S Street Rising

by Ruben Castaneda

As a kid, under a merciless Southern California sun, I would shoot jumpers alone on the asphalt court at my middle school. I loved the distinctive, gritty music of an accurate shot falling through a metal-chain schoolyard net. Other kids who played on the blacktop during recess were taller, quicker, stronger. But I had a limitless supply of ganas—desire.

  When I was in the first grade, my family moved to South El Monte, a little San Gabriel Valley city about ten miles east of downtown. When I was twelve, I convinced Pop to mount a basket and backboard over the garage door. I quickly made him regret it.

  The first Saturday the hoop was up, I was out at first light, before 7:00 a.m., dribbling and shooting. The sound of the ball smacking against the cement driveway echoed throughout our quiet neighborhood. I was up and at it again on Sunday. I’d taken only a few shots when Pop leaned out the front door.

  “Your mom is trying to sleep,” he said, an edge in his voice. “And so are the neighbors.” He gave me a look.

  I grabbed the ball and didn’t say a word.

  I adapted. Ball under my arm, I walked a few blocks to my middle school. I played like a junkie on a ferocious binge. For nearly four hours at a time, on a court with no shade, I’d dribble and shoot, dribble and shoot, pausing once or twice to hit the water fountain.

  One morning, I was following through on a jump shot when I felt a wet sensation on my shooting hand. The inside of my right middle finger, where the joint bends, was bleeding. The constant repetition of rolling the pebbled ball off my fingertips had created a nasty little red canal. I started taping my finger with Band-Aids before heading to the court. I didn’t get any quicker or stronger, but I made myself a deadeye shooter.

  Though I didn’t know it at the time, I was developing the kind of relentlessness I would need to make it in journalism. I joined the high school newspaper as a freshman because it looked like fun. It was.

  When I was a senior, a vice principal shut down a photographer for the school paper who was trying to take shots of a campus demonstration. The vice principal agreed to an interview in his office to talk about the skirmish. I was a skinny teenager who was painfully shy around girls. Sitting across from the administrator, pen and notebook in hand, I asked a series of questions about the incident with the photographer. To my amazement, the vice principal hemmed and hawed. This adult authority figure was nervous.

  It was thrilling.

  I was hooked.

  From that point on, every move I made was designed to give me the best chance possible to make it with a big-time newspaper. Nothing came easy to me, yet I always seemed to find a way. I applied to USC because it had a good journalism program. My grades weren’t stellar, but I aced the essay portion of the application and got in. Near the end of the last semester of my senior year of college, I landed an unpaid internship at the Herald Examiner. I worked my tail off and was offered a permanent position a couple of weeks before I graduated.

  As the plane descended, I pulled a small address book from my shirt pocket. I planned on seeing some of my old Herald Examiner pals during my downtime. It would be good for my soul.

  I was pleasantly drunk when I picked up my rental car and maneuvered out of the airport and onto the eastbound Santa Monica Freeway. I had a room reserved at the downtown Westin Bonaventure Hotel. As I approached the downtown exits, I wondered whether Raven was still working the motel off Olympic Boulevard.

  The motel was only a few minutes from the Bonaventure. Maybe I’d cruise by just to say hello.

  Raven was in her usual spot. I eased the car to the curb, leaned over, and rolled down the passenger-side window. She approached warily, then smiled broadly when she recognized me behind the wheel. Raven leaned against the passenger door.

  “Hi, stranger. Haven’t seen you in a minute. What have you been up to? When did you get the new ride?”

  “I moved—to D.C. This is a rental. I’m in town for business.”

  Raven brushed away a stray strand of hair. She looked good. I’d planned on calling some of my old contacts to ask about Rasheeda Moore as soon as I got to my hotel. That could wait.

  “So,” I said. “Are you holding?”

  “Not at the moment, but you know my connect is just around the corner. One thing, though: I don’t have a room right now. Could you pay for that, too?”

  I’m on my own time right now. It’s not like I’d be violating any Post policies prohibiting smoking crack on company time.

