Senator Cross and his family had not commented on the case. According to the senator’s spokesman, the family was “in seclusion” and was “relying on law enforcement agencies and the justice system,” whatever that meant.
The press focused on the manhunt for Errol Swade. The police were confident to the point of cocky that Swade would be captured within a matter of hours. But hours turned to days. Editorials harshly criticized the police for not being able to nab one nineteen-year-old drug addict, but the Cross family remained silent. The story provoked the standard public outrage—why, editorials demanded to know, had a lowlife like Errol Swade been let out on parole in the first place?
But the anger fizzled, as it always does in such cases. Other stories began to take precedence. The coverage trickled from front page to back page to oblivion.
Myron checked through the pile again. The police shooting of Curtis Yeller had been neatly glossed over. There was no mention of an internal affairs investigation into the incident. None of the usual reactionaries protested the police “brutality,” which was strange. Usually some whacko managed to get himself on television, no matter what the facts, especially in the case of a black teen being gunned down by a white cop. But not this time. Or at least it wasn’t covered by the press.
Wait. Hold the phone.
An article on Curtis Yeller. Myron had missed it the first time because it’d been printed the day immediately following the murder. Very early for this kind of piece. Probably sneaked in before Senator Cross put his foot down—but that might just be conspiracy paranoia on Myron’s part. Hard to tell.
It was a small article on the bottom corner of page 12 in the metro section. Myron read it twice. Then a third time. The article was not on the shooting in west Philly or even the police’s role in said shooting. The article was on Curtis Yeller himself.
It started out like any puff piece: Curtis Yeller was described as an “honor roll student.” Not a big deal really. A psychotic child molester with the IQ of a citrus beverage was suddenly dubbed an honor student when killed prematurely. Very Bonfire of the Vanities. But this story went a bit further. Mrs. Lucinda Elright, Curtis Yeller’s history teacher, described Curtis as her “best pupil” and a boy who “had never even gotten a detention.” Mr. Bernard Johnson, his English teacher, said Curtis was “unusually bright and inquisitive,” “one in a million,” and “like a son to me.”
The usual death hyperbole?
Perhaps. But school records backed the teachers up. Curtis had never been on report. He also had the best attendance record in his grade. On top of that, his transcript reported a 3.9 average, his sole B coming in some sort of health class. Both teachers firmly believed that Curtis Yeller was incapable of violence. Mrs. Elright blamed Curtis’s cousin Errol Swade, but no specifics were given.
Myron sat back. He stared at a movie still from Casablanca on the far wall. Sam was serenading Bogie and Bergman as the Nazis moved in. Here’s looking at you, kid. We’ll always have Paris. You’re getting on that plane. Myron wondered if young Curtis Yeller had ever seen the movie, if he had had the opportunity to behold the celluloid image of Ingrid Bergman with tears in her eyes at a foggy airport.
He picked up the basketball from behind his desk and began spinning it on his finger. He slapped it at just the right angle to increase the speed rotation without dislodging the ball from its axis. He stared at his handiwork as though it were a Gypsy’s crystal ball. He saw an alternate universe, one with a younger version of himself hitting a three-pointer at the buzzer on the Boston Garden’s parquet floor. He tried not to let himself dwell on this image too long, but there it stayed, front and center, refusing to leave.
Esperanza came in. She sat down and waited in silence.
The ball stopped spinning. Myron put it down and handed her the article. “Take a look at this.”
She read it. “A couple of teachers said something nice about a dead kid. So what? Probably misquoted anyway.”
“But this is more than just a couple of casual comments. Curtis Yeller had no police record, no school record, a nearly perfect attendance record, and a 3.9 GPA. For most kids that’s a hell of a statement. But this was a kid from one of the worst parts of Philadelphia.”
Esperanza shrugged. “I don’t see the relevance. What difference does it make if Yeller was Einstein or an idiot?”
“None. Except it’s just one more thing that doesn’t add up. Why did Curtis’s mother say he was a no-good thief?”
“Maybe she knew more than his teachers.”
Myron shook his head. He thought about Deanna Yeller. The proud, beautiful woman who answered the door. The suddenly hostile, defensive woman at the mention of her dead son. “She was lying.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Win thinks she’s being bought off.”
“Sounds like a good possibility,” Esperanza said.
“What, a mother taking bribes to protect her son’s murderer?”
Esperanza shrugged again. “Sure, why not?”
“You really think a mother …?” Myron stopped. Esperanza’s face was totally impassive—another one who always believed the worst. “Just look at this whole scenario for a second,” he tried. “Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade break into this ritzy tennis club at night. Why? To rob the place? Of what? It was night. It wasn’t like they were going to find wallets in the locker room. So what were they going to steal? Some tennis sneakers? A couple of rackets? That’s a hell of a long way to go for some tennis equipment.”
“Stereo equipment, maybe,” Esperanza said. “The clubhouse could have a big-screen TV.”
“Fine. Assume you’re right. Problem is, the boys didn’t take a car. They took public transportation and walked. How were they going to carry the loot? By hand?”
“Maybe they planned on stealing one.”
“From the club’s valet lot?”
She shrugged. “Could be,” she said. Then: “Mind if I change subjects for a second?”
“Go ahead.”
“How did it go with Eddie Crane last night?”
“He’s a big fan of Little Pocahontas. He said she was ‘hot.’ ”
“Hot?”
“Yup.”
She shrugged. “Kid’s got taste.”
