by Evie Rhodes
And your own shadow was something you wouldn’t see. If you saw a shadow, most likely it would be a silhouette of death.
There were projects where a person could disappear, never to be heard from again. Many a skeleton cried out from behind the cement walls. The projects had their own roaming security—packs of young boys ranging in age from eight to fourteen, had it locked down. Corporate America had never employed security that was as tight as this.
Coexisting right alongside the older apartment complexes were new developments with landscaped lawns, barbecue grills, and bright shiny new Cadillac Escalades in the driveways.
There was a very conflicting contrast between someone trying to make a change, as the new developments were testament to, and those who would not change one iota.
There were those who were as forgotten as the older dilapidated buildings, people leaning out of the windows on hot days, gunshots ringing out from the hallways, or blood flung against the walls.
And even the least of the animals in a jungle knew that it was the fittest of the fit that survived. But these were not animals, these were people. They were living, breathing souls, all trying to survive. In some cases they were trying to survive in surroundings not fit for human habitation and in conditions that should long ago not have existed.
In the final scheme of things the Central Ward was not about surviving. On the surface it appeared to be, but it wasn’t. You weren’t surviving if you were scared to death, trapped, and couldn’t get out. You were just one of the living dead. And in this death there was no light.
The mechanism for survival had died long ago; this was defeat, existing but never living. The Central Ward was actually about law and lawlessness, and what the rulers thereof decided.
On the corners of these streets the churches, the bodegas, the liquor stores competed for passing bodies. Needless to say the churches weren’t winning out. And no one could really figure out why.
The churches were dying on the same corners as the people, since there was a lack of youth to fill the inside pews. There were barely any children to add their voices to the choir.
Although the body drops were occurring at an alarming rate, there were no bodies to fill up the pews in search of salvation, freedom, or hope. An entire two generations were missing from the churches.
Business at Perry and Whigham funeral homes, which were located around the corner from each other, was at an all-time high. They were raking in the remains of what the churches did not. Death had become a profitable business in the black community.
Death was the only real means of escape. It was, for some, the only way to get out.
And then there was the darkness—it sprouted from the souls of men, it danced in their blood spilled in the streets, and it permeated the very air they breathed.
They lived with darkness on a daily basis, even when the sun was shining. Yet they didn’t see it and couldn’t really comprehend it. Darkness had become an invisible shroud.
They didn’t know what it truly was. And they didn’t know its name. Not really, because they didn’t believe in the savior, they didn’t believe they could combat the darkness.
They thought that was just the way it was. Deceit was at its highest level, the players being played because they didn’t believe they had the power to change it. And if you didn’t believe in power you couldn’t receive it.
Such was the Central Ward.
The tragedy of it was they didn’t see it. Couldn’t see it. God, why couldn’t they see it? Death was an alternate escape route.
Little Jasmine Davenport had escaped. Marcus Simms, who sat watching her lifeblood disappear into the sewer, had seen but as of yet he didn’t know what he’d seen.
“Someone please call 911,” he whispered for the second time that day into an empty pit where no one seemed to answer. His voice was a small echo in a really big abyss.
After all, this was the Central Ward. There really wasn’t any hurry. Was there?
Jasmine Davenport was only one of the children who were lost. And she could count herself lucky because she had escaped with her soul.
There were many others who would not.
Welcome to the Central Ward.
And be forewarned, you will need to see with your spirit, not just with your eyes.
Upon this reading you have crossed a realm and entered a different world. It is a world that coexists by its own laws.
And that world is in and of itself OUT “A” ORDER! Believe that.
Chapter 2
Finally there was a rush for the little, dead black girl in the vehicle with the red flashing lights. The ambulance carrying Jasmine screeched to a halt in front of Beth Israel Hospital. The lights flashed. The sirens rang out full blast.
And the equivalent of a black beast passed in their midst, invisibly viewing the spoils of its own revenge. Its latest carcass was little Jasmine Davenport.
The medical attendants jumped out of the back door. They hauled the stretcher holding Jasmine, with breakneck speed, through the emergency room doors. They were a day late and a dollar short, but the appearance of saving a life needed to go on.
Jasmine’s daddy, Shannon Davenport, thirty-six years old, a tall, slim man, was right on their heels. Fire, devastation, and despair were competing with each other from under his heavily lashed eyes.
He had insisted they bring his daughter to Beth Israel, although UMDNJ was where she should have gone. In retrospect he would realize this request was nothing more than misplaced pride and authority in a situation in which he’d had absolutely no control.
The medical attendants hauled the stretcher through another set of doors. He did not miss a step. He was right behind them.
A young doctor blocked his path. “I’m sorry, you can’t go in there.”
He pushed the doctor with brute force. He flew backward, landing on his behind. As Shannon reached down to grab him by his collar, a white police officer in uniform issued a choke hold on him from behind.
He dropped low, elbowing the cop in a soft spot, breaking the hold. The cop landed on the floor with the breath knocked out of him.
The doctor scrambled to his feet, looking a little dazed. A short distance away a black uniformed officer watched the unfolding scene with interest. He saw his partner put his hand on his gun.