  “I’ve got a place nearby,” I said. After quickly checking the rearview and sideview mirrors to confirm no cops were around, I handed Raven a pair of twenties. She walked around one corner of the motel, then returned less than a minute later and jumped into my car. Five minutes later, I drove into the underground parking structure of the Bonaventure. Raven gawked at the gleaming lobby of the hotel as we ascended in the circular glass elevators.

  “Nice view,” she said.

  The elevator felt like a giant fishbowl. Good thing it was a cool night—Raven was covered up and dressed like a civilian.

  We sat on the bed inside my room. Raven slipped off her jacket and broke out the party kit: two rocks, a pipe, a lighter. She cut one of the rocks in half with her fingernail and handed it to me. I grabbed it and hesitated.

  “Wait a second,” I said. I stepped into the bathroom and grabbed a bath towel.

  Carefully, I folded it into a thick white rectangle, then bent down and patted it into the space between the floor and the bottom of the room door. I rejoined Raven and lit up.

  Three days blew by.

  By day, I worked hard. I rode out to Moore’s last known L.A. address and knocked on neighbors’ doors. I called every LAPD detective and street cop I knew. I rang up county prosecutors, defense attorneys, federal agents, private eyes—anyone who might be familiar with the woman who’d lured Barry to the Vista. Nobody knew anything about her.

  My intentions were good. Every day, I thought about calling one of my friends and visiting my family. But my need to get high took precedence. At the end of each workday, I knocked back a few drinks at the hotel bar and ended up at the cheap motel off Olympic with Raven and a couple of rocks.

  I compartmentalized. I kept my advance money and traveler’s checks in a plain white envelope. I paid Raven from my own money, which I kept in my wallet. Since my assignations with her were on my dime, I was fine, I convinced myself.

  My return flight was a red-eye. The airplane was filled to capacity with Salvadorans, mostly young men and women, with a few kids sprinkled in. It was obviously some kind of aerial version of an Underground Railroad for immigrants. A great story—maybe even one that would have landed on the front page. And maybe one that would have led to an immigration bust.

  I kept my notebook holstered. These folks were heading east to work very hard for little pay at jobs most Americans would consider beneath them. Their lives were hard enough; they didn’t need me adding to their struggles.

  I was feeling bad enough about the L.A. trip as it was. I hadn’t shirked my job, but the frequency with which I’d hooked up with Raven was unsettling. Getting high once or twice a week was manageable. In L.A., I’d done it four nights in a row.

  I spent my first couple of days back in D.C. brooding.

  A brazen shooting got me back on track.

  Three nights after I returned, I headed to Northeast Washington for a homicide that was announced over the scanner. The victim was inside an SUV at the intersection of 5th and K Streets Northeast. Uniforms cordoned off the intersection. A couple of detectives in suits and overcoats peeked into the SUV. The victim, a young black man, was slumped in the front passenger seat.

  I stood dutifully behind the yellow tape. We were in a residential neighborhood of brick row houses with small porches and small front yards. It was a cold night. Though it was only 8:00 p.m., there were just a few civilian bystanders.

  A white shirt provided a brief narrative: Witnesses said the victim had been shot in the street. His pals had tried to load him int
o the SUV, maybe to take him to a hospital. A squad car rolled up. The buddies ran away, leaving the victim inside the vehicle in the intersection.

  It was unlikely this murder would become a story. I was just grinding, putting in the time necessary to develop sources. Showing up at late-night crime scenes in combat zones helped me build credibility with white shirts, detectives, and street cops. At this scene, I was waiting to talk to a detective, hoping he would be helpful, or at least cordial. If a detective was friendly at a crime scene, I’d ask for a phone number, or simply call the homicide office some night down the road and ask for that investigator. That’s how a night crime reporter develops police sources.

  I blew out white breath and rocked side to side, trying to keep warm. My trench coat, gloves, and fedora were no match for the bone-chilling cold.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Six gunshots, ear-splittingly loud, maybe thirty yards away. The onlookers ducked and ran in the other direction. Three uniformed cops drew their guns and sprinted toward the source of the sound. I pulled out my notebook and ran with them.

