I grab a box of large Milk-Bones and walk back to Duke, who sits up. He knows the drill. “A’right, big dog… top dog. Gimme a paw.” Duke obeys by throwing his massive paw into the palm of my hand. “Good boy, Duke!” I place two large milk-bones into his open mouth and quickly pull away my hand. He chomps down like Jaws, his tartar-stained teeth sending bits and pieces of Milk-Bones flying.
I walk over to the back door to see if his bowls are full. There’s not a drop of water or a scrap of food in either bowl. I grab one off the floor and fill it to slopping over with water. I shut off the stainless steel faucet and hear another pair of footsteps in the kitchen. Before I even turn around, I feel my mother’s intense energy behind me. I can also tell she’s been drinking, or rather, I can smell she’s been drinking. I turn and face her.
“Where’s your father?” my mother asks without even a hello.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I just got home.”
“He was supposed to be home early.”
“Yeah, well, you know Dad.”
I place Duke’s water bowl on the floor, and I notice mud caked onto the sides of my mother’s white socks. I don’t even want to know how that mud got there.
I stand back up and wonder if my mother’s showered today. I doubt it. She’s wearing the same clothes she had on last night. And her hair, which never before had a single strand out of place, is greasy and unkempt. The roots on her otherwise blond, highlighted head are an inch deep, begging to be touched up. My mother used to look young for forty-six, but since Jenny’s death, she looks remarkably older. The wrinkles around her mouth and eyes seem to have increased.
Duke licks a few remaining Milk-Bone crumbs off the floor and descends on the water, lapping it up with his big tongue and creating a small puddle on the floor.
“He needs a bath,” my mother says and walks out.
I stand there, feeling even more alone and depressed.
An hour later, I’m slumped into the living room couch watching some mind-numbing TV show with Duke sprawled beside me, his big paws hanging over the edge. That’s usually a no-no with my mother, but I doubt she’ll even care or notice, unless of course, she’s looking to take her anger out on me. I hear my father’s Audi pull into the driveway, and so does Duke. His ears perk up, and he jumps off the couch to greet him at the door.
A moment later, my father walks into the living room. Duke is at his hip, tail thrashing. “You ain’t so tough.” My father roughhouses with Duke, who barks relentlessly. He gives Duke a solid pat on his back, letting the dog know the game’s over. He tosses his briefcase down on the table in front of me.
“Hey, kiddo.” He kisses the top of my head. “How was school?”
“Usual. Sucked.”
“Yeah. So did work.”
“John, I thought you were getting home early?” My mother appears from upstairs. Her hair is no longer greasy, and the dark roots are less noticeable. She wears a navy-blue blouse and jeans. In her hand is her Coach purse.
“I got tied up,” he says.
“We’re late. Let’s go. Please.”
My father is barely allowed a visit to the bathroom before we are rushed out the door. I dread where we’re going.
Chapter 4
We load into the Audi, and Dad clicks on the radio, setting the volume at a level just high enough to fill the silence. Twenty minutes into our ride, we arrive at the New Jersey Turnpike entrance and head south toward Cantor. My stomach drops like a barbell hitting the floor as the small white E-ZPass device that is stuck to the Audi’s windshield is read, and an electronic sign flashes “Go!”
I stare out the window. If only I had gotten my own damn soda. I feel tears coming on. I force them back and beg God to take away my pain. But nothing happens. I’m convinced God has me on mute.
Almost two hours later, my parents and I sit on hard padded chairs in a cramped office. We’re surrounded by cinder block walls as fading sunlight drifts into the room through dirty vinyl blinds. I look across at my mother. Her blue eyes are dull, drugged, and filled with tremendous pain. My heart hurts, knowing I caused this pain. We didn’t always see eye to eye, my mother and I. In fact, most days, we didn’t get along. Most days, we fought. Jenny was the one who made her smile. Jenny was her baby. My mother, I’m convinced, barely even liked me.
