The Sacrifice Page 16

  “Until now, man. Now, them New York Jews gon chase after New Jersey niggers.”

  “Nazi-Racist Swine”

  Black girl, white cops, kidnap, rape, assault & left to die.

  White cover-up, Pascayne police, Nazi-racist swine.

  Calls had come for her at the precinct. Calls were routed to her. A trickle at first, and then a flood. Reporters, TV people wanting quotes, interviews with Detective Ines Iglesias who’d been identified as the only Pascayne police officer who’d spoken with Sybilla Frye and her mother Ednetta.

  And was this because, Detective Iglesias, you are a woman, and you are of an “ethnic minority”?

  And what can you tell us of the progress of the investigation? Have you identified the “white cops” in your department who are accused of having kidnapped, raped, nearly beaten to death the fifteen-year-old African-American victim?

  “Yes, I am Detective Ines Iglesias. I am the Pascayne PD officer assigned to the ‘Sybilla Frye’ case.”

  She’d been the investigating officer, she would bear the brunt of the blame.

  She knew, her fellow officers spoke meanly of her. Maybe not the women—the few women . . . But the men, yes.

  Iglesias was the sacrifice, was she? The detective burdened with an impossible case and (unspoken) task of exonerating the Pascayne PD.

  It was no secret, the Lieutenant disliked her. When he happened to see her, in the precinct house. Passing on the stairs, in the parking lot. The man’s flushed skin, bulldog mouth, furious eyes. Blame the female. Ethnic minority hire.

  She wanted to protest—the investigation is continuing.

  She wanted to protest—but you assigned me!

  When she’d been a new hire on the force, this Lieutenant had seemed to like her. A lot.

  She’d been smiling and friendly but not in that way. The Lieutenant was a veteran of the Pascayne PD, with a not-smooth history of dealing with “ethnic minorities” and he’d tried to make an impression on Ines Inglesias and when fairly quickly he’d understood that she wasn’t interested in him in that way his manner toward her changed—not mean, not nasty, but matter-of-fact, impersonal-professional. He’d been genial enough, even courteous to Iglesias, at least to her face; obviously, he had not sabotaged her promotion to detective.

  But all that was changed, now. Since Sybilla Frye.

  That first call. A rock thrown through a window of her life.

  It had come to Iglesias, at home. In that dead time-lull after she’d returned from the precinct and changed into a sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers but before she’d prepared a meal and had her first glass of wine of the day while watching TV; as, later, she would lie in bed and read until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer, a book from the local library, often a novel by a woman writer frequently but not exclusively Hispanic-American. And so utterly unprepared she’d answered the phone with what would seem to her in retrospect a naïve hopefulness, a wish to speak with someone, a friend, a relative, anyone who knew her as Ines and not Iglesias. And it had been a fellow detective, in fact a former partner, who’d told her sneeringly to turn on her TV to channel four, the 6:00 P.M. Newark news.

  Iglesias’s first glimpse of fiery crusader Reverend Marus Mudrick.

  She’d known the name, and something of the reputation, but she hadn’t realized immediately that the ranting black man on the TV screen, on a sort of stage, was in fact Marus Mudrick; she had no idea what he was talking about in such fierce, declamatory tones, like a Pentecostal preacher, until she heard a name—Sybilla Frye?

  Iglesias groped for a chair, to sit. All strength had drained from her legs.

  Sybilla Frye! Iglesias’s first thought was that the girl had been murdered.

  Sybilla Frye’s mother had insisted that Sybilla’s life was in danger. The lives of the Frye family were all in danger. Iglesias had supposed there might be truth to this charge, if not the truth the Fryes were insisting upon.

  Since early October Iglesias had made little headway in the Sybilla Frye case. She’d been thwarted at every step. Yet, Iglesias hadn’t given up.

  Now on TV Reverend Mudrick was no longer ranting before an audience but being interviewed by a lithe blond reporter. It was the conclusion of a “news conference” he’d convened in Newark to “expose” the Sybilla Frye case to the world.

  White cops. Rape. Cover-up. Death threats.

  Permanently traumatized fifteen-year-old black girl.

  Pascayne cops. Nazi-racist-swine.

  The news clip had been brief, scarcely three minutes. Iglesias would catch it again on the 11:00 P.M. Newark news and hear the righteous accusatory black voice reverberate as in a vast echo chamber inside her skull through the long, insomniac night. At 4:00 A.M. staring at her sick, sallow face in a bathroom mirror eyes pleading This can’t be happening. It will be the end of my career, that has scarcely begun. How can this be happening!