“Nice too. I liked him. He’s smart, got his head on straight. Helluva good kid.”
The press focused on the manhunt for Errol Swade. The police were confident to the point of cocky that Swade would be captured within a matter of hours. But hours turned to days. Editorials harshly criticized the police for not being able to nab one nineteen-year-old drug addict, but the Cross family remained silent. The story provoked the standard public outrage—why, editorials demanded to know, had a lowlife like Errol Swade been let out on parole in the first place?
But the anger fizzled, as it always does in such cases. Other stories began to take precedence. The coverage trickled from front page to back page to oblivion.
Myron checked through the pile again. The police shooting of Curtis Yeller had been neatly glossed over. There was no mention of an internal affairs investigation into the incident. None of the usual reactionaries protested the police “brutality,” which was strange. Usually some whacko managed to get himself on television, no matter what the facts, especially in the case of a black teen being gunned down by a white cop. But not this time. Or at least it wasn’t covered by the press.
Wait. Hold the phone.
An article on Curtis Yeller. Myron had missed it the first time because it’d been printed the day immediately following the murder. Very early for this kind of piece. Probably sneaked in before Senator Cross put his foot down—but that might just be conspiracy paranoia on Myron’s part. Hard to tell.
It was a small article on the bottom corner of page 12 in the metro section. Myron read it twice. Then a third time. The article was not on the shooting in west Philly or even the police’s role in said shooting. The article was on Curtis Yeller himself.
It started out like any puff piece: Curtis Yeller was described as an “honor roll student.” Not a big deal really. A psychotic child molester with the IQ of a citrus beverage was suddenly dubbed an honor student when killed prematurely. Very Bonfire of the Vanities. But this story went a bit further. Mrs. Lucinda Elright, Curtis Yeller’s history teacher, described Curtis as her “best pupil” and a boy who “had never even gotten a detention.” Mr. Bernard Johnson, his English teacher, said Curtis was “unusually bright and inquisitive,” “one in a million,” and “like a son to me.”
The usual death hyperbole?
Perhaps. But school records backed the teachers up. Curtis had never been on report. He also had the best attendance record in his grade. On top of that, his transcript reported a 3.9 average, his sole B coming in some sort of health class. Both teachers firmly believed that Curtis Yeller was incapable of violence. Mrs. Elright blamed Curtis’s cousin Errol Swade, but no specifics were given.
Myron sat back. He stared at a movie still from Casablanca on the far wall. Sam was serenading Bogie and Bergman as the Nazis moved in. Here’s looking at you, kid. We’ll always have Paris. You’re getting on that plane. Myron wondered if young Curtis Yeller had ever seen the movie, if he had had the opportunity to behold the celluloid image of Ingrid Bergman with tears in her eyes at a foggy airport.
He picked up the basketball from behind his desk and began spinning it on his finger. He slapped it at just the right angle to increase the speed rotation without dislodging the ball from its axis. He stared at his handiwork as though it were a Gypsy’s crystal ball. He saw an alternate universe, one with a younger version of himself hitting a three-pointer at the buzzer on the Boston Garden’s parquet floor. He tried not to let himself dwell on this image too long, but there it stayed, front and center, refusing to leave.
Esperanza came in. She sat down and waited in silence.
The ball stopped spinning. Myron put it down and handed her the article. “Take a look at this.”
She read it. “A couple of teachers said something nice about a dead kid. So what? Probably misquoted anyway.”
“But this is more than just a couple of casual comments. Curtis Yeller had no police record, no school record, a nearly perfect attendance record, and a 3.9 GPA. For most kids that’s a hell of a statement. But this was a kid from one of the worst parts of Philadelphia.”
Esperanza shrugged. “I don’t see the relevance. What difference does it make if Yeller was Einstein or an idiot?”
“None. Except it’s just one more thing that doesn’t add up. Why did Curtis’s mother say he was a no-good thief?”
“Maybe she knew more than his teachers.”
Myron shook his head. He thought about Deanna Yeller. The proud, beautiful woman who answered the door. The suddenly hostile, defensive woman at the mention of her dead son. “She was lying.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Win thinks she’s being bought off.”
“Sounds like a good possibility,” Esperanza said.
“What, a mother taking bribes to protect her son’s murderer?”
Esperanza shrugged again. “Sure, why not?”
“You really think a mother …?” Myron stopped. Esperanza’s face was totally impassive—another one who always believed the worst. “Just look at this whole scenario for a second,” he tried. “Curtis Yeller and Errol Swade break into this ritzy tennis club at night. Why? To rob the place? Of what? It was night. It wasn’t like they were going to find wallets in the locker room. So what were they going to steal? Some tennis sneakers? A couple of rackets? That’s a hell of a long way to go for some tennis equipment.”
“Stereo equipment, maybe,” Esperanza said. “The clubhouse could have a big-screen TV.”
“Fine. Assume you’re right. Problem is, the boys didn’t take a car. They took public transportation and walked. How were they going to carry the loot? By hand?”
“Maybe they planned on stealing one.”
“From the club’s valet lot?”
She shrugged. “Could be,” she said. Then: “Mind if I change subjects for a second?”
“Go ahead.”
“How did it go with Eddie Crane last night?”
“He’s a big fan of Little Pocahontas. He said she was ‘hot.’ ”
“Hot?”
“Yup.”
She shrugged. “Kid’s got taste.”
“Nice too. I liked him. He’s smart, got his head on straight. Helluva good kid.”
