Eyes of the Innocent: A Mystery (4 page)

Akilah got pregnant again when she was eighteen, which is how she got Alonzo; then again when she was twenty, which is how Antoine came to be. Akilah didn’t say anything about the father, which was hardly unusual. Dads didn’t always stick around in that part of town.

Really, it seemed like Akilah had only caught one break in her young life. She managed to find a decent job. She said it was at University Hospital, and it “paid good”—which probably meant she was pulling down $30,000 a year, including overtime. That didn’t go very far in most parts of Northern New Jersey, one of the most expensive areas of the country to live in. But to a kid from Baxter Terrace, it could still feel like a lot of money.

And, naturally, the first thing she wanted to do was get the hell out of Baxter Terrace.

But that’s where things got complicated. About four years ago, not long after Antoine was born, she got connected with a guy—she was kind of vague about the details—who, in turn, connected her with another guy—she described him as “a Puerto Rican guy”—who, in turn, ushered poor, orphaned Akilah Harris into her very own home.

“It was a chance to raise my children somewhere else besides Baxter Terrace,” she said. “I had to do it.”

For a while, it worked out fine. Then, suddenly, she couldn’t afford it anymore. Sweet Thang—a guileless creature with the kind of naïveté that only the young possess—asked a few follow-up questions about how such a thing could even be possible and seemed genuinely confused. I would have to explain it to her later. Akilah Harris had gotten slammed with a pernicious form of subprime mortgage.

People hear the term “subprime” and get confused, because the “sub” makes it sound like it’s some kind of good deal. It’s not. The “prime” refers not to the rate but to your status as a borrower. If you’ve got five years of perfect credit and a steady job, you qualify for a prime mortgage at a reasonable rate. Being subprime meant that something about you was less than perfect and you were going to get charged a rate that only barely failed to qualify as loan-sharking.

Except, of course, they didn’t start out that way. Many of the subprime loans that floated around the ghetto a few years back had had introductory rates far below what the permanent rate would be. It made an otherwise unaffordable house suddenly fall into just about anyone’s price range. For a while. Then—surprise!—the real rate kicked in. Just like that, you went from 4 percent interest to 12 percent interest and your monthly payment doubled overnight.

The Puerto Rican man probably told Akilah—and countless other dupes—not to worry about the interest rate reset. After all, it would only take a year or two before they had enough equity in the house to refinance to a regular loan.

And that was true—as long as credit remained easy and the housing market stayed supernova hot. For a while, it did. I had written about Newark neighborhoods where the average home price, driven primarily by real estate speculators, was doubling every two years.

The only problem is, nothing like that lasts forever. When the global credit crunch hit and the easy money stopped flowing, the bubble that was Newark’s real estate market experienced a big, messy burst. And people like Akilah Harris, who were led to believe the good times would never end, were finished. The foreclosures came in huge waves.

Some people figured out pretty quickly their days among the landed gentry were over and accepted it graciously, slinking back to the apartments from which they came with their credit scores in shambles. Others tried to do short sales or loan workouts, hoping to emerge with the shirts on their backs—and often nothing more.

And then, every once in a while, there’s a real hardhead, like Akilah. She was so determined to hang on to her house—in the face of a financial reality that dictated otherwise—she got herself another job. It was a second-shift job cleaning floors at a pallet-making company.

She just couldn’t find any second-shift child care—not for anything she could afford, anyway. And with her mother dead and her aunt refusing to be part of her life, she had no family to leave her sons with. So each day, she worked at the hospital from 7
A.M.
to 3
P.M.
, picked up the boys from daycare, brought them home, and put them in her bedroom with the TV on.

She left them snacks. And then she locked the door “so they couldn’t get in no trouble.”

Which is why, when that fire started at 9
P.M.
, they had no hope of escape.

*   *   *

Akilah finished up the details of how the previous evening unfolded for her. None of her neighbors knew she worked a second job or where it was, so no one from the fire department—or the police department or child protective services—had been able to notify her about what had happened. She was just walking back from work a little after 1
A.M.
when she saw all the fire trucks and cop cars still jamming her street.