  “They refuse to meet with me. They refuse to meet with anyone associated with law enforcement. The mother refuses to bring the daughter to headquarters, or to come to headquarters herself. They’ve said they are ‘fearful of their lives’—‘white cops’ will kill them. Now that Marus Mudrick is their ‘spokesman,’ and his brother Byron is their ‘legal counsel,’ they are not accessible to any law enforcement officers. We have no power to bring them into custody. We can’t arrest them. They haven’t formally reported a crime. They haven’t pressed charges. At the news conferences Reverend Mudrick accuses ‘white cops’—he accuses the ‘white power structure’ of a cover-up—but Reverend Mudrick never names names. He is very careful never to make specific charges against specific individuals. The ‘interview’ I had with Sybilla Frye in St. Anne’s Hospital wasn’t recorded—the mother refused to allow me to record it. The mother and the girl were cooperative initially—for a few minutes—then abruptly ceased to be cooperative. At the Frye residence, on Third Street, I spoke briefly with Mrs. Frye—she ordered me from the premises. At the great-grandmother’s apartment on Eleventh Street where Sybilla was staying, I was allowed to have a glimpse of Sybilla, who was in a back bedroom, ‘convalescing’—not in any evident physical distress, that I could see. Sybilla did not speak to me and I was not allowed to speak to Sybilla. And then, I was ordered from the premises.

  “Ednetta Frye has said she will not bring her daughter back to St. Anne’s for further medical examinations. When the girl was brought in, the mother refused to allow a ‘pelvic exam.’ There is no ‘rape kit’—no evidence of ‘sexual assault.’ Yet, rape is claimed. Multiple rapes are claimed. The mother has taken the girl to a doctor in Red Rock. And this doctor—who refuses to be ‘interrogated’—confirms only that Sybilla Frye is his patient. His patients’ records are private, he says. He will acknowledge that the girl is ‘under his care,’ and ‘doing well.’

  “We have interviewed many people. Social workers, welfare workers, the girl’s teachers, family and relatives. Neighbors of the Fryes, residents of Red Rock. We know that the mother Ednetta went ‘searching’ for the girl on the day before she was found. We know the circumstances in which she was ‘found.’ But we can’t get to the girl. We can’t interview her. We can’t stop Reverend Mudrick from making charges against the department. He speaks of ‘justice’ for Sybilla Frye but he refuses to cooperate with the Pascayne PD or the district attorney’s office.”

  Her voice was calm, reasonable.

  Her voice was raw, rattling like a runaway freight train.

  Always she was hearing her voice. Words that were truthful and yet deceitful-sounding, desperate.

  A coldly sober voice. A drunken bawling voice.

  In her sleep, and in that twilit interlude between sleep and waking, and waking and sleep. Alone, in her car, driving to the precinct in the devastated interior of Red Rock; alone, as she felt herself increasingly isolated and ostracized within the Pascayne PD, at her desk scarcely less than three feet from neighboring desks, yet remote from her neighbors; in the women’s restroom,
where frequently she fled to hide in a toilet stall, to soak paper towels to dampen and cool her face hot as fever. As in a nightmare of disintegration and despair even as the earth sinks away beneath your feet you will hear your voice in a semblance of manic calm O God You would not let this happen. I have been a good person, I have tried so hard to be a good person believing that I can make a difference and this is true, I know this is true, I could make a difference in that girl’s life, even in Ednetta Frye’s life if she would allow me. How has this gone wrong, why do they hate me who wants only to be their friend?

  These words she could not speak to the Lieutenant. She would find other words with which to speak to the Lieutenant. For she could not believe truly that the man despised her.

  As it’s said we can’t believe that we are mortal and must die, so we can’t believe that, unfairly, unreasonably, someone despises us.

  SEVERAL TIMES, IGLESIAS AND HER PARTNER HAD SOUGHT OUT Anis Schutt, the common-law stepfather of Sybilla Frye.

  Anis Schutt, who’d spent seven years in Rahway for having beaten his first wife to death.

  Anis Schutt, who had a criminal record dating back to 1950. A man of whom it was said Anis he have some temper!

  Ednetta had been reluctant to speak of Anis Schutt to the detectives. Saying it was hurtful to her, it was shameful to her, Anis was away from the house so much not telling her where in hell he was, with whom he was staying or what he was doing, if she asked he’d get furious with her sayin That aint your fuckin bus’ness, woman.

  The way he said woman, Ednetta felt the disgust.

  Ednetta had sworn, Anis had nothing to do with Sybilla, or any of the children—Like, he don’t take no mind of them, Officers. He didn’t take much mind of his own chil’ren. All they need remember is stay out of Anis’s way when he be home, and things be OK. Like, Anis is not a stingy man, he got money he will be generous. Nobody here ever went hungry or at Christmastime didn’t have presents.

  In person Anis Schutt was not forthcoming. One of those many citizens of Red Rock who hated, feared, distrusted cops.

  The man frowned, grimaced, sucked at his mouth, stared at the floor. It wasn’t clear if he understood what was being asked of him.

  He was a thick-bodied man in his early fifties, looking older. Broken capillaries in close-set eyes. A flat broad broken nose. Very dark skin in which light seemed to disappear. Mangled-looking fingers. Labored breathing. His employment was sporadic—most recently, Passaic County sanitation.

  Mr. Schutt where were you when. What is your relationship with. When was the last time you saw Sybilla Frye before she went missing on October 4 for two days.

