the Other Wes Moore (2010) (22 page)

When Wes arrived in his room, he found Levy lying back on the bed, his feet crossed and hands behind his head with his fingers interlocked. Smiling. Wes smiled back at him, relieved to see a living piece of home so far away. The spacious room was far from the prisonlike image his aunt Virginia had painted for him.

"So far, so good," Wes said as he dropped his bags and lay on his bed, imitating Levy's leisurely pose.

In the first phase of Job Corps, students are tested to place them at the right level of GED training. One day after they took the test, the results came back: Levy needed to go through the full monthlong pre-GED training. Wes, by contrast, finished near the top of his class. He completed the course work and received his GED a month later. He was already reading at the level of a sophomore in college.

His quick success had Wes thinking differently about his life. He proudly displayed his new diploma at home, excitedly mounting it one weekend in a frame he'd bought the week he received his test scores. The bus would bring him back to Baltimore City every Friday evening, but much of his weekend was spent preparing for the next week in Laurel. Many of the other students were now looking to Wes for help with their GED prep, for assistance with their personal issues, and for friendship. Just as he had on the corners of Baltimore, Wes became a leader.

After completing his academic course work, Wes started on his professional training. He selected carpentry as his vocational specialty. He had always been handy. Years ago, the siding had begun to fall off his mother's house. His brother, Tony, held the siding level as Wes's steady hand nailed the replacement into place. The crack of the hammer as it connected with the head of the nail. The way the body of the nail disappeared into the siding. The joy of admiring a finished product. The quiet thrill of a job well done.

He enjoyed building but was now motivated to learn true skills. After the mandatory training sessions on the use of the equipment and safety precautions, the teacher told the class he wanted them to create something on their own. The teacher made Wes laugh--he was thin and balding, and full of old jokes--but Wes appreciated his skill and his commitment to this group of young men about whom nobody else seemed to care.

As Wes thought about what he wanted to make, the image of his five-year-old daughter came to him. For much of her life, Wes had been gone. Whether at the Job Corps or behind bars, he had missed many of the milestones in her growing up. The situation at home had become even more tenuous. Cheryl's drug problem had become more consuming and overt. The kids were now basically living with Wes's mom. Cheryl complained but never made a real effort to take the kids back. She knew what everyone around her knew: she was in no position to take care of her own children. Wes had to reconsider what it meant to be a father. He wanted to protect his young daughter, shelter her.

One by one, the students declared what they were going to make. The list of objects blurred together--small pieces of furniture and little decorative items--until it was Wes's turn. He had tuned out the conversation around him to become lost in thoughts about his family. The teacher repeated the question to Wes. All Wes could think about was his daughter. Without a thought about what he was taking on, he announced that he wanted to build her a house. The teacher raised his eyebrows and said, "Interesting. A small house?" Wes looked back at the teacher, but in his mind he was looking at the house he wanted to build: "No, a house big enough for her to get in. A house to protect her."

The other people in the room looked at one another and giggled. But Wes did not flinch.

His teacher smiled. "Great, I look forward to seeing it."

He spent the next seven months building his daughter's house from scratch. He sandpapered every board, hammered every nail, leveled every edge. When it was finished, the house stood five feet high and an arm's length across; it included shutters, a door, and windows. It was by far the most complex project in the group. When it was finished, it sat in the display room along with the projects of his classmates, including wooden plaques and a plain box that someone called a telephone base.

To Wes, the house was more than just a project to complete. It was a daily reminder of why he was there. These past months had been the most important and enjoyable in Wes's life. He'd learned skills, gained confidence, and finally felt his life could go in a different direction. He stayed at the Job Corps Center so he could provide a better life for his kids. He stayed for his mother, who sat home watching Tony continue moving in and out of the criminal justice system. He stayed at the Job Corps Center for himself.

After seven months, Wes met his graduation from Job Corps with as much trepidation as excitement. No longer would he have to show up at the large parking lot on Sunday evenings waiting for the blue bus. No longer would he have to share a room with Levy who, after a troubled start, was completing his GED requirements and starting his vocational classes. Wes would now be on his own.

Wes's first job was as a landscaper at a home in Baltimore County. It was a temporary gig, and after five months he moved on to rehabbing homes in the city--another temporary job. After that, he worked as a food preparer at a mall in Baltimore. A year after completing the Job Corps training, Wes realized the only consistency in his employment was inconsistency. That, and the fact that none of these jobs paid over nine dollars an hour.

One day, after completing his shift chopping vegetables, Wes took a detour on the way home. He went by his old West Baltimore neighborhood to pick up a package. He had stayed away from these blocks because he had been so busy since getting back from Laurel. He worked ten hours a day and came home with barely enough energy to play with his kids and barely enough money to feed and clothe them. But the main reason he avoided these streets was that he felt they held nothing for him. He had changed. At least he wanted to believe that, and he continued to tell himself that as he walked through the blocks. He raised his head and acknowledged the many faces he had not seen for over a year.

Wes was amazed as he watched how little the game had changed: the corner boys still pulling lookout, the muscle still looking as intimidating as ever. Wes watched as, across the street, a young man no older than sixteen pulled out a wad of cash, held together by a rubber band, and began showing it off to a friend. Lines of heads circled the block looking for their next hit. Some of the players had changed, but the positions were the same.

