There Are No Children Here (27 page)

The police reported it differently. Two men, Terence and his friend, entered Mazury Tavern, where the friend held the bartender at bay with a pistol while Terence jimmied open a video game and the cash register and withdrew an estimated $1000 in cash. The police said they found indisputable evidence: Terence’s fingerprints. Moreover, the police said Terence gave them an oral confession, though he refused to sign it. In the statement, he said he agreed to accompany his acquaintance to a north side tavern and that for his role in the robbery he received two bags of heroin.

Whatever the true version, Terence knew the prosecution had a good case. The police had reason to prosecute him. Now if he served time, at least it would be for something he’d done, not for some “bogus case.” After they arrested him, he didn’t confess to Audrey. But she could tell. She just knew.

His arrest upset Audrey, but it didn’t come as a surprise. Many of her clients committed crimes while they were out on bond. She had hoped it would be different with Terence. She also felt they had had a strong case. She believed Terence hadn’t committed the first armed robbery. The police still hadn’t produced the line-up photos, which made her think something was
amiss. But now it didn’t matter. The prosecutors could try the second case first—and Terence didn’t seem to have a chance.

The prosecution, though, was already overburdened with cases. It didn’t want to go to trial. The three prosecutors in the courtroom where Terence’s case was to be heard handled about 450 cases at a time, up from 250 cases the year before. They suspected part of the reason for the increase was political. Their boss, Richard M. Daley, was running for mayor, so the more cases they prosecuted, particularly those related to drugs, the more convinced the electorate would be that he was a strong law-and-order man. In fact, of the twenty-five thousand drug defendants in the county the previous year, over half had had their cases dismissed or their charges dropped, according to one study. As a result, the prosecutors—or state’s attorneys, as they are called in Chicago—plea-bargained nearly 90 percent of their cases. They just didn’t have the time to go to trial.

They had told Audrey they would offer Terence ten years in exchange for a guilty plea. She thought that was too much for him, especially since she believed he didn’t commit the first robbery. It was also his first offense as an adult. She wanted to get him six. She had yet to talk to Terence about it other than to inform him of what had been offered. She believed she could negotiate a shorter term with the prosecution.

Nineteen

   
THE HOLIDAYS came and went without incident, though on December 30 Pharoah insisted on staying up all night so that he would be exhausted the next night. He wanted to sleep through the ritual celebratory shooting on New Year’s Eve. Both boys had had a good Christmas. LaJoe had begun buying the children gifts on layaway back in September. It was her way of putting away savings; she didn’t have a bank account. Lafeyette received a radio; Pharoah an Atari video game. Both boys also got $10 watches as well as clothes, mostly slacks and shirts for school.
The family had a small tree, which LaJoe decorated with candy canes and tinsel. She hung lights in her windows. Christmas, LaJoe would joke, was the only time of the year the neighborhood was well lit.

In early February, Pharoah returned from watching cars at a Blackhawks game. Lafeyette met him at the door.

“What you make?” Lafeyette asked.

“Two dollars,” Pharoah replied.

“That’s stupid. Working all night for two dollars. I make seven dollars when I work.”

Pharoah didn’t put up a fight. He just shrugged and shuffled to his room, where he folded the two dollar bills and stuffed them into a jacket pocket. He always saved his money. LaJoe joshed him about it. “What you gonna to do with all that money?” she’d ask. Pharoah just giggled. Usually he ended up spending it on video games or candy. This time he had a purpose. He was saving it for the Boys Club annual talent show. He and Lafeyette never missed going.

The Boys Club’s one-story building was as old as Henry Horner. In the club’s game room, Pharoah shot pool and became proficient at eight ball—though none of the pool cues had tips. Lafeyette played basketball in the gym. The club’s indoor swimming pool, which had been closed for nine years, was scheduled to open in a few weeks. The club was an oasis for the neighborhood’s children, though it served mainly those who lived east of Damen Avenue. Those children on the other side, who couldn’t cross the boundary for fear of being attacked by rival gangs, frequented Chicago Commons, which boasted a gym and a new literacy center. There, they could find a quiet spot to do their homework or read. Commons also had a daycare center and Head Start program. For the talent show, however, the gangs’ geographic boundaries temporarily disappeared. There, adversaries mingled. The police turned out in large numbers, too. It was one of the few community gatherings.

The show was as old as the Boys Club. Local children and young men and women put together singing, dancing, and comedy acts. In the 1960s and 1970s, local radio stations sent talent scouts. The members of the rock group Earth, Wind, and Fire, all of whom grew up in Horner, got their start here. Lafeyette
and Pharoah looked forward to the show every year; they wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

On this Friday evening, the club’s gym filled up quickly. Pharoah and Lafeyette found a place on the top row of the bleachers, where they could stand and have a clear view of the stage. Children, teenagers, and young mothers filled the folding chairs. The Vice Lords cocked their hats to the left; the Disciples to the right.