Initially, the girl whose nose I bloodied was suspected in the shootings. But aside from threatening me, she didn’t kill anyone. Less than a mile from the high school, her sister’s friend was stopped and ticketed for speeding. I know this because of Detective Thoms, a white middle-aged man with short black hair peppered with gray and arms much bigger than belong on his five-foot-eight frame. We’re sitting in his small cluttered office. Trapped beneath his meaty fingers is my sister’s case file, a thick, unbound manila folder, filled with pages of notes and photographs. I stare at the folder, desperately wanting to examine it myself.
We’ve visited Detective Thoms twice before, and upon my mother’s insistence, we’re here again. She wants the detective to see us. She wants Detective Thoms to know the pain and torture this causes our family, the injustice we suffer while those who are responsible for my sister’s death are free and living. We’re living, but we’re not free.
Those who are responsible—or so we are told by Detective Thoms—are members of a local street gang, all female, and for fear of us or the store clerk’s family going to the media, or evidence being tainted or someone taking justice into their own hands—something I’ve often fantasized about—he is unable or unwilling to disclose the gang’s name. There are several gangs in the Cantor area, but one in particular that Detective Thoms suspects murdered my sister. He has arrested these girls before for loitering, breaking and entering, vandalism, possession of drugs with intent to sell, and assault and battery. Because of their ages, they were sent to juvy. Now, they’re older. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old, except for the youngest who’s seventeen. Detective Thoms believes this gang committed the crime, and there’s evidence to back him up, but mostly, it’s his gut, and his gut can’t arrest these girls.
Detective Thoms was hoping the store’s security tape would be recovered. It hasn’t been, and he repeats what he’s already told us. “Without the store tape, there’s no solid evidence.”
I see the veins in my mother’s neck bulge. She raises her voice. “I don’t understand. You have tire prints from a car. You said there was gun residue on a girl’s hand. You should be able to do something!”
Before Thoms can answer, another plainclothes officer pokes his head into the room. His head is shaved bald, and his arms are covered in ink. He apologizes for interrupting and tells Thoms he needs to see him. Thoms nods. “Give me ten, Rawlings.”
Rawlings disappears, and I can’t help thinking this interruption was planned.
Thoms returns his attention to my mother. He looks at her, sympathetic. “Mrs. Campbell—”
“Mary. Not Mrs. Campbell.”
Detective Thoms nods. She’s done this to him before. He goes on to tell my mother what she already knows, what we already know. And that is on the evening of the murder, a police officer acted prematurely when he brought one of the girls in for questioning. A swab residue test was administered on the girl’s hands and clothes, but no warrant was ever obtained to perform the test. The officer didn’t even read the girl her rights, making whatever results found from the test inadmissible in court. What hurts the most is that trace amounts of primer were found on the palm of the girl’s left hand, indicating a gun had been fired. But when they searched her home, no gun was ever found.
My father remains silent, and I wonder what he is thinking as Detective Thoms explains, as he did on our last visit, that without the murder weapon and admissible gun-residue evidence, a defense attorney could easily create reasonable doubt. He also reminds us—not that he needs to—two guns were used in the shootings. The
autopsy report showed the caliber bullet found in Jenny’s body was different from the three slugs pulled from Mr. Gutierrez’s body, indicating there were two shooters.
“What about the second gun?” my mother asks.
Detective Thoms sighs, and it’s hard to tell if it’s from his own frustration or lack of patience in dealing with my mother. “Mrs… Mary. Neither gun has been recovered, and unless prints or DNA were on the weapon, it wouldn’t be convicting evidence that this particular girl shot your daughter.”
“Murder,” my mother corrects him. He nods, and she continues her interrogation. “But you know it’s this gang?”
“I’m confident. Yes. The car helps, but still we can’t arrest these girls. At least not yet.”
