brick factory on Kedzie Avenue. Advise caution.”

  As if overhearing his warning, the officers of the second patrol car, which had taken point, did not get out.

  In less than two minutes two Blue Island police cars arrived at the scene, sirens blaring. Four officers, guns drawn, stepped out of their vehicles. They were aimed at the teen who had one hand wedged inside his coat.

  “What’re they doing? Can’t they see the boy’s hurt?” Ramsey asked the driver.

  “They’re protecting themselves. Stay in the car and let the police handle it,” the State Patrol officer said.

  Ramsey saw the policemen advance on the youth. Something didn’t look right. His hand went to the door.

  Grange put a hand on his arm. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Ramsey shook him off. “They’re reading this all wrong. The kid’s not a danger . . . he’s in danger.”

  Ramsey leapt out of the patrol car and ran toward the slumping teen. One of the Blue Island officers yelled, “Get out of the way! He has a gun.”

  Ignoring the officer’s command, Ramsey leaned down and steadied the teen. The boy looked up into his face. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his mouth was twisted in abject terror like Ramsey had never seen before. The teen’s hand slowly began moving out from inside his jacket. The police sighted their guns. Ramsey shielded the boy.

  When the hand came free the boy looked at bloody fingers and said, “I’ve been shot.” He passed out and slumped against Ramsey’s chest.

  Reverend Small left the second state patrol car and knelt down beside Ramsey. “The ambulance has been called. I’ll wait with him,” he said with compassion and concern. Ramsey stood up. The rain had stopped and a light mist covered the ground. The shooting of the young black must have affected Ramsey’s senses because everything around him seemed intense. He turned slowly, seeing the street scene more clearly than before—broken beer and whiskey bottles, dilapidated buildings, sidewalks strewn with filth, homeless sleeping in doorways. The van wasn’t just abandoned, it had been jacked, it’s tires gone, engine removed, windows smashed. He took a deep breath and the rancid odor of rotting garbage forced him to blink back tears.

  It was eerily quiet now that the sirens had been turned off.. Ramsey broke the silence. “He must be somebody’s son. Why isn’t anybody coming?”

  “There is no trust . . . no trust in God . . . no trust at all,” the Reverend said.

  A new siren was heard approaching in the distance. Ramsey waited until the ambulance arrived and then walked over to Grange. People from the neighborhood now ringed the crime scene. They watched. Several had their phones out, videoing the action. No one approached. As the ambulance sped off, Grange shook his head. “This isn’t good.”

  Nodding, Ramsey said, “The boy couldn’t have been older than thirteen or fourteen. He was terrified.”

  “Of what?”

  “Me.”

  Grange pivoted on his heels. Yellow police crime-scene tape had just gone up. Beyond that a sea of black faces peered at them. He scratched his beard. “I don’t know Jonathan. None of these folks look afraid to me. Angry maybe.”

  Ramsey wiped the blood on his hands across his jacket. ”Obviously the police reaction to the shooting must be the norm here.”

  “So, what do you want to do?”

  Ramsey pointed his chin at a group of black kids hanging apart from the crowd. “See those kids there by the canal? I’m going to go talk to them.”

  “Probably a gang. Might run. Might shoot you.”

  Curiously, Ramsey didn’t have any fear. Not because he thought they couldn’t be dangerous but because he sensed a wary curiosity coming from them as if they were waiting to see what was going down. He shrugged. “Let’s see what happens.” He started toward what he estimated to be a group of about ten black teens. The closer he got, the stronger the stench from the nearby canal. This waterway, known as the Calumet Sag Channel, had been constructed about one-hundred years ago to carry sewage and industrial waste away from Lake Michigan. Today the man-made canal was one of the country’s most polluted bodies of water.

  The boys did not run. As Ramsey came up to them, the tallest one stepped forward and demanded, “Who the fuck are you, dog?”

  Ramsey looked at him. The way the rest of the gang held back in a kind of triangle formation, he surmised the teenager was the leader. “I’m Jonathan Ramsey. Do any of you know the MLK Baptist Church on State Street?” No answer. “Can you take me there?”

  “Why?” asked the leader.

  “I want to walk there and I need to be safe.”

  “Just go with your white killer cops,” one of the younger members shouted.

  Most of the others mumbled in agreement, but one them stood on tiptoe beside the leader and whispered something in his ear. Ramsey started in surprise as he realized the gang member was a girl. An older teen to be more accurate. She had close-cropped red dyed hair, strange blue eyes, a straight Roman nose and a generous mouth.