A neighbor collared her before she could get to her house, explained what happened, and convinced her she would be arrested for child endangerment if the cops found her. Akilah spent the night weeping on the neighbor’s floor. When she awoke in the morning, the authorities had finally left. She went back to her house to collect some of the things that hadn’t been destroyed in the fire and get some items for her boys’ funeral.

That’s when we found her.

“I know I should have just let the police take me, but I just wanted to spend a little bit of time in the house,” she said. “I just felt like, I don’t know, like it was the only place I could be close to my boys. I knew I hadn’t been there for them in life so I wanted to be there for them in death. Maybe that sounds stupid, but that’s what I was thinking.”

Akilah sighed.

“So that’s my sad story,” she said.

It was, I had to admit, an extraordinary interview. I couldn’t believe she had shared so much with such brutal candor. Most people couldn’t be that honest with themselves, much less with two strangers.

At the same time, she was an orphaned only child who worked sixteen-hour days and didn’t seem to have a soul in the world she could count on. She was probably just desperate for someone to listen.

And in two newspaper reporters, she had found a more than receptive audience. Sweet Thang had been mopping tears off her own face for most of the last hour. My eyes were dry, though I felt like my insides had been cleaned out by a canal dredger.

“What do you think the police are going to do to me?” Akilah asked.

The question had clearly been addressed to me, the white guy with the tie.

“It depends on how hard-assed the prosecutor’s office feels like being,” I said. “If you had other children still in your care, there might be pressure to get the kids removed from you and put in foster care. And to make sure you never got them back, the prosecutor might throw the book at you—child endangerment, negligent homicide. But as it is, they might not feel the need to go after you as much. Do you have a record?”

She shook her head.

“Well, that’ll help,” I continued. “There’s a possibility if you cooperate with them, they’ll let you plead to something that’ll give you probation and nothing more.”

“I deserve to go to jail,” she said, without hesitation. “For what I did? I hope they send me away for a long time.”

I hoped they didn’t. I’m not saying I wanted to nominate Akilah for Mother of the Year. But throwing this young woman in jail wasn’t going to solve much of anything. I seriously doubted the state of New Jersey could mete out a punishment more severe than the life sentence of pain and regret she had already received for losing those two boys.

And ultimately, what was she really guilty of? Of making a tragically poor decision about child care, sure. But beyond that? She was a single mother who wanted to raise her children someplace other than the projects and had been too unsophisticated to avoid the usurious scumbags who preyed on that desperation.

The real villain here was that industry of scumbags. It started with that “older man,” whoever he was, whose job it had been to hustle fresh meat for the Puerto Rican man, whose job it was to sign them up. But it didn’t stop there. Next were the lending executives, who were underwriting the borrowing with impossibly reckless loan products, approving mortgages for people who obviously did not have the means to pay them back. Then came the investment bankers who were bundling and packaging those bad loans into securities that were somehow rated AAA, which proved to be the lipstick on the proverbial pig.

Some of those Wall Street crooks—the ones that didn’t get bailed out—got a little bit of comeuppance when those securities were suddenly worth pennies on the dollar. The crooks on the street? The Older Man and the Puerto Rican man? They were still out there, finding new ways to enrich themselves on the misery of others.

And while I couldn’t stop them from doing it, I could at least hit them with the only weapon a newspaper reporter had: public embarrassment. The Older Man’s role in the whole thing was probably a little too tangential to go at him, presses blazing. But the Puerto Rican man, if I could find him, was a nice target. A story with the headline “Sleazy Bastard” above it would do just fine.

“Tell me a little more about the Puerto Rican man,” I said. “You keep a phone number for him? A business card maybe?”

She shook her head.

“Do you remember his name?” I asked.

“It was like…” She groped around her memory for a second or two, then gave up. “I don’t know.”

“What did he look like?”

