Details at Ten

by Ardella Garland

  My Caller ID said WJIV-TV.

  It was work! I wanted to cry for my mama. Answer it or don’t answer it? They could be calling me to pull a double shift on my off day. But I’m beat. Some jobs will work you to death and won’t shed a tear or blow snot in a hankie about it. Television news is one such profession. But maybe it was something about Butter? Then maybe it wasn’t. I couldn’t chance ignoring the call. I answered the phone, putting my head along with the receiver beneath my juicy feather pillow.

  “This is Georgia.”

  “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!” Clarice said.

  “Girl, I’m so tired. I need Z’s like I need breath. Let me ring you back, ’kay?”

  “No, I need your help, Georgia. I’m in the slot today, running the assignment desk by myself. I need a reporter to come in and turn a package for the noon show.”

  “Clarice, I’m out on my feet. I was the late reporter last night and you know I’ve got to cover the rally this evening. Get somebody else.”

  “Can’t. We’re vacation heavy and two reporters called in sick.”

  I groaned; my body ached for more rest. “Who’s on call?”

  “Brent. And you know he always blows off his page on the weekend, claims he left the pager in his gym bag or his kid was playing with it and turned it off . . .”

  “That guy gets away with murder, doesn’t he?”

  “Girl, it boggles the sane mind. But who needs Brent Manning anyway when I’ve got you?”

  “Sorry, girlfriend, sucking up ain’t gonna work this time. Get somebody else.”

  “Just listen. You’ve got a leg up on this story. One of the suspects charged with the double homicide in Fellows Park is having a hearing at Twenty-sixth and Cal.”

  “Which one?”

  “Regal Romere. He wants reduced bail.”

  “So? Who do you know in county jail who doesn’t want out? Clarice, that sounds like an anchor voice-over of file tape from the murder scene with a sound bite from Romere’s lawyer. Slam-bam and can I get some Z’s now, ma’am?”

  “No, Georgia! Romere’s lawyer says he’s got special grounds. If it turns out to be something big and I’ve got a camera but no reporter on the story, Bing will be in my ass!”

  And everyone at WJIV knew what that could be like.

  “So you gonna do a solid for me or you gonna leave a sister hanging?”

  “Okay, okay!” I threw my pillow away from my head. I had to try to fight it just on principle. “I’m coming, but I turn this bad boy for the noon show only. After that, you have one of the afternoon reporters relieve me on this story. After my live shot, I’m out of there, okay?”

  “No problem! That’s great, girl.”

  Twenty-sixth and California Boulevard is where the Cook County Jail and Criminal Courts are located. It’s a drab structure, inside and out, and always off temperature. Too hot in the summer. Too cold in the winter. Cameras aren’t allowed in the courtrooms. I left my cameraman outside and I went into court. I waved at the station’s sketch artist who was sitting in the second row.

  Of the two suspects arrested for the double murder in Fellows Park, Regal Romere was the most brazen. He was a chunky man, twenty-one years old, with a hard fade haircut and large, chilly eyes. Satin skin did not hide the hardness of his face. Romere was smirking that day when he was cuffed and walked out of the house, even though his mother stood on the front porch crying into the sleeve of her tattered housecoat.

  I hardly recognized him now.

  When Romere came into court he looked like hell. His face was drawn and his skin ashy, his eyes were listless and sunken in his head. He’d lost weight and there were bruises on his face worthy of a shot on Showtime Boxing. What happened to him? Who jacked him up?

  Romere’s lawyer is a cagey joker trying to make a name for himself. Young, fat, balding before his time, the guy had an edge with charm that I’d only seen in successful politicians and up and charging defense lawyers. His name is Gus Wilks.

  Wilks told the judge that bond should be reduced from $500,000 to $50,000 because his client’s rights had been violated in Cook County Jail. Wilks said that Romere was a diabetic and that he wasn’t getting the proper food or sleep because the jail was overcrowded. He also said that Romere had been beaten when he complained to the jail guards.

  The state’s attorney’s office submitted sworn statements that Romere’s bruises were from a fight he’d had over food with another inmate. The state’s attorney also said the food was standard but Romere was getting his insulin; it was acknowledged that there was overcrowding but Romere did not warrant special treatment. Interesting story but no real bombshell. Most cons screamed abuse; no big deal.

  The judge sided with the state. Duh-huh. Reduced bond, denied. Tough guy Romere looked like he needed a box of Puffs tissues. He snatched and yanked at the cuffs on his hands. The guards grabbed Romere’s elbows and as he turned around we caught each other’s eye. Then Romere did it.

  Romere mouthed one word: Butter.

  I jerked my body forward. Romere didn’t say her name again, but he kept staring at me, before nodding. I watched them take him away. What did Romere know? How could I get it out of him? I was among three other reporters in the hallway firing questions at Romere’s lawyer after court was dismissed.

  I didn’t tip anything about what I saw. That was between Romere and me. After I turned my story for the noon, I cornered Romere’s lawyer and I told Wilks I wanted a sit-down with his client now. Wilks hemmed and hawed, and then I told him what Romere had done. Wilks rubbed his chin but he answered too fast for my taste. I think he knows more than he’s letting on. I had to be careful. Wilks was nickel slick, as my grandmother would say.

