Brad Parks - Eyes of the Innocent

Still, the city’s housing stock had been at least partially transformed. And most folks figured it would take a few years before the new construction started looking-and burning-like the old tenements.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said out loud.

“What?” Sweet Thang asked. She had been yammering nonstop on the way out-can’t for the life of me remember about what-but had been quiet since we left the car.

“Check this place out,” I said. “It’s nice.”

Sweet Thang looked at me, looked at the house-with its soot-streaked siding, blackened window frames, and scorched roof-then looked back at me like she couldn’t believe she had placed me next to Judy Blume in the writing pantheon.

“Well, okay, maybe nice is no longer the right adjective,” I said. “But it used to be nice. It couldn’t be more than a few years old. It’s got its own driveway, a garage, this nice sturdy gate here.”

I shook the gate for emphasis. She whipped out a pad and started taking notes. I could get used to having my own stenographer.

“Look at the landscaping,” I said, gesturing to some well-manicured shrubs. “At one point, someone cared about the way this place looked. I bet there used to be border flowers planted in front, maybe some impatiens. No, no, make that marigolds. Too much sun for impatiens.”

Sweet Thang wrote down every word, like I was dictating the next coming of Ulysses. I unlatched the gate and walked closer, with Sweet Thang trailing behind, still scribbling madly. The front door was … well, there was no front door. The firemen must have busted it off its hinges.

“Come on, let’s go in,” I said, walking up the front steps.

She halted.

“Are we allowed?”

“You’re not in homeroom. We don’t have to raise our hands and ask for a hall pass to use the bathroom,” I said. “Besides, I don’t see anyone here telling us not to. As far as I’m concerned, an open door is an invitation.”

Sweet Thang bit her lower lip and let out a whiny “But couldn’t we get in trouble?”

“In trouble?” I asked. “For all we know, there’s a melted space heater in one of those kid’s rooms. That space heater is our smoking gun, literally and figuratively. Can’t you just see it? With the charred teddy bear leaning up against it? Isn’t that the perfect start to our story? It could be. But I guess we’ll just have to go back to the office and tell Uncle Hal we’re not sure if a space heater had anything to do with this fire because we were afraid we could get in trouble .”

“Fine,” she huffed and charged past me up the steps.

Interns, I chuckled to myself. So easily goaded.

I pulled a pad out of my pocket and began jotting down a few notes when, from inside the house, I heard a loud thud.

Then Sweet Thang screamed.

* * *

I took the porch steps in two leaps and barreled inside the house to find Sweet Thang with a long kitchen knife at her throat.

The person holding said knife-a wiry, dark-skinned black woman-looked like she knew what she was doing with it. And when she saw me, her eyes opened wide and she pressed the blade even tighter against Sweet Thang’s neck.

“Step back,” she yelled, then took a fistful of bouncy blond curls and tilted back Sweet Thang’s head. “I’ll cut your little girlfriend here.”

Sweet Thang had gone stiff and silent. I suppose she didn’t feel like she was in a position to negotiate, so I did the talking.

“Take it easy,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “We’re reporters with the Eagle-Examiner. We’re just here working on a story.”

You could see the woman’s mind whirring, trying to decide whether to believe me. Sweet Thang was holding up remarkably well under the circumstances.

“My name is Carter Ross,” I continued. “This is my partner Lauren.”

“It’s Lauren McMillan, but people call me ‘Sweet Thang,’ ” she squeaked.

Now the woman looked downright perplexed.

“Sweet Thang?” she said derisively.

Her brow furrowed deeper.

“Y’all messing with me?”

“Here’s my card,” I said, digging it out and inching toward her, holding it at arm’s length. When I got just close enough, she released Sweet Thang’s hair and snatched my card. She barely bothered to look at it.

“That don’t mean nothing. Anyone could fake that.”

“How about I give you my phone and you call information and get a number for the Eagle-Examiner . Ask whoever answers if a guy named Carter Ross works there.”

She removed the knife from Sweet Thang’s throat and pushed her at me, which brought us together in an awkward half hug.

“Don’t matter,” she said. “Ain’t no scrawny white boy and his shorty gonna give me no trouble anyway.”

Sweet Thang rubbed her neck, which didn’t appear to have blood on it. I was guessing this was the first time anyone had held a knife to daddy’s little girl’s throat. I was just grateful I didn’t have to explain to Uncle Hal how his buddy’s kid had been decapitated while in my care.

“You must be Akilah Harris,” Sweet Thang asked.

The woman eyed her.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” Sweet Thang continued. “Those little boys were just so precious. I’m very, very sorry. I want you to know I said a prayer this morning for Alonzo and Antoine.”

What happened next has to go down in journalism history as the fastest anyone has gone from homicidal to hysterical. The mention of those boys’ names instantly caused this woman, who was evidently Akilah Harris, to crumble. She dropped the knife, brought her hands to her face, and started sobbing. And not just little sobs, either-big, gulping-for-breath, snot-everywhere sobs.

“They was … they was my little angels,” Akilah said between gasps.

Sweet Thang rushed to Akilah’s side, enveloping her in an embrace. Soon, Akilah was hugging her back and they were both crying. It was hard to make out who was saying what amid all the blubbering, but it was something along the lines of Akilah repeatedly saying “my babies” and “my angels” and Sweet Thang saying “I know” and “I’m so sorry.”

I suppose somewhere there was some tweedy journalism professor who would have said that what Sweet Thang was doing-dropping that wall between reporter and source, allowing herself to connect emotionally with Akilah’s pain-was a Very Bad Thing. But then there’s also a reason why those tweedy journalism professors fled to academia in the first place: they were sucky reporters.

You’ve got to get your sources treating you like a fellow member of the species, not an alien with a notepad. Legions of kids come out of J-school each year having been drilled endlessly about objectivity, balance, and other semiuseful subjects-much to their detriment. Some of them unlearn it quickly enough. But for others, the inability to get real with sources becomes a crippling affliction they carry throughout their journalism careers.

Should we teach kids about balance? Of course. Getting both sides of a story is one of the foundations of what we do. There are many areas-politics, court trials, business disputes, and so on-where we’re absolutely obligated to play it down the middle.

But there are also stories where, frankly, there is no middle. A mother’s pain over losing her children in a fire would be one of those stories. There’s no “other side” to tell. There’s just one woman and her profound tragedy. I believe telling that story in a sensitive, compassionate way makes the news-and all those who read it-a little more human.

They finally released their embrace.

“I’m sorry I almost cut you,” Akilah said, sniffling.

“It’s okay,” Sweet Thang cooed. “You thought someone was breaking into your house. I would have done the same thing if I were you.”