The Scarecrow

I waved a hand over my head without looking back. Prendergast always called that out to me when I left the city room to chase a story. It was a line from Chinatown. I didn’t use pay phones anymore-no reporter did-but the sentiment was clear. Stay in touch.

The globe lobby was the formal entrance to the newspaper building at the corner of First and Spring. A brass globe the size of a Volkswagen rotated on a steel axis at the center of the room. The many international bureaus and outposts of the Times were permanently notched on the raised continents, despite the fact that many had been shuttered to save money. The marble walls were adorned with photos and plaques denoting the many milestones in the history of the paper, the Pulitzer Prizes won and the staffs that won them, and the correspondents killed in the line of duty. It was a proud museum, just as the whole paper would be before too long. The word was that the building was up for sale.

But I only cared about the next twelve days. I had one last deadline and one last murder story to write. I just needed that globe to keep turning until then.

Sonny Lester was waiting in a company car when I pushed through the heavy front door. I got in and told him where we were going. He made a bold U-turn to get over to Broadway and then took it to the freeway entrance just past the courthouse. Pretty soon we were on the 110 heading into South L.A.

“I take it that it’s no coincidence that I’m on this assignment,” he said after we cleared downtown.

I looked over at him and shrugged.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Ask Azmitia. I told him I needed somebody and he told me it was you.”

Lester nodded like he didn’t believe it and I didn’t really care. Newspapers had a strong and proud tradition of standing up against segregation and racial profiling and things like that. But there was also a practical tradition of using newsroom diversity to its full advantage. If an earthquake shatters Tokyo, send a Japanese reporter. If a black actress wins the Oscar, send a black reporter to interview her. If the Border Patrol finds twenty-four dead illegals in the back of a truck in Calexico, send your best Spanish-speaking reporter. That’s how you got the story. Lester was black and his presence might provide me safety as I entered the projects. That’s all I cared about. I had a story to report and I wasn’t worried about being politically correct about it.

Lester asked me questions about what we were doing and I told him as much as I could. But so far I didn’t have a lot to go on. I told him that the woman we were going to see had complained about my story calling her grandson a murderer. I was hoping to find her and tell her that I would look into disproving the charges against him if she and her grandson agreed to cooperate with me. I didn’t tell him the real plan. I figured he was smart enough to eventually put it together himself.

Lester nodded when I finished and we rode the rest of the way in silence. We rolled into Rodia Gardens about one o’clock and it was quiet in the projects. School wasn’t out yet and the drug trade didn’t really get going until dusk. The dealers, dopers and gangbangers were all still sleeping.

The complex was a maze of two-story buildings painted in two tones. Brown and beige on most of the buildings. Lime and beige on the rest. The structures were unadorned by any bushes or trees, for these could be used to hide drugs and weapons. Overall, the place had the look of a newly built community where the extras had not yet been put in place. Only on closer inspection, it was clear that it wasn’t fresh paint on the walls and these weren’t new buildings.

We found the address Braselton gave me without difficulty. It was a corner apartment on the second floor with the stairway on the right side of the building. Lester took a large, heavy camera bag out of the car and locked it.

“You won’t need all of that if we get inside,” I said. “If she lets you shoot her, you’re gonna have to do it quick.”

“I don’t care if I don’t shoot a frame. I’m not leaving my stuff in the car.”

“Got it.”

When we reached the second floor, I noticed that the front door to the apartment was open behind a screen door with bars on it. I approached it and looked around before knocking. I saw no one in any of the parking lots or yards of the complex. It was as though the place were completely empty.

I knocked.

“Mrs. Sessums?”

I waited and soon heard a voice come through the screen. I recognized it from the call on Friday.

“Who that?”

“It’s Jack McEvoy. We talked on Friday. From the Times?”

The screen was dirty with years of grime and dust caked on it. I could not see into the apartment.

“What you doin’ here, boy?”

“I came to talk to you, ma’am. Over the weekend I did a lot of thinking about what you said on the phone.”

“How in hell you fine me?”

I could tell by the closeness of her voice that she was on the other side of the screen now. I could only see her shape through the grit.