Wes was walking down a street, a Philly cheesesteak in one hand and a new pair of blue jeans in the other. His brother was by his side. Thirty feet away--at the corner--he noticed a police cruiser. As he got closer, he noticed that the engine was running, and that the two cops inside were murmuring into their walkie-talkies. This was the same squad car Wes had noticed twice earlier in the day, in different parts of the city but always within fifty feet of where he and Tony stood. But no one had made a move for them, so Wes had chalked it up as simple coincidence. He and Tony continued to move through the crowded Germantown streets toward his uncle's house in North Philadelphia. The crime-ridden neighborhood was where Tony and Wes had escaped just days after the murder.
North Philadelphia reminded Wes of the Baltimore neighborhood he had just left. The check-cashing stores instead of banks, the rows of beauty salons, liquor stores, laundromats, funeral homes, and their graffiti-laced walls were the universal streetscape of poverty. The hood was the hood, no matter what city you were in. But just blocks away from their uncle's house, scattered evidence of gentrification--driven by the looming presence of Temple University--had started to manifest. Their uncle's block, where half of the homes sat abandoned and burnt out, represented what the neighborhood had become. Blocks away, where newly built mixed-income homes sat next to picturesque buildings like the gothic Church of the Advocate, built in 1887, was the direction the neighborhood wanted to go. But even that dynamic wasn't unique; the same thing was happening in Wes's neighborhood, where Hopkins was the driving force of change, aimed at improving the quality of life for students and faculty. Wes wondered where people like him were supposed to go once they'd been priced out of the old neighborhoods, once the land changed hands right under their feet.
When they got back to the house, Wes went upstairs to the room that housed the bunk bed he and Tony shared. Tupac's "Keep Ya Head Up" was on the radio, and Wes turned it up. It was one of his favorites, Pac's voice defiant over the melancholy chorus sampled from the Five Stairsteps--"Ooh, child, things are gonna get easier." Wes sat down on his bed and opened the plastic bag that held his cheesesteak. The grease leaked from the packaging, and the aroma of the Cheeze Whiz and grilled onions rose from a puncture in the aluminum foil.
Wes had just raised the sandwich to his mouth when Tony walked into the room. "I got to run out for a second, I'll be back."
Wes just nodded, distracted by the cheesesteak. Under the beats from the radio he could hear Tony's white Air Jordans pounding down the stairs. It was midafternoon, so most of the lights in the house were off; the room was filled with shadows and the soft glow of natural sunlight.
Wes heard Tony yell back up the stairs, "I'll be back, yo," and then the sound of the front door creaking open. His uncle was always telling them to close the door behind them to keep the cold air outside and the warm air inside. When Wes didn't hear the door close behind Tony, he took one final bite and ran down the stairs to slam it shut. As Wes hit the final stair, he looked up and saw his brother lying facedown on the floor, a police officer's knee in his back, handcuffs being tightened around his wrists. Before Wes could even react, a half dozen plainclothes officers were on top of him, the barrels of their guns trained on his head and the lights from their flashlights blinding him.
"Don't move! Get your hands in the air!"
The officers were now screaming orders to the Moore brothers, telling them to get on the ground and keep their mouths shut. A task force of over two dozen Philadelphia police officers, Baltimore City and County police officers, and ATF and FBI officials flooded their uncle's narrow three-story row house. Within minutes of receiving word that the Moore brothers were back in the house, police had cordoned off the entire block. Outside the cordon, curious onlookers were kept away by Philadelphia police officers as Wes and Tony were led outside in handcuffs, and thrown into the back of a police wagon. The twelve-day manhunt was over.
Word spread quickly through the Baltimore City and County police departments about the arrest. On the dispatch, a message scrolled across the top of the message board: 02.19/00, DUNDALK DISPATCH ADVISED THAT BOTH OF THE MOORE BROTHERS ARE UNDER ARREST IN PHILADELPHIA!