  A block south, a middle-aged man was lying on a patch of snow on the sidewalk, writhing in pain. His forehead was bleeding; it looked like a graze. The uniforms and I arrived together.

  Two cops stood over the wounded man. The third paused and resumed sprinting down the street, looking for the gunman. One of the cops bent down to talk to the victim. I tore off my right glove, grabbed my pen, and began furiously taking notes.

  The standing cop seemed to notice me for the first time. “Hey, who are you?”

  “Washington Post.”

  “You can’t be here.”

  I ignored him and kept writing.

  “You have to leave. Now.”

  I backed away, disappointed at being shooed away, giddy that I was lucky enough to be there when a shooting broke out within yards of a half-dozen cops working a crime scene. I raced back to the car and called my editor. He told me to work the scene for another fifteen minutes, then get back and write it.

  About ten minutes later, I buttonholed a detective who’d been working the murder and who was now helping investigate the second shooting. He provided a quick rundown: The new victim and his attacker were in a group of men who were talking when an argument broke out, the investigator said. Someone pulled a gun and started firing. I began writing the piece in my head as I drove back to the office. Once I was in front of my computer, I knocked it out in twenty minutes.

  The following night, there was an envelope on my keyboard when I came to work. It bore the Washington Post seal and address in the upper left-hand corner.

  Inside was a handwritten note: “Amazing story in today’s paper, a shooting a block from a crime scene in full view of the police. Keep up the good work on the police beat.” It was signed by Don Graham, the paper’s publisher.

  I showed the note to Carlos Sanchez, the daytime police reporter. “You got a Donnygram,” he said. “He sends notes to people when he likes their stories. Congratulations.”

  All right then. How bad could things be if I’d just received a Donnygram?

  Chapter 5

  “No One’s Out There, Babe”

  In the wake of the Barry bust, many people had wondered: Knowing that the feds were watching him, how could the mayor have put himself in that situation?

  I knew how. An addict doesn’t weigh risks and rewards the way other people do. When the drug of choice is offered, an active addict is powerless to resist. Taking the drug is as necessary as breathing. I became a regular drinker when I joined the Herald Examiner. Then I met Raven and took up crack. During those first months on the drug, my mind became more alert, and I had more energy than ever. It was a blast—until it wasn’t.

  My tolerance for alcohol and crack increased—slowly at first, then exponentially. By the time Marion Barry was arrested, I was on the downward slope of my alcoholism and drug addiction. I needed more drinks to get buzzed. I needed more crack to achieve not quite the same high.

  Nonaddicts don’t understand the deep sense of denial that’s an integral part of being a junkie. Barry surrounded himself with sycophants who enabled his addiction. I convinced myself that I was fine because I was doing my job well. But in fact, my carefully compartmentalized double life was collapsing.

  Three weeks after receiving my Donnygram, in February 1990, I struggled to stay awake near the end of an unusually quiet Friday-night/Saturday-morning shift. As I leaned back in my chair, David Lindsey, the weekend-night city editor, sat at his desk ten feet away and aimed a remote at the TV suspended from the newsroom ceiling. He channel surfed and settled on a comedy show. The police scanners on both our desks were as quiet as big paperweights. Maybe it was the weather. Several inches of snow had fallen earlier in the week, and it was a brutally cold night.

  A little before 2:00 a.m., a familiar screech blared from the scanners. A woman’s dispassionate voice recited, “Attention. Units paged. Third District units at the scene of a shooting, the corner of 7th and S Streets Northwest.” The location got my attention. I leaned in, waiting for the dispatcher to provide further details. None came.

  David shrugged. We could slam stories into the same day’s paper as late as 2:00 a.m. Whatever this was, it was too late to get the story into Saturday’s paper.

  “Up to you,” David said as he glanced at the newsroom clock.

  Something in my gut told me this was worth a ride. And I wasn’t too worried about being recognized. The S Street slingers knew my Escort, but they’d never seen me in the company car, a Chevy Caprice. The dealers had probably scattered the moment the cops showed up anyway. If it looked dicey, I could simply drive past, come back to the office, and work the phones.