  When she finished talking, the leader looked at her and said, “For real?”

  She nodded.

  “You stopped those po-pos from shooting Leonardo?” asked the leader, his voice less defiant than before.

  Ramsey nodded.


  The young black teen smiled. “Will you pay us?”

  “I’ll give you a hundred bucks now and another hundred when we get there.”

  “You’re one fucked up white boy,” chimed in a voice from the back.

  Murmurs of assent rolled through the group.

  Ramsey pulled out two $50 bills, handed them to the leader. “I’d like to talk along the way.” He started walking, the black teens filled in around him. Pointing to the canal he said, “Does it always smell this bad?”

  “This isn’t bad. You should be here when it’s hot.” Gang members made choking and coughing sounds, amusing themselves.

  Ramsey said “So, which way?”

  They walked in silence for three blocks. Finally the leader stopped and pointed back at the crime scene. “Don’t you want to know about Leonardo?

  “Was he one of yours?”

  “Is he gonna die? ”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “It could have been you.”

  “The dog’s right,” said a member of the gang. “We all gonna to die here.”

  “Maybe not. How many of you would like to get out of here?” Ramsey asked.

  The smallest member snorted. “Nobody ever gets out.”

  Another added, “Except the dead.”

  Suddenly Ramsey shouted, “Man, what’s wrong with you? You’re the ones that are fucked up. Don’t trust anybody.”

  The small teen pulled out a gun and waved it around. “Man, here you trust one thing . . . Beretta.”

  Ramsey glanced at the state patrol cars that had been tracking him and the gang as they walked. One look at the pistol, and the lead car veered suddenly toward the group. Ramsey watched Grange vigorously telling the driver to back off. When the car pulled away, he started walking again.

  “You believe you have a flaw, like something went wrong. Is that right?” said Ramsey.

  The tall gang leader, satisfied there was no immediate danger, said in an angry voice, I’ve always known that I’m wrong, I shouldn’t be here. But I am . . . wrong wrong wrong. I’m always wrong . . . just wrong.”

  Others nodded angrily in agreement. “Everyone says we’re no good.”

  “There’s something wrong with us when we were born and nobody can fix it.”

  Ramsey gestured at the police cars. “Do you think those men believe that?”

  The leader answered immediately. “They know it. We’re no good. Don’t count.”

  “Like we’re born no good,” added the other one.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “What do you believe, whitey?” asked the young woman. So far she had stayed out of the conversation and now was saying something important. The others quieted down when she spoke.

  “You’re speaking crap,” said Ramsey. He jerked a thumb dismissively at the patrol cars. “Those cops, the other whiteys, they also believe they were born no good.”

  “Bullshit!” said the leader.

  “It’s true,” Ramsey said, now softening his voice.

  The young men eyed him. The whipsaw tones of his voice had captured their attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young woman’s eyes size him up shrewdly before nodding and he knew she was the real brains behind this gang. Part of him wondered why a young black woman with her acumen would be caught up with a bunch of street thugs like these guys. She obviously wasn’t a gangbanger. But he had to stay focused on the unfolding situation and the plan that had blossomed in his mind when the shot teen was taken away.

  “We all think it down deep in places we don’t let others see.” His gaze swept the group and judged now was the moment to strike. “Whitey is just as much a slave as you.”

  “I ain’t no slave!” yelled the leader.

  “Quiet, Slim,” said the young girl. “Tell us what you mean by that.”

  “Anyone’s a slave as long they are too frightened to change themselves and the world around them.”

  “I’m not afraid of anyone!” cried the small teen and waved the gun around.

  The girl swatted his hand down. “Put that gun away or I’ll take it from you.”

  The kid glared at her but did as he was told. “Go on,” she said to Ramsey.

  “You think that by being wrong you’re different. Those whitey are the same. The only difference is they, me, trust more people, trust a system to protect them, and maybe trust a higher power.”

  Ramsey saw something shift in the group’s mindset. Pointing to the gun, he said, “If you’re going to shoot me, let’s go to the church first.”

  The young woman put her hand on the black teen’s arm. Gently, she took the gun, tucked it in the back of her jeans, and walked up to Ramsey. She said in an almost mocking angelic voice, ”My name’s Magdiel King. People around here call me Maggie. What’s yours?”

  April 7, 2016

  Blue Island, Illinois

  “So what did we learn?” Grange asked Ramsey in the patrol car after the church meeting ended. It was early evening and the sun hung over the western edge of Blue Island like a searchlight laying bare the city’s ruined landscape.