Cheering responses flowed in. Their colleague had been killed just days earlier. They now believed that the four people responsible were in their custody. The newspapers and television networks ran nonstop coverage of the arrest. Civic leaders held press conferences praising the work of the police officers. The county executive of Baltimore County helped lead a telethon that raised money for the widow of Sergeant Prothero and his children. As word spread, a collective sigh of relief seeped through Baltimore's brisk winter air. At home, Mary wept.
Wes sat still on the ancient wooden chair. His fingers were entwined, resting on the table in front of him. His nervousness had subsided months earlier; he knew he no longer had control over his destiny. A year had passed since the Prothero shooting, and Wes was the fourth and final defendant to find out his verdict. It had also been a year since the governor of Pennsylvania had agreed to extradite Wes to his home state of Maryland to await trial. Wes now sat waiting to find out how the jury of his peers had ruled. The foreman stood up, looked briefly at Wes, and then his eyes darted over to the people in the viewing area of the courtroom. Tony and the other two defendants had all been found guilty and sentenced to life in prison without parole. Tony was charged as the shooter and had avoided a possible death sentence by pleading guilty to felony murder.
Unlike the other three defendants, Wes had decided to take his case to trial. He insisted that he was not there the day of the murder. Twenty-five witnesses were called, sixty exhibits were displayed, store security videotapes were shown, and photos were employed by both sides. Wes's lawyer pleaded that the biggest mistake his client made was going to Philadelphia with his brother. His lawyer argued that when Wes was questioned by Baltimore police the day after the crime, before he was announced as a suspect, he was calm, a clear sign of his innocence. His lawyer claimed the police were harassing people in the neighborhood, trying to drum up shaky evidence and confessions. He also pointed out that Wes had converted to Islam in jail and was a father of four children, whom he talked to almost every day on the telephone from jail.
The prosecution cast suspicions on Wes's argument that he'd taken the trip to Philadelphia without asking his brother what he was on the run for. A saleswoman at the jewelry store testified that she recognized Wes as one of the four men who'd robbed the store. Also, a necklace was found at the scene of the crime that had Wes's DNA on it. The prosecution claimed it was the "calling card" they were looking for to prove Wes was there. Wes's attorney argued that Tony must have borrowed the necklace earlier, and it had accidentally dropped out of his pocket at the store. "There's only one explanation. It came out of a pocket, it came out of the pocket of that jacket," Wes's lawyer proclaimed.
Wes was moments away from finding out which story the jury would believe.
"Please rise," the bailiff requested. Instructions were ordered.
Wes peered over at the jury: six men and six women. They had deliberated for three hours. He looked at each of their faces in turn. No one looked back at him. He felt very alone. He sighed deeply. A sudden apathy sapped him. He knew what the foreman had to say before he even parted his lips. Wes stared straight ahead. He was as still as a soldier on parade awaiting his next command. As he heard the foreman begin, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back.
"On the charge of first-degree felony murder, the jury finds the defendant...guilty."
Wes stood quietly, his face set, as the foreman read out ten other charges, all with the same verdict. Wes's consciousness left the scene. He had spent the past year sitting in a cell waiting for this day. With the knowledge of the sentences his brother and the other two defendants had received, he'd known his fate would be the same. He would spend the rest of his life in prison.
The widow of Sergeant Prothero hugged her father and sobbed. She had sat in the pews
of different courtrooms for months, and the emotion of watching the sentencing of the final defendant in the slaying of her husband was overwhelming. About ten feet away, Wes's mother, aunt Nicey, and Alicia sat stunned with tears in their eyes as well. A large guard made his way over to Wes, who slowly put his hands behind his back. He kept his head and eyes fixed on the front of the courtroom, never once looking behind him to see the family of the police officer or even his own family. He winced as the cuffs closed around his wrists and the officer began to walk him out of the room. It would be over a month before Wes was in a courtroom again. On that day he would stand before a judge and hear his fate.
"You committed an act like something out of the Wild West, and you didn't even realize how outrageous it was," the judge said. "That makes you a very dangerous person."