  “I’ll check it out,” I said.

  Less than ten minutes later, as I had dozens of times with Champagne riding shotgun, I turned left on Rhode Island Avenue and approached the corner of 7th and S. As soon as I made the turn, I saw four marked squad cars and an unmarked detective’s sedan parked directly in front of John’s Place. The streets were clean, but banks of snow lined the curbs on both sides. There were no slingers or spectators in sight.

  Sirens filled the air. Ambulances and more squad cars roared onto the scene. A patrol cop broke out yellow crime-scene tape and attached one end to a light pole near the club. He was taping off the entire corner.

  A friendly lieutenant was standing by one of the squad cars.

  “How many down?” I asked.

  He gestured with his fingers: six victims.

  Six people shot? Hello, front page.

  I called David. Work as long as it takes, he said. This would be for the Sunday paper. I stayed at the scene until 5:00 a.m., interviewing street cops and detectives, watching as workers from the medical examiner’s office carried two bodies from the club.

  After a few hours of sleep, I went back to the office and double-teamed the story with another reporter. Three men had been killed inside the club, and a fourth had died on the way to the hospital. The other two victims would probably survive, a white shirt said. We wrote it up, and I stayed in the newsroom through my Saturday-night shift. At about 1:00 a.m. Sunday, a news aide dropped a copy of the early edition on my desk.

  Finally, there it was: my first page 1 byline.

  I made a little victory fist.

  Nine hours after I got my early edition, Jim drove past John’s Place as he headed to church to prepare for the Sunday service. Fragments of yellow tape were scattered across the sidewalk.

  All the kids in the Sunday-school program and their parents had to walk past the crime-scene detritus on the way to the church. The quadruple killing was all over the local TV and radio news and, thanks in part to me, was splashed across the front page of the Post. Only a couple of the victims had been identified. Jim didn’t recognize their names. He figured they weren’t S Street slingers. Baldie didn’t frequent the nightclub, and the neighborhood grapevine would have gone into overdrive if one of
his guys had been killed.

  Inside the church, a little boy asked Jim what the tape was for. Jim crouched so he and the kid were face-to-face.

  “Unfortunately,” Jim said, “some people don’t know how to solve disagreements peacefully. They use guns and hurt other people. That’s what happened at the club. Instead of talking, someone used a gun, and four young men were killed. It’s sad, but you’re safe in here.”

  The boy nodded.

  Jim’s daughter, Rachel, helped out with the Sunday school. She was fourteen, a few years older than the dozen kids in the group. “We should do something to remember the victims,” one of them said. Rachel asked the children what they wanted to do, and they came up with a plan.

  In the church basement, Rachel, Jim, and Grace foraged some pieces of wood and a roll of twine. Rachel helped the kids tie the wood together into four crosses. Everyone put on their coats and gloves, and Jim led the kids and the rest of his flock outside. Four kids volunteered to carry the crosses. They marched to John’s Place.

  The morning was bright and freezing. The kids placed the crosses against the wall of the nightclub. Jim led the shivering group in a prayer.

  “Dear God, we pray for the young men who lost their lives as they make their transition, and for the two who were wounded. We pray their souls find peace. We pray for those who use guns to settle disputes, that they may find nonviolent solutions. We pray for those who are caught up in the drug trade, that they may find another path. And we pray for those who are imprisoned by their addiction, that they, too, find a different way of life.

  “Amen,” Jim said.

  “Amen,” the group responded.

  They trudged back to the church.

  The following night was the beginning of my weekend. I downed three rum and Cokes with my TV dinner. The buzz amplified my good mood. On Sunday, I’d knocked out a follow-up story for the front page of the Metro section. That entire shift qualified as overtime. My next paycheck would be substantial. A celebration was in order.

  I picked up the phone and paged Champagne. Fifteen minutes later, with Champagne riding shotgun, I turned right onto S Street and pulled over next to John’s Place.