Lafeyette, in his Chicago Blackhawks starter jacket, looked around the gym for his “associates.” Pharoah, dressed in a gray sweatshirt with a drawing of San Francisco’s skyline on the front, stood with Porkchop, who restlessly bounced from foot to foot, grinning with excitement. He said little to Pharoah except to nudge him now and then to point out something funny or odd. A teenage boy hawked rainbow-colored fans, though it wasn’t very hot in the gym; another sold headbands with
SUBARU
printed on front. “Ain’t nobody gonna want to buy those,” Pharoah told Porkchop, who nodded in agreement.

“How you doing out there?” the show’s master of ceremonies, a club staff member, shouted into the microphone. The antiquated sound system made it sound as if he were hollering through a tin can. “Fine!” Pharoah and Lafeyette yelled back in unison with the crowd.

In preparation for the
singing
of the national anthem, the emcee yelled, “Don’t you love this country?”

“Nooooooo,” the crowd roared, drowning out Pharoah’s meekly spoken “yes.” Only a few in the crowd, including Pharoah, placed their hands on their hearts during the anthem’s singing.

The first act was one of the crowd’s favorites. Five teenage boys from Rockwell Gardens put together a highly choreographed routine. They called themselves the Awesome Force, and introduced themselves by telling the audience their astrological signs. “Hi, I’m Donnell and I’m Pisces, the sign of the fish.” The girls in the gym yelled and screamed and nearly fainted at the sight of these young stars. Pharoah bounced to the music as he tried to keep from getting pushed off the bleachers. The gym was getting more and more crowded.

Lafeyette wandered away with a companion. They swiped some straws from the concession stand and snaked through the
crowd, blowing spitballs at young girls.
Swwwooosh
. One smacked a girl in the back of her neck. She turned around. “Get your hormones together!” she screamed at her assailants. Lafeyette and the other boy guffawed, repeating the retort to one another with obvious adolescent satisfaction. “Get your hormones together. Maaan, get your hormones together.”

Everyone was in good spirits. Even a young overweight girl who sang Keith Sweat’s “Make It Last Forever” off key and who was booed off the stage managed a smile at the crowd’s reaction. It upset Pharoah, though, who commented to Porkchop, “They booing her. They shouldn’t be doing that.”

Pharoah and Porkchop giggled at the next performance. A boy about twelve did convincing imitations of Pee-wee Herman and Popeye. Next, a teenage girl in a snug-fitting dress sang “Superwoman,” a song made popular by the pop star Karyn White. It had become something of a theme song for the women in the neighborhood, so all the girls in the audience, most of whom were young mothers, sang along, belting out the lyrics. As they harmonized, some turned to their boyfriends with obvious glee.

“Hey, Pharoah.” Rickey had spotted his young friend in the bleachers. “Hey, Pharoah.” Pharoah clambered down to greet him.

“Wanna hot dog?” Rickey asked.

“Sure,” Pharoah replied. He followed Rickey, who bought him a hot dog and pop and also gave Pharoah $2.00.

“Thanks, Rickey.”

“You straight, Pharoah.” Pharoah rejoined Porkchop and shared the food with him. Rickey returned to his friends.

Late in the evening, a young man got on stage to rap. He looked around the audience. “All the Travelers in here holler travelers.” The crowd roared back, “
TRAVELERS
.”

“All the Fours say solid.” “
SOLID
.”

“All the Stones says Stone Love.” “
STONE LOVE
.”

“All the C’s in the house say Conservatives.” “
CONSERVATIVES
.”

The gangs had called a truce to attend the talent show.

As the show wound down toward midnight, a rumor floated through the crowd that would prey on both Lafeyette’s and Pharoah’s minds in the weeks to come. A teenage girl named Alice had been shot in the head four times somewhere farther west. Some had her already dead; others had her holding on for her life. Lafeyette and Pharoah just listened to the talk. They both knew her, though not well. They both prayed for her and asked about her well-being for weeks after.

Lafeyette had looked for Craig Davis at the talent show but couldn’t find him. Craig, who had brightened everyone’s summer with the dance parties on the front porch, had turned Lafeyette on to music. Lafeyette now listened to cassettes regularly and would often bring the older boy new rap tapes for him to hear.

A few evenings after the show, Lafeyette heard that Craig was in the building, visiting his girlfriend, so he went upstairs to see him. Craig was sitting on the couch, writing a poem. A music tape he’d put together was blaring in the background.

“What it is, Laf,” Craig said.

“Hey, Craig.” Lafeyette sat down next to the older boy and watched him scribble on a sheet of looseleaf notebook paper. Lafeyette needled him a bit about his girlfriend.

“She gonna be my girlfriend,” he told Craig.

“You can have her.”

“Okay, I can have her?” Lafeyette said, chuckling to himself. Craig continued to write.

“What you think?” Craig asked, showing Lafeyette the poem. It was entitled “Children of the Future,” and though its grammar and spelling were rough, Lafeyette understood it fully. It was an ode to learning. Craig was always telling Lafeyette how important school was.

“Straight out,” said Lafeyette, who was tickled that someone older than he would ask for his opinion. Lafeyette so admired Craig. Despite his kinetic energy, there was something soothing about just being around him. Craig told Lafeyette he was going to dee-jay a party at the Boys Club in a couple of weeks on March 3. He told Lafeyette to stop by.