by Dana Killion
Of course CPD was trying to downplay the incidents in order to manage the city’s fear, as was State’s Attorney Denton Tierney. A single unknown sniper wasn’t a tidy explanation. It required getting into the psyche of an unknown killer and anticipating what was next. Gangs, on the other hand, required little additional commentary. Drugs and territory were stories we’d all heard before. The public didn’t really care about the what or why of hoodlums as long as the violence was kept contained. Gangs gave CPD a convenient story—as long as people like me didn’t lift up the veil. I took a deep breath and finished perusing my notes.
Father Brogan, a native of Chicago’s South Side, had been with this parish for twelve years. Opinionated and controversial, he had shown few reservations for bending lines that religious purists saw as ramrod straight. He had argued for women in the clergy. He’d adopted a child. He used his voice and his clout to move his congregation to engage politically when he thought doing so was right.
And that right thing always involved being an advocate for those who didn’t have a voice themselves. He worked tirelessly to provide services for the poor, whether that meant a soup kitchen at the church or fighting with city government over funding for mental health, affordable housing, and job training. But his primary interest was trying to prevent the ravages of gangs on his community. I hoped he would be a source of information as I tried to understand the framework of the territorial feud CPD described.
The church was a squat red brick building. Its original function was indefinite, seemingly retrofitted for its new purpose. It sprawled, as though added on to over and over as the congregation grew. The heavy, carved wooden doors seemed out of place given the utilitarian nature of the structure. Even more awkward was the stained-glass depiction of the Resurrection squeezed in above. The grounds were well kept, but the vegetation sparse with only a handful of red impatiens lining the concrete walk.
Uncomfortable teenage memories bubbled to the surface. Religion and I hadn’t gotten along since my mother’s death. I had rebelled against its demands for blind faith and logic defying beliefs.
I followed the cracked concrete walkway around the corner of the building where a colorful hand-lettered sign announced the presence of the St. Joseph’s Community Center. Children’s watercolor paintings hung in the windows along with signs touting “respect” and “love.” Graffiti had recently been scrubbed off the brick below, reinforcing the message. As I walked, my eyes stopped on a man across the street leaning against a parked Lexus. A baseball cap hid all but the whiteness of his strong jaw and neck as he stood engrossed in his phone. His starched, striped dress shirt hung untucked but wrinkled, as if he’d just yanked it out of his pants. He looked about as out of place here as I did.
I was met with a cacophony of childish laughter and shouts as I pulled open the doors to the center. Groups of kids of varying ages sat at stations throughout the room for the after-school programs. They gathered around games, art projects, and computers. A random collection of mismatched donations and carefully repurposed furniture filled the space, yet everything was clean and in good repair. Someone cared.
In the far right corner, doors opened to another room, and I could see a priest in his collar and black shirt, and a crowd of teens bent excitedly over a foosball table.
I nodded hello at the desk attendant. “Is that Father Brogan in the back room?”
“Yeah, just follow the hoots and howls.” The large round woman chuckled and tilted her head toward the back.
“Man, I can’t believe ya missed that shot! That was a complete gimme, Jamal,” one of the young men in the crowd around the table called out in frustration as I entered.
“Well, if you all would back up and give me some elbow room, maybe I could hit them points,” the player shot back, struggling against the butt-kicking he was getting. He looked to be all of fourteen, tall, with caramel skin—gangly, but already sporting chiseled cheekbones and a proud forehead below his close-cropped hair. He played with intensity, seeming to appreciate the competition despite the impending loss.
Father Brogan wasn’t much taller than me. He was slender, and clearly comfortable in his body in the fourth decade of life. His thin brown hair was combed straight back, and wire-rimmed aviator eyeglasses hung by a chain around his neck, flapping with each jab. The crinkles around his soft green eyes brightened his pallid skin and spoke of humor and compassion.
I watched until the final shot and then the match broke up. Brogan came around the table to give Jamal a hug and a pat on the back.
“Thanks for letting the old man win this time. I was starting to feel a little insecure after you trounced me last week.”
“Hey, Father B, you gonna let me beat you tomorrow?” one of the other boys called out.
“You’re on! Although don’t count on a win. I’m on a hot streak,” Brogan laughed, then said his goodbyes.
“Father, I’m Andrea Kellner. Thanks for meeting with me.” I held out my hand, which he took gently in both of his.
“Certainly. Let’s go somewhere where it’s a little quieter.”
I followed him down the hall to a small office in the back.
“I’ll clear a spot.” Lifting a stack of papers from one of the chairs, he moved it to a shaky folding table, seemingly ready to buckle under the weight. “My secretary calls this her happy mess. She has a system in here somewhere. I don’t dare try to intervene.” He took a seat at the desk and motioned for me to take the empty seat across from him.
The priest had an easy laugh and an even easier smile. I could see how the kids could trust him.
“You indicated on the phone that you wanted to talk about kids and gangs in Englewood,” he said, shifting the conversation quickly from small talk to the purpose of my visit.