The sentence was indeed life in prison without the possibility of parole. The guards placed their hands on Wes and shuffled him away. The hands of the state would stay on him for the rest of his life. Wes had spent much of his adolescence incarcerated, and he knew that occasional bids in the pen were part of the game. But he'd never figured this. Maybe it was because he'd never thought long term about his life at all. Early losses condition you to believe that short-term plans are always smarter. Now Wes's mind wandered to the long term for the first time. Finally, he could see his future.
Wes, the mayor will see you now."
As I began walking toward the mayor's mahogany door, I instinctively stuck my hands in my pockets and pushed down, trying to get the cuffs of my pants lower so my high-waters might brush the tops of my shoes. For close to a decade I'd dressed in a uniform every day. Fashion was not my forte. This was my best blue suit, but because I had owned it since high school, it was no longer much of a fit.
"Hey, General, how's everything going?" Mayor Schmoke said as I cautiously entered and shook his hand. General was his nickname for me, poking fun at the fact that I was a brand-new second lieutenant in the Army Reserve--which, by the way, is as far from a general as an officer can get. Despite my being on my second internship with him and seeing him every day, the mayor still intimidated me. Every time I stepped into his office, I felt the need to genuflect. Even his famously toothy grin failed to put me at ease.
Kurt Schmoke had been the mayor of Baltimore for twelve years. The former boy wonder was now a seasoned and slightly cynical leader of the city he'd called home his entire life. Progress had been made under his leadership; Baltimore had been named an Empowerment Zone by President Clinton in 1994. On his orders, and with the help of 375 pounds of explosives, the buildings of Murphy Homes were brought down in twenty seconds and soon replaced with mixed-income housing. But his frustration at the glacial pace of change in his city had worn on him. He needed to attend fund-raiser after fund-raiser just to remain a viable candidate for public office. The problems he'd warned of--and prioritized--over a decade earlier were persistently difficult to solve. The murder rate had not fallen under three hundred in years. Sexually transmitted diseases throughout Baltimore had risen sharply, alongside the teen pregnancy rate. The young, photogenic Yale-, Oxford-, and Harvard-educated lawyer had learned just how confounding the problems of urban America were.
Of course, to talk about the negative sections and aspects of Baltimore without talking about its strengths, its history, and its opportunities would be inaccurate. Baltimore is the birthplace of Babe Ruth and Thurgood Marshall, Edgar Allan Poe and Billie Holiday. The Battle of Baltimore was one of the deciding battles of the War of 1812 and Francis Scott Key, a lawyer and native Baltimorean, penned "The Star-Spangled Banner" at Fort McHenry while watching soldiers from our new nation fight off the British. Baltimore is home of the B&O Railroad and the best crab cakes anywhere. West Baltimore was one of the intellectual capitals of the East Coast in the early twentieth century.
At the same time, to simply walk along the pristine Inner Harbor or go see the Orioles in action without understanding that all of Baltimore is not downtown would be equally misleading. The truth is that there are two Baltimores. Almost every other major city in this country leads the same double life. Those who brag about Baltimore often ignore these substandard areas. Yet these were the areas Mayor Schmoke knew would determine his legacy of success or failure.
He asked me to take a seat on a couch. I'd found his office imposing when I first saw it, but its quiet elegance had, over time, made the stronger impression. Plaques and awards lined the walls, along with photos of the mayor with presidents, prime ministers, and everyday Baltimoreans. The office reflected the man--hugely impressive and unassuming at once. His waistline had grown slightly over the years; his suspenders now pulled his pants above his belt line. In the final year of his third term and preparing to retire, he was leaving not because of term limits but because of fatigue. He could have easily won a fourth term had he wanted it, but he didn't. What he wanted now was time to spend with his family and for someone else to grab hold of the reins of the city he loved with its daunting array of problems.
Mayor Schmoke eased into a chair across from the couch. He leaned back, rubbing both hands over his thinning hair, now salted with gray, and asked me how I had enjoyed my internship.