Wes finally got home and went immediately to his kitchen. He was living on his own now, in a small apartment. He placed the package he'd picked up on the table, sat down, and put his head in his hands. The pressure was breaking Wes down. Alicia complained that he was not giving her enough money to provide for the kids they shared. Cheryl was now constantly calling him about wanting more time with the kids--which meant she wanted more money to take care of them. His mother needed more money because she was raising both Wes's and Tony's kids. Wes banged his fists against the top of his head as his elbows rested on the kitchen table. While at the Job Corps Center, Wes had felt his problems floating off in the soft country air of Laurel. A year after graduating, he realized they had not disappeared--they'd simply returned to Baltimore, waiting for him to come back. In his absence, they'd compounded.

Tears welled in Wes's eyes but never fell. He'd realized long ago that crying does no good.

He quickly rose and went to the sink to fill a pot with water. He ignited the flame on the front burner of his stove. While the water was heating, Wes walked to the front of his apartment and turned on 92Q, a popular Baltimore radio station. The last few bars of a Jay-Z song filled the room.

When the streets is watching, blocks keep clocking
Waiting for you to break, make your first mistake

Wes returned to the kitchen. He reached in the refrigerator and pulled out the baking soda. Muscle memory kicked in as he tapped the side of the box and poured three ounces of the baking soda into the black pot, watching the powder swirl and fall to the bottom. He placed the baking soda back in the refrigerator. Taking a deep breath before picking up the package, he took a bound plastic bag out of the brown paper wrapping. He squeezed the package, testing its density. He reached over to the drawer that held his cutlery and pulled out a knife, brought the blade to the corner of the plastic bag. As the baking soda swirled in the rapidly heating pot, Wes held the plastic bag with both hands and poured in nine ounces of cocaine.

EIGHT

Surrounded
2000

The phone had been ringing continuously for three minutes. Mary sat on her sofa, unflinching. She was in no mood to talk, no mood to explain, no mood for consolation. She simply leaned forward, with her elbows resting on her knees, watching the television screen flickering just five feet in front of her. Her hands trembled.

Ten minutes ago, a news report had stopped her cold. Mary didn't watch much television; she felt she never had time, but she just happened to have it on this evening. She saw file footage of a jewelry store she didn't recognize, its redbrick exterior surrounded by police and yellow tape, accompanied by the newscaster's somber narration of events. Mary had been so busy that she was completely unaware this story had gripped the city for days. But as she sat on the sofa, she got caught up on what she had missed.

Three days earlier, in broad daylight, two masked men had run into J. Browns Jewelers waving guns at the customers, ordering them to the ground. Customers screamed in fear and quickly followed the orders as two more masked men entered. These men carried mallets in their gloved hands. The gunmen scanned the room, their weapons trained on the terrified customers and employees, their heads swiveling, looking for any movement. They barked out orders over the screams of their victims. Following the robbers' command, the workers and customers pressed their faces to the ground.

"Keep your hands on the backs of your heads! I ain't playing with you!" yelled one of the armed robbers. "What do you have in your hands?" Another gunman yelled to a woman who had been talking on her cell phone when the four men ran into the store. With her arms outstretched and her torso resting on the ground, she slowly closed her phone, keeping her hands in open sight. The two men with mallets were oblivious to the pandemonium around them. They headed straight to the display cases that housed the watches and necklaces. Their decisive movements showed they knew exactly where to go and what they were looking for.

One of the people being held at gunpoint was Sergeant Bruce Prothero, a thirty-five-year-old, thirteen-year veteran of the Baltimore County police department. Earlier that day, he'd left his wife and five children, ranging in age from two to six, to work his second job as a security guard at the jeweler's. After his wife had triplets, he'd needed to pick up an additional part-time job so she could stay home with the kids. He was supposed to be off that day but was covering for a friend who needed the day off. He was known around the department as a man ferociously devoted to protecting his family and his colleagues. Sergeant Prothero was now being held by the neck, a gun pressed against the back of his head, his hands high in the air. He was unceremoniously forced to the floor with the others.

After grabbing $438,000 worth of watches and jewels from the store, one of the robbers yelled "Let's go," and the four ran out to the adjacent parking lot, where a 1984 Oldsmobile Delta 88 and 1987 Mercury Grand Marquis waited for them. Both cars had been bought a week earlier at an auto auction. Most of the people in the store kept their eyes closed and heads on the ground. A few, including Sergeant Prothero, raised their heads to watch the men leave. Once the thieves cleared the door, these few quickly rose to their feet. Sergeant Prothero followed his instincts and ran out after the robbers. Drawing his weapon from his holster, he sprinted through the entrance. He looked around the parking lot for signs of the four men. He ducked behind cars, carefully peering through glass windows and above hoods. As Sergeant Prothero scampered behind the Delta 88 and began to lift his head, a black-gloved hand reached out the window holding a handgun and let off three shots, striking Prothero at point-blank range.

Wes in 1990, shortly after he was charged with attempted murder.