“I’m doing some investigation into the highway shootings, and I’d like to discuss the impact of these crimes on the Englewood community. To approach the story from a more personal point of view,” I said. It wasn’t an exaggeration exactly, just a softer starting point to the conversation. I pulled out my phone. “Would it be all right to record this?”
He nodded, but his eyes were guarded.
“Exploring the impact of gang violence on young lives and families would go a long way toward helping Chicago understand how complex these issues are. Issues that, I believe, have been glossed over in the media coverage of these events. I believe that the story needs context. You, more than most of us, see the impact on Englewood, and I was hoping you’d speak to me about how these kids get roped into gangs in the first place.”
Father Brogan’s face had changed to one of cool calculation while I spoke, as if he had been suddenly reminded of something unpleasant but familiar. I wasn’t sure what I had said, but something was giving him pause.
“When we set up this meeting, it wasn’t clear that you were working on the highway shootings. Quite frankly, if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have agreed to meet with you.”
I quickly switched off the recorder, placing the phone back in my bag before responding. Unless I could establish trust in the next couple of minutes, I was going to lose him, and I had no idea why.
“Father Brogan, I’m sure you’re tired of the negative publicity these terrible incidents have brought to Englewood,” I said, grasping at the first logical thought for his hesitation. “The coverage has been sensationalized and stereotypical. I can assure you that my piece will focus on the issues that create a breeding ground for gangs to take hold. I want to put a human face on the media coverage, a story of humanity. I want to tell a story about the challenges these young people face.”
I could hear the hint of pleading in my voice, but I hoped the sincerity I felt was also coming through. Father Brogan’s cooperation could go a long way in opening avenues of information.
“Humanity,” Father Brogan said, letting the word hang in the air. “What an interesting choice of word. Do you mean humanity of the kind shown to Damon Wilkins?”
My breath stuck in my chest. Damon Wilkins was a name I hadn’t heard spoken in over a year, but it was a name that haunted me. And for the second time this week, I was being reminded of the vigilante deli owner case I had worked two years earlier, the most painful case of my legal career.
“I didn’t make the connection initially, as you identified yourself as a reporter. When I consented to this interview, I wasn’t expecting to be meeting with the prosecutor responsible for Damon Wilkins’s death.”
His words were like a knife in my side. Granted, a knife that I had inserted myself many times over, but it had been several years since anyone else had made that accusation. Obviously Father Brogan’s qualms about this conversation had nothing to do with his mistrust of the media, but with his mistrust of me. I didn’t blame him.
At the time, the case had seemed straightforward enough. A South Side deli owner had become incensed by repeated robberies at the hands of the neighborhood gangbangers and the failure of law enforcement to end them. Pushed beyond his breaking point, the deli owner armed himself, ready to take on the next thug that crossed his threshold.
Damon Wilkins had that honor. Just shy of eighteen, Wilkins had a history of petty theft and running with a crowd of low-level drug dealers who worked the corner near the deli. One sweltering August evening, Wilkins walked into the shop for Gatorade and some smokes, pocketing a bag of Skittles in the process. He was confronted by the owner and accused of theft. The dispute went south quickly. The deli owner managed to get his hands on his gun and, in their struggle, was shot and killed with his own weapon.
And I nailed the kid. That was my job. I painted a picture of a young man whose best buds were goons terrorizing customers and nearly bringing local businesses to bankruptcy. This was a kid who’d also been seen on the deli security cameras during a prior robbery. So what if he wasn’t the one toting the gun.
I had no hard proof the kid had intent to commit a crime, beyond pickpocketing candy, or even that he was a gang member. But if it looked like a duck and quacked like a duck, I made it one. A law-abiding man was dead. Aggressively, I pushed the jury to see this kid as a punk without regard for the life of a hard-working shop owner. Anyone of you could have been on the wrong side of that confrontation.
Wilkins was tried as an adult and convicted of second-degree murder. His sentence was fifteen years. I had won.
Two months in, Wilkins hung himself in his cell on his eighteenth birthday.
“Father Brogan, with all due respect, that’s a harsh accusation. Damon’s suicide was horribly tragic, but the decisions he made about his life were his alone. I don’t see how you can hold me responsible,” I said with more conviction than I felt.
“He was a seventeen-year-old kid with only minor history. Your culpability lies in lack of perspective. You were rash. Your desire for your own success painted him with a broad brush and ignored the nuance of his circumstance. He was backed into a corner without hope.”
Father Brogan’s eyes cut deep into my core, bearing the sorrow of years’ worth of heartache. I looked at the clock behind his head, the floor, anything but straight at him, fighting the guilt that had haunted me in the middle of the night ever since. I lifted my head and looked deep into Father Brogan’s eyes, trying to process my emotions. Intellectually, I knew I had done my job and done it well, but had I allowed stereotypes and my own ambitions to influence my handling of the case? Did I have a hand in pushing Damon Wilkins to his death?
Father Brogan’s voice broke the silence. “Is this case still as straight forward to you as it was two years ago?” His eyes had softened, and he looked at me expectantly.
