I wanted to stop him, make him stay, talk to him a bit longer. “Any witnesses in the drive-by?”
Doug stopped and gave me an incredibly straight face.
“C’mon, Doug, there’s no camera here. Give me something. A little something so I can stay on top of this story.”
Doug smiled slyly and said, “Can I trust you?”
“Ask around.”
“Oh, I did,” he offered solemnly.
“What? I know my rep is solid.” Then his gorgeous eyes softened. He was playing with me again.
“Let’s just say that we have an idea of who we want to talk to.”
“You wouldn’t want to go on camera and tell me that, wouldya?”
Doug stonewalled, crossing his arms in front of him. “You’re pushing your luck again, lady.”
“Okay, okay . . . thanks again for helping Butter. I’m going to call her mother with the good news now.”
“Fine, you just do that,” Doug said wistfully.
I ran back to the news truck and called Butter’s mother, Kelly. It took a few minutes for her to warm up to me but she was very happy when I told her the police would be by soon to help. While I had her on the phone I got a description of Butter for the story I was planning to railroad through for the ten o’clock news. I had made up my mind to fight for it despite how bad the humbug might become. I was thinking knockout. Muhammad Ali mode. Float like a butterfly and all that jazz.
I was repeating Butter’s description as I wrote it down. “Four feet tall, thin, brown eyes and brown hair. Hair in little braids. Wearing a pink and white dress, torn.”
Kelly said, “You remember her, don’t you? She’s the little girl you interviewed!”
I recalled the events of that day and struggled to picture the little girl. Oh wait! Then I got an ugly connection in my mind. “Kelly, let me get back to you, okay?”
I hung up the phone and yelled, “Zeke!”
“What?” he yelled back. Zeke came from around the other side of the truck. He was holding a long black strand of cable used to set up our live shot. Zeke’s right arm went up like a waiter holding a tray and he began looping the cable around his open palm and his elbow so it could be stored easily.
“Did you record that newsbreak I did at the drive-by?”
“No, I didn’t have time. But I had them roll on it back at the station. I always like to grab the tape later to take a peek, to make sure I got you guys lookin’ good.”
“Is it here in the truck?”
“Yeah, it’s here, somewhere.” Zeke started searching through a stack of black Beta tapes on the floor of the live truck. “Here!” he said, holding it up. Then he played it for me.
“Cue it up again!” I ran back inside the cop shop and grabbed Doug by the arm. “You’ve got to see something.”
The urgency in my voice forced him to follow. We reached the news truck and I told Zeke, “Play it.”
There I was and there was little Butter on tape. “I seent a car. This real dark black boy with a scar, he was dressed all in yellow, and just shooting his gun!”
Zeke looked at us and we looked at Zeke. He rewound the tape, played it again, then froze it.
“That’s the missing girl, Doug. That’s Butter.”
Doug’s face lost a shade of color and gained a stony cast. “Butter saw the shooter and admitted being a witness on live television. That’s how the word got out on the street who the shooter was in the drive-by. Now the one person who really saw it all and could be a witness in court is missing.”
“Tell me again, Doug, which gang uses the color yellow?”
“The Rockies. That’s our suspect, a top-ranking punk in the Rockies. I’m going to Butter’s house to see her mother.”
“That makes two of us,” I said. “Because I’m right on your heels.”
S I X
Butter Where Are U?
That was the message written in white chalk on the sidewalk in front of the two-story frame house where Butter lived.
Butter Where Are U?
All the other front porches on the block were crowded with people because it was too hot to be cooped up inside. But no crowd was on the front porch of Butter’s house. There was no one.
Doug and I stopped at the gate and waited for Zeke to get all of the equipment out of the truck. Doug used a hankie to wipe the sweat off his neck. “Damn, it’s hot!”
It was, too. The air seemed to bubble inside my lungs every time I took a breath. But I wasn’t thinking about the heat. I was thinking about Butter. Dog, I was feeling guilty as the devil. I was the one who put Butter on-air. Yes, Bing was yelling in my ear and he said to go with it but I’m no rookie reporter. I didn’t start doing this at sunrise today. I’m a veteran and I should have just pulled my earplug out and done the live shot the way I wanted to; the way I planned to. But Bing is my boss and he’ll have major input on whether or not I sign a new contract with WJIV. It makes me angry that I have to cater to him and his bogus news ideas but what can I do? It’s his newsroom. I can only buck him so much and survive.
Butter Where Are U?, I read again.
Was she alive? Did they kill her? I’d been thinking about that on the way over. Finally, standing at the gate, I got the nerve to ask Doug his opinion.
“Well,” he spoke softly, then glanced up at the sky. “She’s been gone a day. The Rockies aren’t sophisticated. They’re upstarts. The other times they’ve killed it’s been in shoot-outs, drive-bys, and robberies. They leave bodies out in the open, front and center.”
“So what do you think?”
“Best-case scenario?”
“Please.”