“He wasn’t tall or nothing, but he was built,” Akilah said. “He had a goatee he pet all the time, like it was his cat or something. He was dark skinned, for a Puerto Rican. He was bald…”

She paused to try and think of more, but nothing was forthcoming.

“About how old?”

“I don’t know. Forty? Fifty?”

Or more. Or less. To twenty-four-year-olds, I think any age over thirty-five becomes a blur.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Not in a long time.”

“Can you think of anyone who might know more about the guy?”

“I mean, you can go into the projects and ask around. People there will probably remember him.”

I nodded. They probably did remember. Whether they would tell a cracker like me was another issue.

“Did you keep any of the paperwork?”

“I never got no paperwork,” she said.

That was probably not true. But it didn’t matter. That’s why the Founding Fathers, in their infinite and righteous wisdom, created the blessing that is public records: so reporters like me could snoop around.

The county kept copies of mortgages down at the courthouse. And while that would only provide me the name of the lender, not the mortgage broker, I could work backward from there. Because while I had no legal rights to Akilah’s closing documents—which are not public record—Akilah did. I could gently assist her in getting the necessary papers from her lender. Problem solved.

I’d have my sleazy bastard in no time.

*   *   *

Our breakfast long since demolished, I threw a tip on the table, then paid our bill at the register up front. As we walked back to my car, tears started rolling down Akilah’s cheeks. Naturally, that set Sweet Thang’s waterworks going, too. They both hopped in the Malibu’s backseat, leaving me to chauffeur us to Akilah’s place. I felt sort of like a white Morgan Freeman driving a black Miss Daisy. Except in this case, Miss Daisy kept wiping her runny nose on her shirtsleeve.

When we arrived, Sweet Thang hopped out with Akilah. They swapped cell phone numbers, then hugged. Sweet Thang watched Akilah disappear inside the front door, then climbed back in the front seat.

“I told her she could stay at my place tonight if she wanted,” Sweet Thang said.

“That is such a bad idea,” I said as I got us under way.

“That girl has
nothing
and I have a foldout couch in my apartment,” Sweet Thang countered. “It’s the Christian thing to do. Don’t you ever ask yourself what Jesus would do?”

I was tempted to tell her it was a moot point: Jesus came along about 1,950 years before foldout couches. But I didn’t want to turn this into an argument about religion—or convertible furniture—so I tried to put a halt to it.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just invite a source to spend the night,” I said. “And you’re going to conveniently forget to mention this to anyone back at work. Fair?”

“Whatever,” Sweet Thang spat.

I realize I may encourage a slight blurring of the line between reporter and source, but there still is a line. I find a good rule of thumb for journalism ethics is to think of what the headline would be if another newspaper decided to write about how you covered a particular story.
JOURNALIST SHOWS SYMPATHY TO MOURNING MOTHER
is something I could live with.
JOURNALIST HARBORS FUGITIVE FROM JUSTICE
didn’t have as nice a ring. I hefted a large sigh.

“What?” Sweet Thang said.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, what is it?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t ‘nothing’ me,” Sweet Thang scolded. “If you’re going to be my mentor, we need to have open lines of dialogue. Communication is the most important part of any relationship. We have to be able to share our thoughts and feelings.”

I was suddenly having a flashback to my last serious relationship. She had moved into my cozy little bungalow in Nutley and had taken to redecorating it room by room. Then she decided to redecorate me. She wanted me to put product in my hair. And wear flatfront pants. And pay more attention to men’s fashion magazines than I did to my fantasy football team. And, above all else, she wanted me to
share
my feelings, and
share
my problems, and
share
my fears.

I’m not saying I’m one of those emotionally constipated men who doesn’t have a clue what’s going on between his ears. At the same time, there are certain areas where a man has to be able to set his own agenda. Hair product is one of them. So, finally, I shared with her. I shared that no matter how many times she asked, I wasn’t going to join her for a manicure. She left me soon after for some guy at her advertising firm. You can probably find them at a nail salon right now.