  The meeting at the church had not gone well. The middle-aged and elderly people who came were filled with confusion and anger. They had watched their community dissolve into chaos over the past thirty years until the last shreds of hope and purpose had been wrung out of it.

  While the rest of Ramsey’s group piled into their escort patrol cars in front of the Baptist Church, he pulled the Thornton Foundation representative Janet Furlong aside. The concern on her face for the lackluster meeting was clear enough to see. He smiled at her and said, “A set of recommendations from us will be coming to you next week.”

  “Now I’ll tell you a joke,” Janet said.

  “Seriously, together we can turn this around.”

  “That building on the corner where that kid was shot,” she said, pointing at the burned-out structure with no intact windows. “Thirty years ago it was a warehouse. A hundred and fifty people worked there. Now it’s a crackhouse where people from all over the city come to get high. On any day of the week it has more attendees than Reverend Small’s church.”

  “That abandoned warehouse would be the perfect place to start,” Ramsey said quietly.

  She snorted. “Face it, Jonathan. There’s nothing to build on here.”

  He shook his head. “Give me six months, Janet, and I’ll prove to you this is the place for your foundation’s money.”

  “Six months or six years, no amount of money is going to make a difference here.”

  “Six months,” Jonathan insisted. “Six months and Blue Island will be a spotlight city for every rundown community in America. “

  She eyed him skeptically. “I don’t know, Jonathan. You’re asking the Thornton Foundation to shell out a lot of money on a leap of faith.”

  “Put two-hundred thousand to start in a nonprofit Blue Island community fund that my company will set up.”

  Furlong tapped her front teeth with a long turquoise fingernail. “Three months,” she countered. “If nothing happens that’s it.”

  “Deal.”

  They shook hands.

  Ramsey settled into the state patrol car for the long ride back to the hotel. As the car rolled along the deserted streets, he pondered Grange’s question—“What did we learn today?” He reran in his mind what had transpired over the last twelve hours.

  From a geographical perspective the town was devoid of cultural features and resources. The gathering at the church echoed the gang’s worldview. Most were angry men and women with little understanding of why they were economically left behind in a country filled with opportunities. But what really had bothered every one of them was why nobody cared. At one point a chant—“We are people too!”—reverberated through the run-down building for over three minutes. Ramsey’s body still shivered from the power of their unified voices.

  The patrol car pulled up in front of their
hotel. Surprisingly the officer, who had said nothing up to that point, turned to Ramsey and asked sharply, “What’s your answer to your buddy’s question?”

  Before Ramsey could answer, the officer’s cell phone lit up. He listened for a couple of minutes. Turning back toward Ramsey, he said in a sarcastic voice, “You’re gonna like this. The kid who was shot died twice on his way to the hospital but the paramedic was able to bring him back. He’s going to be all right. And here’s another strange thing. The paramedic wasn’t the usual guy for that shift. No one knows who he is and now he’s disappeared.” He laughed harshly. “Dumb luck.”

  “Sometimes that’s what’s needed,” Ramsey said. He paused, then said to Grange, “I know what we’re going to do. The people of Blue Island are going to build a sacred place where this kid was shot.”

  April 8, 2016

  Chicago, Illinois

  Ramsey woke up with a start. He was wide awake. He looked at his watch and saw it was 3:10 in the morning. Ideas about what to do with Blue Island rushed into his consciousness. For the next hour he typed feverishly. When he was done he put it in an email and sent it to Grange. Then he sent a phone text telling him to check his email. As quickly as Ramsey awoke he fell back asleep.

  Before the first light spread through Chicago’s Eastern shore suburbs, Grange had gone to the hotel’s business center and printed out Ramsey’s recommendations. He read them as he downed three cups of coffee. He highlighted the ones he thought most important:

  Establish a local bank for and run by the people of Blue Island

  Provide educational scholarships controlled by the people of Blue Island

  Create a large fund to incentivize local businesses

  Enforce laws against the upstream polluters of the canal

  Provide internships for Blue Island residents of all ages to join the staffs of representatives of the city and county government, their state-legislature representative, and the Illinois senators.

  But an additional one that really caught Grange’s attention was to start a series of talent fairs where residents of Blue Island could demonstrate their skills and talents, after which a blue-ribbon panel would find buddies with similar talents in thriving communities and businesses across the country, like the old pen-pal system. If someone demonstrated exceptional computer skills, for example, that person would be paired with somebody from Silicon Valley who would help the resident develop their abilities and contacts.