As for the car, Detective Thoms doesn’t need to retell its story. I know that inside that manila folder is a photograph of a charred 2009 Thunderbird. The screeching I heard and the tire tracks left on the roadway were from this type of automobile. Thoms knew by heart that the leader of this female gang drove a 2009 Thunderbird. Unlike the other police officer, Thoms did obtain a search warrant and went to her house. Unfortunately, nothing of substance was found, particularly not the gun used in Jenny’s shooting. When Thoms brought the girl in for questioning, she claimed her car was stolen two days prior to the robbery. Yet she never reported it. Weeks later, it was found in Philadelphia. It had been stripped and set ablaze.
“We’re keeping a close eye on these girls, and most likely, we’ll be able to bring them in on some other charge.”
My mother’s eyes grow wide with rage. “I don’t want them brought in on some other charge. I want them arrested for killing my daughter!”
Detective Thoms’s hands move off the folder. “We’re doing all we can.”
I see a coffee stain on the folder, which contains the details of my sister’s death. She was shot and killed. She was only fifteen. The folder has not even been kept clean. It was used as a coaster.
My mother stands to leave. She hurls obscenities laced with “incompetence” and “civil law suits.” She is hysterical. She searches for her purse. It is right in front of her, but she doesn’t see it. My father awkwardly hands it to her, and she leaves without us. An uncomfortable silence is left in her wake.
Detective Thoms barely flinches. He looks across his desk at my father. “I’m sorry. I can assure you, Mr. Campbell, these girls are being watched closely. Justice will be served.”
I don’t believe him. I picture Detective Thoms reclined in his chair, drinking his morning coffee. It hurts to see that stain on my sister’s folder. I wonder if it was an accident, callousness, or slobbery. Whatever the cause, it’s there. It makes me want to scream and punch my fists through the wall.
Detective Thoms stands to walk my father and me out the door. I take my time, stopping to tie my sneaker, and my backpack falls off my shoulder. I hear Detective Thoms’s voice drift away as he and my father leave the room. Seconds later, I stand inches from Thoms’s cluttered desk. I look down and see my sister’s name on the folder’s tab: Jenny Campbell.
I know inside that folder are the names and addresses of those responsible for my sister’s death. My heart begins to race, and before I can think twice, I grab the manila folder off his desk and stuff it in my backpack.
Chapter 5
My mother doesn’t say a word as my father and I join her in the car. She sits in the passenger seat, staring out the window, her eyes red and swollen. I’m grateful she is silent. I click on my seat belt and rest my head on the leather, relieved to be out of that police station and tucked safely in the back of my dad’s car.
“We’ll get through this, Mary. We’ll be okay.” My father turns on the engine and looks at my mother.
I think he says it more to convince himself. The truth is, we won’t be okay. We will never be the same.
We drive off, and the police station grows small in the distance. I wonder if Detective Thoms has noticed the folder is gone. And if he does, does he suspect I took it? I don’t care if he does. How would he prove I took it? There weren’t any cameras in his office, and he didn’t see me take the folder, just like he didn’t see those girls shoot and kill my sister. But he knows one of them did.
As we head toward the New Jersey Turnpike and back to our home, I stare out the window as a parade of poverty flashes before my eyes. Cantor is just one big cesspool, a suburban ghetto. The sidewalks are littered with trash. The stores are dirty, run-down, and tagged with graffiti. The skyline is a landscape of dilapidated and abandoned warehouses. There are homeless men and women on just about every corner, pushing shopping carts, riffling through garbage, or simply taking up residency along the buildings. I watch as one woman practically buries herself in filth searching for a can to add to her collection.
We turn onto another street, and suddenly, we are in a more residential area. But these homes look nothing like the ones in Middletown. They are two-story brick buildings, surrounded by chain-link fences and rotted brown lawns. Farther ahead, I see a tall stack of ugly apartment buildings clustered together. I notice at least two girls, no older than me, holding small children. Nobody appears to have a job.