I shook my head and leaned forward, clasping my hands on his desk. “The prosecutor in me has a hard time admitting this, but time has allowed me to see nuance. It was my job to present a case that had as few shades of gray as possible.” I could hear my voice wobble as I spoke, feeling emotion tighten my chest. “While the state’s attorney may not agree, in hindsight, I believe I should have made room for a bigger box of crayons.”
He laid his hand on mine and said, “In that case, perhaps you’ve become the right person to tell this story. Where do we start?”
15
I felt the years of self-flagellation begin to drain from my body, wondering if this was what confession felt like for believers. I gave Father Brogan a small smile as relief washed over me, then reached again to turn on the phone recorder, noticing four new emails had come in. Had my anonymous emailer responded? Frustration and impatience had taken over last night, and I’d sent a second email, requesting a meeting. No reply. The screen tempted me, but given how close I’d come to blowing it, I couldn’t chance offending Father Brogan any more than I had.
The urge to ask him flat out what he thought of CPD’s assessment of the shootings tugged at me, but my training as a prosecutor held me in check.
“Why don’t we start with the kids here at the center. Are any of these young people involved in gangs?” I asked.
“We have our share of Baby Gangsters, sometimes as young as eight or nine,” he said, a pained expression creasing his eyes.
“Eight?” It was inconceivable to me. I stared back at Father Brogan, unable to wrap my head around the idea. “I had no idea it could start so young. What roles do children that age play?”
“They’re lookouts, runners, whatever odd jobs an older member wants to throw at them. This is the stage where they flirt with the idea, but haven’t moved to a point of no return. Trying it on, seeing if it fits, if you will. Often they’re simply too young to know any better. Or they’re following an older sibling into the life. This entry point is the most vulnerable stage, but also the stage where we can have the most influence.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk. “Look, these are kids just trying to belong somewhere. Children need structure, community, family. If they don’t have that in other parts of their lives, street gangs become a substitute. If we lose them at that stage, they become insulated by the gang, and it’s hard to undo that loyalty.”
“Eight-year-olds should be in Little League, playing video games. It’s hard to fathom,” I said.
“Yes, it is, for someone who hasn’t been exposed. I suspect it’s a very different life from what you grew up in. Parents here are struggling. Addiction, jail, lack of education, lack of jobs. The layers of complexity are endless.”
Father Brogan continued to answer my questions, speaking in depth on the family situations and economic realities of life in the poorest neighborhood in Chicago, before I moved the conversation again toward the highway shootings.
“How has the Englewood neighborhood responded to being in the crossfire of the shootings?”
“This community has been in the crossfire for decades. And gangs are winning the war. We do what we can as a community center, but our resources are few. The problems are simply too entrenched for one group to tackle in any lasting way. All I can hope for is individual successes. Frankly, the only reason people like you are paying attention now is because middle-class white people are involved.” He said this without judgment, only sadness in his voice. “I’m long past any naive notions of outrage. It’s painful to say, but we must speak the truth.”
Unfortunately, I knew he was right.
“The police have explained the incidents as a territory dispute between the Black Disciples and the Gangster Disciples. Would I be correct in assuming this has something to do with control of the drug market at the Garfield L stop?”
“It’s possible, but the Gangster Disciples have had control of that area for the past three years. They took out a key Black Disciples minister, which rattled the structure of that organization enough to solidify their control of the drug trade. I haven’t heard any rumblings about their position being challenged.”
“And this wouldn’t be news to CPD?”
I was choosing my words more carefully now, conscious of the precarious start of our conversation and wanting Father Brogan to be unencumbered
in his response. But my mind was racing ahead, questioning CPD’s theory.
“No, it wouldn’t.” He laughed and pulled his aviators up onto his head. “That situation got bloody. In my experience, law enforcement is quite happy when one gangbanger takes out a comrade. Appears as another win in their war against drugs. I even recall reading the press release praising Detective Janek and his team.”
Janek? He would have been heading Gang Enforcement at the time. Was he harboring a grudge because of the damage done to his career? Was bias misleading him about the cause of the shootings? I stopped myself. I was already drawing conclusions that were too early to infer.
“Can you think of any reason CPD would believe that tensions have been reignited?”
“CPD has identified these shootings as possible initiation rites. A proof of loyalty if you will. Three shootings are not something I’ve heard of in this context, and the idea is concerning. One pull of the trigger proves your commitment, so my question would be, is this one shooter or three? What point would three deaths make that one doesn’t? Loyalty has been established.” He paused, thinking for a moment before continuing. “Another option comes to mind. I’ve heard a few rumors about some friction. I don’t have a name, but there’s a Gangster Disciple who’s a bit of a lone wolf. He’s ex-military. An agitator. I hear he’s itching for a bigger role and not getting support from the leadership. He could be trying to make a statement. Prove himself as a tough guy.”
“But you don’t know who he is.”
“No. That information wouldn’t necessarily come my way.”
“Thank you, Father Brogan. You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate this.” My mind was already taking flight with the lone-wolf theory. What was the intended message? Intimidation? Diversion? To transfer blame onto someone else in order to open up a seat at the table?