Deciding it was definitely time to swing into action, he ran over to where the commotion was taking place. “That’s enough. You just hold it right there,” he said to Shannon Davenport. He put out a warning hand to keep him in his place while helping his partner to his feet with the other hand.
“Now, just who are you?” he said.
“I’ll tell you who he is. He’s a stupid punk who’s going to jail,” the officer who had been knocked to the floor said.
Shannon glared at him. “When hell freezes over.”
The doctor, not liking where this was heading, spoke up. “Just a minute. Maybe I can be of some help here. Are you with the little girl who was just brought in?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s your name?” the doctor said.
“Shannon. Shannon Davenport. That’s my little girl in there. I need to know that she’s going to be okay.”
The police officers relaxed. This man was one of the many distraught parents they ran into when they were working the emergency room shift. Although they did not like his actions, under the circumstances they decided to forgive them for the time being.
The officer who had been knocked to the ground said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. No harm done. Okay?”
Shannon nodded.
The black officer sighed, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.
“Mr. Davenport, your daughter was radioed in as critical. It only complicates things to have people in the room who are not part of the procedure. Just let us try to stabilize her first. I promise as soon as she is stable I will personally come out and talk to you. Okay?”
He put a soothing hand on Shannon’s shoulder. Shann
on nodded. His face was etched in grief, a picture of both gut-wrenching hope and the truth hovering behind denial.
“How about a cup of coffee while you wait?” the black officer said.
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
Behind the closed doors Jasmine lay in a bed on a mound of white sheets and blankets. Blood was staining the hospital linen at an alarming rate. The atmosphere was tense. They had hooked her up to monitors. Tubes were protruding from her arms and mouth.
A small platoon of doctors diligently worked on her. A number of nurses assisted. They did everything they could to restore life to the little girl’s lifeless body, but it was to no avail. Finally they had exhausted every possibility.
The young doctor who Shannon Davenport had knocked to the floor looked at the monitor, seeing the flat line. He ran a hand through his hair.
He bowed his head in despair. “Damn. Not again.” He glanced at the small, still face of the little girl. She was a beautiful child who had turned out to be another body drop.
“She’s gone. The truth of the matter is she was gone when she got here. But we had to try,” an older doctor said.
The doctors and nurses slid off their masks. They removed their bloodstained rubber gloves. Someone turned off the pump and various machines, silencing the low hum that had been emitting throughout the room.
The older doctor, sensing the young doctor’s despair, put a hand on his shoulder. The young doctor shrugged it off. “This is the third child in a month.”
He walked over and glanced at Jasmine’s chart. “From the same neighborhood. What the hell is going on over there? What kind of monsters gun down children in broad daylight?”
The older doctor sighed. “Look, Peter, there’s nothing we can do except try to save their lives when they arrive.”
“Someone needs to do that before they arrive, Dr. Spinelli. Because by the time they arrive, most of the time it’s too late.”
Chapter 3
Tawney Davenport raced through the emergency room doors. Her hair hung limply in a string of wild-looking curls. Tears streaked her face. Her eyes had a haunting savage look to them. She spotted Shannon drinking a cup of coffee.
The emergency room at Beth Israel Hospital was jam-packed. It was a picture of total chaos. Beth Israel received about eighty thousand annual visits, including approximately twenty-four thousand annual emergency room visits in pediatrics.
This made for a hot bed of emergency medical treatment that was needed at any given time. Located in the heart of Newark, Beth Israel was at its busiest when Tawney ran through its doors.
There were an array of injuries that needed to be attended to, including gunshot wounds, stabbings, domestic abuse, as well as of those who had fallen victim to the savage beast of gangbanging.
Stress was at an all-time high in the neighborhood of Newark, so there were cardiac patients, heart attacks, and a man afflicted with a stroke. High blood pressure was rampant, the silent killer of the black community. It seemed as though the entire city of Newark had turned out for medical treatment.
When Tawney burst through the emergency room doors of Beth Israel, all eyes that could follow her did as she broke through the monotonous wait of pain and suffering.
“Shannon! Oh God, Shannon! Where’s my baby? What happened?”
Shannon reached out to gather Tawney in his arms, but she backed away. She knocked the cup of coffee from his hand. Hot coffee splattered all over his shoes.
“Please. Do not touch me. Do not. I want to know what happened to my daughter.”
Again he reached for her. Tawney threw both of her hands in the air. She stepped back. “Just tell me this is a mistake. Tell me you didn’t let anybody shoot my baby!”
He dropped his head, not meeting her eyes.
“Look at me, Shannon!”
The white police officer moved forward, but his black partner put a restraining hand on his arm.
“Tawney, Jazz is going to be all right. The doctors are going to make sure.”
Tawney turned her back. The blood was drumming in her ears. She couldn’t believe what he’d said. He must be crazy. She turned back, looking at him as though he were stupid.
She started to speak, sputtered, and then tried again. “The doctors. The doctors are going to make sure my baby is all right. It was your job, Shannon, to make sure my baby was all right.”