Cantor, as I have discovered, thanks to Google, has one of the highest crime rates in the country and is one of the poorest cities. I stare angrily out the window. This is where people get by on food stamps and welfare checks. This is where statistics on single teenage mothers soar. This is where one out of every two adults is functionally illiterate. And this is where those responsible for killing my sister reside, in this neglected shit hole, centered in the good old Garden State.
Almost two hours later, my parents and I are in a different world. It’s dark when we pull into our driveway and empty out of the car. Each of us is silent, lost in his or her own depression and grief. My mother looks like a zombie as she leads the way to the front door.
“You okay?” Dad moves alongside me and places a hand on my back.
“Yeah,” I lie as we enter the house together.
I escape into my bedroom with Duke and lock the door behind me. Downstairs, I hear ice cubes hitting glass as my mother fixes herself a drink. Down the hall, Dad has retreated into his bedroom to change out of his suit and tie and probably wish this day were over. I wonder what he’s thinking. Unlike my mother, he keeps his emotions a secret.
I zip open my backpack and yank out the folder. Colored photographs fall to the floor, some matte, some glossy. They’re pictures of what I assume used to be a 2009 Thunderbird. The only thing that remains is a blackened frame and four knobs of burnt rubber. I come across photos of the convenience store and quickly put them aside. I don’t have the stomach to look at those.
I rifle through the contents and pull out a mug shot of a girl whose hair is pulled back tight against her head. Her eyebrows are pencil thin, and she looks anything but friendly. Her eyes are cold, vacant, and accented with layers of dark makeup. She looks as if she is staring right at me. A cold shiver crawls up my spine. On the back of the photo, scribbled in pen, is her name.
Lori Silva. 22 Oak Street, Cantor, New Jersey. Gang affiliation: Black Diamonds. Age: 20.
A report stapled to the photograph lets me know that she’s the owner of the Thunderbird and also the leader of the Black Diamonds.
There are several pages of notes from different detectives, and what I read doesn’t exactly surprise me. It’s a criminal resume, heavy on violence. Lori Silva’s first arrest was at the age of eleven when she stabbed a boy, almost fatally, with a pair of scissors. There are hints of abuse and neglect in her upbringing with no mention of a father and numerous stints in juvy. From there, it lists her association with the other Black Diamond members: Cynthia “Cracker” Down, Ronnie Rodriguez, Natice Gentry. Various male names are also listed: Vince Martinez, Tray Brown, George Lutz. Gang bangers probably. Drug dealers. My stomach grows nauseated as I read.
&nb
sp; I move on and pull another stapled photograph from the folder. It’s of an extremely beautiful black girl. Her nose is thin, and her cheekbones are high and defined, almost like a model’s. She looks pissed off at having her picture taken. I flip up the photograph and read the name on the report paper: Natice Gentry. It lists several arrests for shoplifting and breaking and entering and one for an assault on a high school teacher.
I find a packet of information on Cynthia Down. She’s the youngest of the group and apparently a high school dropout. Her skin is pasty white and speckled with dark freckles. Her hair is frizzy and an ugly bright red. She has thin lips and an elfish nose. Her narrowed green eyes smirk, as if to say, “Fuck you.” I flip through the pages that follow, and I’m met with a long list of criminal activities.
There are no photographs of Ronnie Rodriguez, although her name is listed in a police report as being a member of the gang. I read the handwritten notes scrawled throughout the pages.
Lori Silva—at home from 7:45PM ‘til midnight. Mother incarcerated at the time—prostitution, narcotics. Mark Silva—ordered pizza at 8PM. Large pie. Confirmed with shop. Lori Silva—claimed car was stolen two days prior—at home during time of shooting. Passed polygraph. Mark Silva—confirms Lori Silva’s car missing. Stated Lori was at home residence, 22 Oak Street. Time coincides with time of shooting.
Gun residue—Down girl acted suspicious when officer stopped and questioned her. Interrogation—confirmed watching Game of Thrones at residence of Lori Silva. Officer acted premature in polyvinyl-alcohol (PVAL) collection of gun residue. Results: Positive. Trace amounts of primer found on left hand.
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