  An hour later, I’m sitting down in a room with Wilks, Romere, and my cameraman.

  “I know something,” Romere said. “If I tell you what I know, can you get me out?”

  “I don’t know. Tell me where Butter is and—”

  “Well, can you get me a cell to myself, huh? Better food?”

  “Wait, why are you using me anyway?” I questioned. Was this a setup? Was this a desperate lie to get Romere what he wanted? “Why not cut a deal with the state’s attorney’s office?”

  “Can’t trust them to keep their word. You’ll be my witness. I’ll be on record with you. I tell you first, you tell the cops to get the kid back, and then the state’s attorney’s office will do right or you blast them on the tube. They don’t want that!”

  “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “Fuck the Rockies—punks playing around with a little girl. I got a baby sister. I’m a Bandit and the Bandits got my back. You’re my insurance!”

  Covering his bet. I swallowed and hoped. “Where is Butter?”

  “I don’t know exactly—”

  I stood up. “I don’t have time for this. Play with another reporter.”

  “Wait!” Romere said, making a motion toward me.

  His lawyer grabbed his shoulder. Wilks spoke to me: “Listen to what he has to say.”

  I sat back down. “What do you know?”

  “I overheard two of the Rockies talking. They didn’t see me. It’s so fucking crowded in there and I was waiting to shower, and I overheard two Rockies—they were high on some homemade liquor snuck in here. They’d just got busted for stealing a Jeep. They said something about ‘the package’ being too hot to stay in the hiding spot. They said ‘it’ had to be moved. I’ve been watching the news. I saw you. I heard about the kid Butter.”

  “Where do they have her? When did they say they were going to move her?” A break! I heard my heart thumping inside my chest. My mouth got dry.

  Romere leaned forward. “You’ll help me, right?”

  “Yes! Yes! If you’re telling the truth-”

  “I ain’t lying!”

  “Where? When?”

  “A garage on Sixty-second and Parnell. No exact address. But a garage on Sixty-second and Parnell at two-thirty P.M.”

  I l
ooked at the clock—it was 1:30 P.M. now! I jumped up and spun on my heels.

  “Don’t forget! Don’t forget!” Romere shouted behind me.

  My cameraman grabbed his gear and we headed to Sixty-second and Parnell. I called the cop shop but Doug wasn’t there. I told them what was going down. Then I paged Doug twice and got no answer. We were speeding like crazy. I looked at my watch. I looked at the road. My watch. The road. It was 2:00 P.M. We were moving but not like if Zeke had been driving.

  Finally we got there and stopped at the opening of an alley and parked. I got out and peeped around the corner. There was a black Chevy parked about three doors down. No squad cars were in sight.

  “See anything?” my cameraman asked.

  I pointed and he began rolling.

  One of the garage doors began to open, and a young man, twenty-something, wearing an oversized football shirt and jeans peeped out. We ducked back. Then I watched him and a teenager dressed in cutoffs and a basketball T-shirt carrying a steamer trunk out of the garage. It’s the kind of trunk you packed your clothes in going off to college.

  My chest got tight. Where are the police? How can Butter breathe in there? My legs began to tremble. God please, I thought. The older man dropped his end on the ground. It sounded like a cheap firecracker as it hit the concrete. I clenched my fist. I heard him curse at the teenager, telling him not to walk so fast. Then he wiped his hands on his back pockets. Two seconds later all hell broke loose.

  “Hold it! Hold it!”

  Cops were coming from everywhere. From two of the other garages. From the yards catercorner to the trunk. I spotted Doug. The older man dropped his end of the trunk and raised his hands. The teenager went for a gun in his waistband. Doug dived and tackled him around the legs, the teenager hit the ground, and the gun flew out of his hand. Doug flipped him over. The teenager swung and missed; Doug punched him twice, knocking him unconscious.

  “Move! Move!” I spoke over my shoulder and we moved in, slowly rolling the entire time, catching it all on video. “Channel 8 News!” I announced our presence. Some of the officers cursed. Doug looked up at me but he didn’t say anything.

  The other officers stopped me about three feet from the suspects as they worked to cuff them. The trunk was still on the ground. Then I saw what was leaking out of it.

  It was blood.

  I stopped, stunned. All my fears burned in my throat and eyes. I opened my mouth and sighed. Doug walked over to me and clutched my shoulder. “You don’t want to see this.”

  One of the officers popped open the trunk, and Doug said, “Turn away.”

  “Damn!” I heard my cameraman curse. A couple of the cops made comments. What am I going to tell Butter’s mother? Her grandmother? And Trip? What kind of anger would be in his heart after this?

  “You just butchered the man,” I heard one of the cops say.

  The teenager shouted, “So what! He smoked our boys in the park!”

  “Shut up!” the older suspect shouted. “Don’t say nothing, fool!”

  The man? I turned and looked quickly when I heard the latch snap back closed. Now the blood was gushing out of the sides of the trunk.

  “Doug?” I said, feeling relieved and surprised.

