Twenty
ASA JOHNSON’S MIDDLE school was in Manor Park, blocks from the Johnson house, blocks from Ramone’s. His son, Diego, had walked there when he’d still been registered, but now he walked the mile into Maryland and caught a Ride On bus to his school in Montgomery County. It seemed unnecessarily complicated to make his son go through all those moves to get to his new destination, given the closeness of the neighborhood school to their home. Of course, Ramone didn’t really mind that his son had to break a sweat to get to school. He was simply dipping his toe back in the waters of rationalization for moving Diego back into the District’s public-education system.
Ramone thought about this, and other things, walking down the hall to the administrative office. The bell had sounded, ending the last class of the day. The kids around him, mostly black and some Hispanic, were laughing and cutting up, stowing books and retrieving bags from their lockers, preparing to bust out and head home. They moved around roaming security guards. With its wire mesh-covered windows, dim lighting, and constant police-like presence, the place had the feel of a juvie hall.
Ramone saw kids he recognized, from both the neighborhood and Diego’s football team, and a couple of them acknowledged him with either a “Mr. Ramone” or a “Mr. Gus.” They knew he was police. Some of them did not look him in the eye because of it, but most were friendly and showed him respect.
A few of these kids, especially those with a deficient home life, had already gone off the rails. Others were on the edge. Most would do fine.
Ramone had nothing but respect for teachers. He was married to one and knew what they experienced, not just with unruly kids, but also with angry, unreasonable parents. There were few professions more challenging than middle school educator, but still, what these teenagers needed most was for their teachers and administrators to not give up on them. This was the most critical period of their lives.
One thing about this school, thought Ramone, looking at the faces around him. These teachers see behavior, not race and class.
But then, walking by the open doors, he noted the physical conditions around him: the walls in need of paint, the bathrooms without doors or working toilets, the buckets placed below leaking ceilings, and the lack of supplies. He was reminded of the reasons he and Regina had moved Diego out of D.C.
It was hell, trying to figure out what was right for your child.
Ramone went into the administrative office, identified himself to one of the assistants, and explained that he had called ahead and made an appointment. In a short while, he was seated across the desk from Ms. Cynthia Best, the school principal, an attractive dark-skinned woman with straight posture and knowing eyes.
“Welcome back, Mr. Ramone.”
“I wish it was under better circumstances. How are things going?”
“We brought in a special counselor yesterday to help the students come to terms with Asa’s death.”
“Any takers?”
“A couple of students came in. They were curious more than anything. Or perhaps they were looking for a novel way to get out of class. I sent them back, gently.”
“Ms. Best, have you heard anything? Any rumors that have come from the student body filtered through the teachers?”
“Nothing beyond the usual conjecture. You know these kids like to romanticize the lifestyle, but there has been very little in the way of drug rumors in this case. As for the teachers, they have a pretty good feel for what’s going on in their students’ lives. They’ve met the parents; they spend time with the kids every day. None of Asa’s teachers have offered any speculation, either fact-based or theoretical.”
“Did you tell them I would be here?”
“I spoke to his math and English teachers to get you started. They should be waiting for you. If you need to see the others, phys ed, health, science, whatever, I can make it happen.”
Ms. Best pushed a piece of notepaper across the desk, showing the room numbers and names of the teachers. Ramone folded it and put it in his jacket pocket.
“You’ve heard from Detective Bill Wilkins? It’s his case, officially.”
“Yes, he phoned me. He asked that we not empty the contents of Asa’s locker until he gets a look at it.”
“That’s good,” said Ramone, beginning to think that he had underestimated Wilkins.
“Would you like a look yourself?”
“After I talk to Asa’s teachers.” Ramone tapped his pen on the small spiral notebook in his lap. “I’m curious. You say the student grief over Asa’s death was not exactly overwhelming.”
“I didn’t mean to imply a negative.”
“I didn’t take it that way. I’m just looking for your impression of Asa.”
“I had very little contact with him these past two years,” said Ms. Best. “We spoke only a few times. He was quiet, not a disciplinary problem. I wouldn’t call him spirited. He was neither popular nor unpopular.”
“You’re saying, what, he was kind of a nothing kid.”
“You are.”
“Please, this isn’t for the record. You can speak freely.”
“Asa wasn’t the type of student who left a strong impression on me. That’s the most honest assessment I can give you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“How’s Diego?” said Ms. Best.
“There’ve been a few bumps in the road at that county school, to tell you the truth.”
“He’s always welcome back here.”
“Thank you, Ms. Best. I’ll go see those teachers now.”
“Good luck.”
Ramone found the room of Asa’s English teacher up on the second floor. No one, neither student nor adult, was inside. Ramone had a look around to kill some time. There were balled-up scraps of paper on the floor and overflowing trash cans. The desks and chairs, which looked to have been in use since the Depression, were misaligned in barely detectable rows.
On the blackboard, the teacher had written quotes from Dr. King, James Baldwin, and Ralph Ellison. There were also two notes, one an announcement of an upcoming test and one reminding students to update their journals. Ms. Cummings, the English teacher, did not show, and Ramone left the classroom.
Mr. Bolton, Asa’s Algebra I teacher, was waiting for Ramone in room 312. In contrast to the English teacher’s, Bolton’s classroom was orderly and trash-free. He rose from behind his desk and moved around it to greet Ramone.
Bolton was a man with deep chocolate skin in his late thirties who wore plain-front slacks, a wrinkle-free oxford, and monk-strap loafers. The clothes did not seem to be expensive, not surprising given Bolton’s anemic salary, but there had been some thought behind the outfit. Ramone had been expecting a nerd, but instead saw a well-built man who was fastidiously dressed and cleanly shaven. His rather large, oddly shaped nose would prevent anyone from calling him handsome. His eyes were large and bright.
“Detective Ramone?” said Bolton.
“Mr. Bolton.” Ramone shook his hand.
“Call me Robert.”
“Okay. I won’t take up much of your time.”
“I’m happy to help.”
Ramone produced his notebook and pen. “When was the last time you saw Asa Johnson?”
“In my classroom, the day of his death.”
“That would have been Tuesday.”
“Correct. And then that same day, after school.”
“What, he had detention or something?”
“No, nothing like that. He came in to get extra work. He was into math, Detective. He actually liked to solve problems. Asa was one of my best students.”
“What did you give him?”
“Just some extra-credit problems. Work sheets, things of that nature.”
“Did you notice if he was upset in any way that afternoon?”
“Not that I could detect.”
“Can you… did you ever have the suspicion that he was into anything wrong?”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“I’m not really reaching for anything in particular. I’d just like your thoughts.”
“It’s a fallacy to believe that most of the young people in the District are into unlawful activities. You have to realize, the vast majority of these students have nothing to do with stealing cars or dealing drugs.”
“I do realize that.”
“They’re kids. Don’t stereotype them just because they’re African American and live in D.C.”