“The damn doctors are not God! So how would they know? Tell me. How the hell would they know? Hmmm?” Tawney’s voice was on high octave, screeching across notes, like that of an opera singer out of control.
Tears shone in Shannon’s eyes. His shoulders slumped. He bowed his head. His voice was deep, husky when he spoke. “I’m sorry. She was outside playing with the other kids. The last time I checked she was fine.”
At that moment Peter Connelly, the young doctor, stepped through the doors. He walked over to Shannon. He glanced briefly at Tawney. As if on cue, all noises in the emergency room ceased for the briefest of moments.
The silence was absolutely eerie.
“I want to see my daughter, man. Is she all right? My wife and I want to see her right now.”
Peter’s expression turned solemn. His eyes darted in the cops’ direction. Briefly they flitted at Tawney. The cops moved closer.
Peter looked at Shannon. “I’m sorry. We did everything we could. She was too far gone.”
Tawney’s shrill screams ripped through the air, sending shock waves rippling throughout the room. All motion came to a halt.
“No!” she screamed. “No! Oh God! No! It can’t be. My baby is dead. Jazz is dead. I want to see Jazz. Jazz!”
She broke into a run. Everyone ran behind her. She burst through the doors. She saw her daughter lying silently where she had been left. “Jazz. Jazz. Jazz, wake up. It’s Mommy. I’m here. Jazz, it’s time to wake up now. Come on, Jazz, we have to go home.”
Her mind screamed, one long shrieking wail. She couldn’t hear herself think. The screaming was too loud. Insanity seized hold of her brain, and for a moment she thought she would faint. But she had to stay on her feet. She had to be there for her baby. She took a deep breath and with it a tentative step toward the remains of her child.
When she reached the bed she looked at the blood-drenched sheets in horror, her face crumbled as though it were only a mask held together by a flimsy foundation. She looked at her little girl’s face. Her own became a portrait of wretched, heart-wrenching despair.
She put her face close to Jazz’s. She lifted a dead arm to put around her neck. Jazz’s arm fell back to the bed. Tawney tried again, this time holding Jazz’s arm in place. She put her nose against the child’s neck, where a warm pulse should have been beating.
They all looked on. There was nothing to say. Anything said would be the worst type of intrusion. Shannon stood alone with a blank look in his eyes as he watched Tawney holding their dead daughter.
“Jazz, wake up so Mommy can take you home,” Tawney whispered to the little girl. At those words Shannon turned away. Pain sliced through him, as though someone had gutted him with a shiv.
The black police officer touched Shannon on the shoulder. “Mr. Davenport, I’m sorry but we need to ask you a few questions. Would you mind stepping out with us?” Shannon gazed at his wife and daughter, and then shot Dr. Connelly a look.
The doctor lifted his chin for Shannon to go. He moved closer to Tawney, who was still holding and whispering to her daughter.
Another child lost in the belly of the beast.
Chapter 4
The police led Shannon to a small office that was cramped and tight, which they used as a miniheadquarters on the premises of the hospital. There was a single lightbulb, a desk, and a couple of chairs.
It was definitely not the friendliest of environments. It was certainly not an environment for a grieving parent who had lost a child.
“Have a seat, Shannon. I’m Officer Campbell. My partner here is Officer Lombardo,” the black police officer sa
id.
Shannon took a seat. Campbell perched on the edge of the desk. He pulled a pad and pen from his pocket. Lombardo chose to stand in the corner.
“I’m sorry to have to put you through this so soon after the shooting of your daughter. But the quicker we move, the better chance we have of catching her killer. Mr. Davenport, do you know who shot your daughter?” Officer Campbell said.
Shannon laughed. “If I knew who shot my daughter, do you think I’d be sitting here?”
Officer Lombardo jumped in. “It’s our job to catch the person who shot her, Mr. Davenport. Not yours.”
“Naw, my man. It was your job to provide safe streets before this happened. Now she’s dead, so that means you don’t have a job.”
Lombardo leaped from his corner. “Just what the hell does that mean? We do everything we can.”
Shannon was on his feet, shaking with rage. “Everything wasn’t good enough. Was it, Lombardo? Because if it was, my wife wouldn’t be holding a dead child in her arms.”
Lombardo was awash with guilt, frustration, and rage. The streets of Newark were a ticking time bomb. He had no desire to carry the full weight of it on his shoulders. Still, the combination of squalor and the cash-rich streets irked him in a place that he’d rather not visit.
New Jersey had a 130-mile coastline and two major seaports, New York/New Jersey and Philadelphia/Camden. Port Newark and the Elizabeth Port Authority Marine Terminal, part of the New York/New Jersey Seaport, together constituted one of the largest containerized port complexes in North America.
As a result the streets of Newark were a cash-rich, criminal enterprise, with an undetermined amount of drug traffic crisscrossing the city. The bottom-line result was that Newark’s crime rate was more than two times the national average.
The helplessness of the situation washed over Lombardo. He lashed out at Shannon. “Those are your streets and your neighborhoods. What the hell are you doing about it? I don’t see you people doing a damn thing but complaining.”