  “That’s the third suspect in the double murder in Fellows Park. They really hacked him up.” Doug looked over at me. “How’d you find out about this anyway?”

  “I paged you after I got my tip. Did you get the page?”

  “Yeah, couldn’t get back to you, obviously. Who tipped you?”

  I thought for a second then decided to tell Doug my source; it didn’t matter at this point because it was just a fluke anyway. “Regal Romere.”

  “The Bandit charged with the Fellows Park murders.”

  “The same, Doug. He’s trying to get out of county jail. He overheard snatches of a conversation two Rockies were having. Romere thought the little package they were talking about moving was Butter.”

  “Huh, that’s ironic. That’s one of his boys sliced, diced, and Zip-loc’ed in that trunk. We’d been looking for him since we arrested Romere and the other suspect. Street talk said he’d made a run to Virginia where his brother lives. My gut kept telling me he was still around somewhere. I just didn’t think he was dead in a trunk.” Doug scratched his head with a single index finger. “We’ve got to book these guys. What’s next for you?”

  “They’ve got to switch another body out here to finish the coverage. I’ve got to get some rest for the rally tonight. I want to be fresh for that. I’m going to do a couple of cop interviews here and then run home and fall out.”

  “Get some rest,” Doug said, touching my arm. “You could use it.”

  Little did I know that in the very next hour there would be a real break in Butter’s kidnapping story. That break was just waiting to happen for me back at my apartment.

  E I G H T E E N

  As soon as I walked in the door the message light on my answering machine was flashing fiercely at me. “Yo baby, yo baby, yo!”

  I sat on the couch, put the phone next to the takeout food I had stopped to get. I flipped open the pad I keep taped to the phone, grabbed a pencil, and began playing back my messages.

  Message #1:

  “Georgia, this is Clarice. Got your tape back here. Girl, they messed up that guy in the trunk! Thanks for covering for me. Ron came in and is going to turn that part of the story for us. I know you’re tired. Zeke will still meet you at Reverend Walker’s church at seven-thirty P.M. for the rally. Zeke might be a little cranky because we told him you specifically requested him. And Zeke said, ‘On my off day? Thanks a whole lot!’ Sooooo, watch out, girl, he will have his ’tude on. But you’re all set, okay? Peace.”

  Beep!

  Message #2:

  “Hi, Georgia, it’s me.”

  I hit the stop button—Max’s voice made my heart jump. Why was he calling? We had broken up and he refused to return my calls. Now out of the blue he phones? I thought of the slant of his mouth when he laughed, the glow of his gold-nugget eyes, his soft hair, slim body, and the way his mind became a speedway when he was working angles to a breaking story.

  I pressed the play button again.

  “. . . ran into old Liz here in Washington covering a story, she asked about you. I said you were fine and gave her your phone number. That’s all, bye.”

  That’s all. Just like Max to call and not even say hope you’re doing well. A night of passionate lovemaking flashed through my mind. I doubled forward—willing myself not to call Max back or think about him another second!

  Beep!

  Message #3:

  “Georgia, this is Mom. Well, Ms-I’ve-got-a-secret. Your sister tells me this man you were with at the Blues Box is a police detective. I don’t know if I like that at all. You’ll be constantly worried about something happening to him. But Peaches says he’s awful handsome—”

  “I said he fine, sister-twin! Ma, quote me right if you’re gonna tell what I told you after you said you wouldn’t!”

  “—Be quiet, girl, whose fault is it that you can’t keep a secret? I’m the mother and I can do what I want. Georgia? Call your mama dear. Bye.”

  Beep!

  Message #4:

  “What a long beep! Georgia, this is Carmen at the phone company. I’ve got that information you wanted on that call made to your apartment the other morning. The call came from 50-23 South Hedge. The phone is registered in the name of Viola Martin. That’s 50-23 South Hedge, registered in the name of Viola Martin. I got this straight from the researcher handling the police request. He hasn’t called them yet—went to lunch—so you’ve got it first! Talk to you later, bye!”

  Viola Martin, 50-23 South Hedge? I hit the rewind button on the answering machine again: “. . . came from 50-23 South Hedge. The phone is registered in the name of Viola Martin. . . .” I pressed the stop button, shoved the white plastic fork in my mouth, and left it there to bob around as I chewed. I got up and grabbed my re
porter’s notebook.

  I found it, flipped back through the pages, chewing awkwardly with the fork still in my mouth, searching until I came to my notes at the hospital. The old lady at the table . . . Auntie Vee . . . yes, that was the name I had scribbled and Jason Martin gave me the family’s address of 50-23 South Hedge.

  The ransom call came from the Martins’ house—the family of the young girl who died in the drive-by shooting.

  I hit the showers. It was my second shower of the day, not because the humidity had made my clothes bunch up like satin sheets against my behind, but because water helped me to think. The warm rush of liquid soaked my skin and released from it the stress of the past few days. The stress seemed to ooze from parts of my body, blowing water bubbles that beaded on the edge of my collarbone, on the tip of my nipples, and on the cuticles of my fingers. I was trying to relax and deal with this latest development.