“I think they’ve got Butter and don’t quite know what to do. I think they’re trying to scare her to make sure she keeps her mouth shut. They won’t kill her unless they really have to.”
Doug’s words of hope were like drops of water. I lapped them up with a parched and guilty conscience as I leaned back against the gate. My chin dropped forward.
“Hey,” Doug said, moving in close and leaning against the gate with me. “None of that.”
I couldn’t say a word.
“Georgia, look at me.”
Our eyes met and we exchanged an urgent look.
“I know what you’re feeling right now but you can’t blame yourself for what’s happened. Georgia, you weren’t trying to put that little girl in jeopardy. There’s no way you could have known it would turn out like this. How could you? I’ve only known you a little while but my gut tells me that you’re careful and you’re compassionate.”
Then why was I guilt-tripping so hard? Doug’s firm and soothing words crept inside my soul and warmed it. Drawn to him, I reached out and touched his forearm. He gave me a reassuring smile. Now Zeke was walking toward us carrying his gear but before we drew apart Doug stroked my back and said gallantly, “C’mon, let’s go inside and tackle this thing together.”
We walked to the door and rang the bell. I was surprised when a minister—a pudgy, gray-skinned man—answered. He had an engaging smile and his large, pointy ears shifted hard each time he flashed that smile. Black freckles lined his forehead, too. He had on a white short-sleeve shirt with jagged perspiration stains on the collar and underarms. A silver crucifix caught the glimmers of sunlight that came in through the open doorway behind us.
“Ms. Barnett, please come in.” His voice had that preachy, deep, it’s-baptizing-time tone. “I’m Reverend Kyle Walker. The family asked me to come.”
They were probably crazy with worry and needed to feel that some kind of higher power was working for them. I hoped it was, for Butter’s sake. And mine.
Four big oval fans stood in each corner blowing into the living room. The connecting rooms were blocked off at the doorways by heavy coal-gray blankets tacked onto the beams. The blankets absorbed the heat but they also killed nearly all of the sunlight in the room.
“This is the Stewart family.” Reverend Walker motioned with outstretched arm
s.
It was so dark I had to squint to see where he was directing us. Butter’s family was sitting quietly on the couch. Calling it a couch is giving this piece of furniture the benefit of the doubt. It was really a small love seat missing an arm and butted up against the wall to keep it from falling over.
There was a plump elderly woman, clutching a Bible, with hair as white as washing powder, pressed, oiled, and pulled all the way back in a neat bun. She didn’t wear any makeup or jewelry and she had on a blue-and-white-striped cotton pullover dress. She wore fuzzy terry-cloth house slippers with the toes out and beige knee-highs rolled down around her ankles.
Next to her was a young woman with the same high cheekbones and thick eyebrows, but she was rail-thin with splotchy skin decorated with dark spots and healed-over places. Strands of hair were sticking up here and there, air from the fans trying to comb them into place. She was smoking a narrow cigarette but holding it like a joint, taking deep, burdened-by-the-world pulls off the tobacco. Druggie, I thought.
Then there was a little boy about nine or ten sitting on the floor between the legs of the old lady and the druggie. He had his right arm wrapped loosely around the old lady’s left leg and he stroked her toes lovingly, all the while looking at me with big experienced eyes. He was a cute kid, slim like the rest of his family, keen-featured, smooth-skinned, wearing a blue T-shirt and shorts with a pair of new Nike gym shoes. He had bandages on his right hand and one on his left knee.
I looked at the two women. Could one of them be the woman I had talked to on the phone? I just didn’t think so. I felt no connection to them. Neither spoke; so above all else the aggressiveness of the woman I had talked to was immediately missing.
Then I heard a toilet flush and the snap of a turning door latch. A short woman in her early twenties came out of the rear bathroom. She was using the flat of her palms to adjust the two-piece blue shorts set she had on. Her narrow smooth-skinned face was fair; she had long skinny braids down her back, and she had large bloodshot eyes. She looked dead at me and I got the vibe.
“Kelly?” I asked.
Reverend Walker answered, “Yes, this is the worried mother. May we all be seated.”
Now I respect the church but I hoped Reverend Walker wasn’t going to get in the middle of this too much. We would need his prayers, but Doug and I would also need a free flow of communication between us and the Stewarts. It was obvious that he had prepped the family, the way he had them all sitting around like they were waiting for a prayer meeting to start. I looked at my companions. Zeke dropped his eyes. Doug hunched his shoulders and then introduced himself. “And of course you know reporter Georgia Barnett.”
“Yep!” The little boy smiled at me. Then he said to the druggie, “She the one put us on TV, Ma.”
Butter’s mother made the formal introductions after she moved to sit down on the ottoman at her mother’s side. “Hi, I’m Kelly, and this is my mama, Miss Mabel. That’s my sister, Angel, and her son, Roger.”
“Roger!” The little boy made a loud fart sound through a slender gap in his front teeth. “My name is Trip!”