I offered a crisp response: "I've loved it, sir." But my glib answer didn't do justice to the impact the time in his office had had on me. I didn't know how to begin to express my gratitude.
I had returned to Baltimore two years earlier, after I'd been accepted at Johns Hopkins University to complete my undergraduate degree, which I'd begun in junior college at Valley Forge. One afternoon at Valley Forge I was talking to my college adviser about what to do after I received my associate's degree. My adviser told me that she knew the assistant director of admissions at Johns Hopkins, who she wanted me to meet. My mother had been working in Baltimore for the past five years, and I considered Baltimore home, so I knew about Johns Hopkins. I just didn't know anyone who went there. My perception of Hopkins was as a distant force in the neighborhood, a research university responsible for some of the greatest medical gifts the world has ever received, but that had very little to do with the life of the city I knew. Hopkins was also full of kids who did not look or sound like me.
"Ma'am, I do not want to be a doctor," I quickly answered her.
"Wes, it is much more than that. Just have lunch with him. At the very least, I think you'll enjoy each other's company."
A week later, I sat across the table from Paul White, the assistant director of admissions at Johns Hopkins. I was expecting a stodgy, older gentleman who'd offer me canned encomiums about Hopkins and then stiffen and ask for the check when he found out the details of my standardized test scores. What I found was a black man with a warm disposition and a booming voice, who bristled with energy and was constantly in motion, his hands swooping like birds in flight to accentuate his points. I spent much of the lunch telling him my story, and he spent the remaining time selling me on Hopkins. By the end of our meal, I realized that Hopkins represented much more than a chance to attend a great school with a phenomenal reputation. It was also a chance to go home. My relationship with my mother had changed significantly. I'd spent so much of my life running from her, trying to show her I didn't need her as much as she thought. She'd spent much of the same period being an unrelenting disciplinarian. But as I got older, and as she realized her days of hard-core parenting were coming to an end, she became more than a mother, she became a friend.
But there was still the matter of getting in. My SAT scores were hundreds of points below the average for students entering Johns Hopkins, and despite my being a junior college graduate and an Army officer, I knew that landing admission at Hopkins would be a stretch at best. So after filling out the application, I put it out of my mind. But months later, I got the large package in the mail. Not only was I accepted but I would receive scholarship money. I read the letter aloud to my mother over the phone, and she screamed in excitement.
While reading the letter, I thought about Paul White. H
aving an advocate on the inside--someone who had gotten to know me and understood my story on a personal level--had obviously helped. It made me think deeply about the way privilege and preference work in the world, and how many kids who didn't have "luck" like mine in this instance would find themselves forever outside the ring of power and prestige. So many opportunities in this country are apportioned in this arbitrary and miserly way, distributed to those who already have the benefit of a privileged legacy.
Many of the kids I grew up with in the Bronx--including guys like Shea, who stayed outside the law--never believed that they'd have a shot. Many in the generation before mine believed that maybe they did, but they had the rug pulled out from under them by cuts in programs like the Pell Grants or by the myriad setbacks that came with the age of crack. Reversals spun them right back to the streets and away from their true ambitions. For the rest of us--those who snuck in despite coming from the margins--the mission has to be to pull up others behind us. That's what Paul White did for me, and it changed my life.
I had been talking with Mayor Schmoke for ten minutes when he leaned toward me and asked the dreaded question: "So, Wes, what do you plan on doing after you finish school?" I really had no idea. The words "law school" escaped from my mouth, the fallback answer for many students who have no idea what they want to do with their lives. Mayor Schmoke waved his hand at the idea.
"Have you ever heard of the Rhodes Scholarship?"
I had heard of it--I knew that Mayor Schmoke, President Clinton, and our state's senior senator, Paul Sarbanes, were all Rhodes Scholars, but I didn't know much else about the award.
"Let me show you something," the mayor continued, rising from his wooden seat and moving toward the wall. I followed him. He pulled out a pen and stretched his arm toward a black-and-white framed picture.