I smiled at him. “Why do they call you Trip?”
Kelly, Angel, Miss Mabel, and the Reverend, all of them answered at once: “’Cause he always falling!”
That made everyone laugh.
“Trip, young man,” Doug began to ask between chuckles. “Get us some chairs, huh?”
Trip rolled his eyes.
Miss Mabel snapped, “Boy, if you don’t get a move on, you’d better!”
Trip scrambled up, ran behind one of the blankets, and came back hustling with three folding chairs. Doug grabbed one and opened it for me. Zeke declined to take a seat but stood the chair up next to him as he leaned back against the wall. Doug took the third folding chair and sat near Miss Mabel.
While seated I took a long, deep breath and caught Zeke out of the corner of my eye. He pointed down at his camera resting on the floor but I shook my head no. Zeke scowled at me. I thought, I know . . . I know . . . you always roll whether you use it or not, but not yet. A little girl’s life was at stake. I asked God to be my guide.
“Kelly,” I began, strong and firm in voice, “I asked Detective Eckart to come here this evening with me. That’s because, well, we think that Butter is in danger.” Now, I sip facts and spew words for a living. But this was the first time that I hated that I was even opening my mouth. I hated hearing my own voice right now because Butter’s mother and grandmother looked like they were about to die from worry.
“She missin’, yeah-yeah, but can’t y’all find her?” Kelly said as she slunk down and sat on the very edge of the ottoman.
Doug leaned forward toward Kelly, “Can we discuss this privately? Just the family?”
Miss Mabel gave Doug a long, hard stare. “That’s all that’s here—and the Lord.”
Reverend Walker released an affirmative sigh.
“Of course, ma’am,” Doug quickly agreed before getting right to the point. “We think that Butter might be being held against her will—”
“Kidnapped?” Reverend Walker’s eyebrows arched in surprise.
“Who’d wanna kidnap a baby like Butter?” her grandmother asked. “And what fah?”
“She saw the drive-by the other day,” Doug answered.
Please, Doug, break it to the family a little easier.
“Butter,” Doug explained further, “saw the shooter and basically described him on television.”
“Dear God.” Reverend Walker gasped. “She’s an eyewitness and they know it.”
Instantly Miss Mabel and Kelly reached for each other’s hands. Kelly said softly, “Oh Mama.”
Angel cursed under her breath, her right hand balled up an empty cigarette package, and she slung it across the room. Kelly was breathing heavily when her eyes met mine. “Is that what caused all this mess? Butter being on TV?”
“It was a mistake to put her on, but I had no idea—”
“Bullshit!” Angel shouted. “It’s your fault. You shoulda known better than to put a baby on TV talking about a gangbanger!”
I held my head up, but I felt very bad. What could I say? I’m sorry? I’d jump down my own throat for making a lame remark like that. So I apologized in my heart and explained from my head. “It was not intentional and I’m here to do whatever I can to help—I wanted to help even before I realized who Butter actually was.”
“That’s right,” Zeke spoke up for the first time, trying to have my back. “Georgia fought for the story all day from the minute you called. We only figured out the connection a few minutes ago back at the police station.”
“It’s still her bad!” Angel snapped, smashing her cigarette butt against the top of a can of cream soda.
“Angel!” Kelly said, grabbing the end seams of her shorts. “Just shut your smart mouth up, okay?!”
“Who you? You don’t run me!”
“Listen here!” Miss Mabel shouted.
“Everybody cool down, now!” Doug took charge. “This is not the time for fighting or blaming”—he leaned forward—“it’s about getting Butter back safe and unharmed.”
“Oh my God!” Miss Mabel whispered. It finally really hit her. She closed her eyes. “Y’all have to do something!”
“Are they gonna hurt my baby?” Kelly asked, clenching her fist as her face quickly paled.
“No,” I blurted out. Could I will it so? A good reporter follows instinct. I had that and then some. I was born with a caul, what the old folks in the South call a veil. Sometimes . . . sometimes . . . I could feel things. I knew Butter was alive, for some reason, although mainly the reasons that Doug had explained to me earlier. “Tell them, Doug.”
“We believe Butter is alive. The Rockies—”
“They better not hurt my grandbaby!” Miss Mabel hissed, sweat beading across her forehead.
“—they aren’t going to kill her. They’re just trying to scare her and let things cool off until they get the shoot
er out of town. That’s it.”
“We must get the word out to the public,” Reverend Walker said, leaning forward, pointing. “Let those thugs know that we want Butter back and safe.”
“No, that’s just what we’re not going to do,” Doug countered.
Huh? What’s Mister-man thinking? Everyone in the room was surprised, including me. I had assumed that we were going to pump up this story and aim it dead at the Rockies. I waited, we all waited, for Doug’s reasoning.
“We don’t want to rattle them, make them do something rash. If we put a story on about Butter being kidnapped by the Rockies they might get nervous and do something stupid.”
Details at Ten Page 5