  Anis Schutt had known that the girl had been “missing” but he hadn’t seemed to know where she’d been “found” nor did he seem to know beyond a vague idea of “assault” what had happened to her, and what the charges of “white cops” meant. He’d kept asking the detectives What? What you sayin? His breathing grew alarmingly labored. His forehead oozed sweat. In the man’s face, in the small damp bloodshot eyes, an expression of consternation and something like horror.

  They smearin—what on her? Dog shit you sayin?

  Who’s this—“white cops”? Who the fuck done this?

  It soon seemed evident to Iglesias and her partner that Ednetta hadn’t told Anis Schutt about what had happened to Sybilla, or at least she hadn’t told him crucial details. Astonishing that the man didn’t seem to know what most of Red Rock had known within a few days. Or maybe—Iglesias thought this must be the case—no one had wanted to bring up the subject to Anis Schutt out of fear of the man’s reaction.

  They’d tried to explain to Anis Schutt what had happened, or was believed to have happened, to Sybilla; they’d told him about the factory cellar, the ambulance, St. Anne’s ER. Anis Schutt cupped his hand to his ear as if hard of hearing. What—what you sayin? Ednetta’s big girl? Who done this to her?

  Anis Schutt had been a heavy drinker for much of his life. Possibly now, he’d become mentally impaired.

  Iglesias wondered how Ednetta dared live with such a man. You could see that Anis Schutt had been handsome at one time—a swaggering masculine presence—a man for whom a woman might feel many kinds of desire; but now he was a wreck of a man. When he heaved himself up on his feet, in a sudden need to end the interview, his right knee nearly buckled.

  Afterward Ednetta complained bitterly they hadn’t needed to upset her husband like that. Anis didn’t know anything much about Sybilla or the other children—for the man the crucial thing was, they weren’t his—and now lately this past year or two he had symptoms that worried her but trying to get him to a doctor or a clinic was hopeless, God knows she tried. But Anis sayin he all right. Or, Anis sayin he don’t give a shit he live or die, already been livin long enough. Like to break my heart hearin that!

  HER (NEW, RELUCTANT) PARTNER HARVEY CURZDOI SAID IT was a gang thing. Raping the girl, the dog shit, hog-tied and they knew she wouldn’t die because someone would find her. Or, they told someone to find her. No one will ever name names, we’re totally fucked with this.

  And Iglesias had said Or maybe the stepfather? And no one will ever name him.

  PLAINCLOTHED AND OFF-DUTY AND ALONE INES IGLESIAS MADE a decision to attend the third “news conference” convened by Reverend Marus Mudrick, this time in Pascayne.

  Overnight, posters festooned the city, most concentrated in the Red Rock neighborhood—CRUSADE FOR JUSTICE FOR SYBILLA FRYE—DEC. 3, 4:00 P.M. AME ZION CHURCH CAMDEN AVE. PASCAYNE NJ.

  The previous two news conferences had been held in Newark where Reverend Mudrick had his headquarters. Moving to Pascayne which the Reverend called the “scene of the heinous race-crime” was a provocative act. The mayor’s office was on high alert. The Pascayne PD was on high alert. Six hours before the event was scheduled uniformed officers began to assemble on the streets surrounding the church. Police on foot, police in several types of vehicles including those vans used to transport the arrested and imprisoned. There was a clattering static of police radios like a ubiquitous buzzing of angry hornets.

  Uniformed men—(Iglesias could see only men, and virtually all of them white-skinned)—like soldiers waiting to defend an embattled city, hoping for an attack so that they could use their weaponry.

  The stucco church on Camden Avenue was one of the few buildings in the area that hadn’t been burnt down in the “riot” of 1967. Iglesias recalled tales of how terrified black people had fled into the church to escape police gunfire; how in several instances police officers had stormed the church, shooting. How many had been shot in the church, taken prisoner or left to die . . . But the mustard-colored church with its brave weatherworn cross had survived in the desolate neighborhood, and adjoining empty lots had been cultivated as AME community gardens, dormant now in early winter.

  Intimidation was police strategy, Iglesias knew. You tried to discourage crowds from gathering, with a visible display of police force.

  The high saturation of cops on Camden Avenue seemed to be having the effect of discouraging some people, older women, and women with children, from approaching the church—you could see them at a little distance, hesitating, and turning away. But most others pressed forward, unintimidated. Iglesias thought—Good for them!

  Already by 3:30 P.M. a crowd had gathered in the street, to file into the church; the church was too small for the numbers of people who wanted to come inside. And there were several rows of pews at the front of the church reserved for “press.” Since the assembly was in the church and on private property, police couldn’t charge the organizers with having failed to get a permit for the event; but there were sure to be many people left outside on the sidewalk, and in the street. It had been a shrewd decision of Mudrick’s, Iglesias thought—a way of provoking tension between the black crowd and the Pascayne PD.

  Marus Mudrick had a reputation for “innocently”—that is, deliberately—sowing confusion among even his followers; he’d led protest marches in
Newark and elsewhere that had ended in racial violence, police retaliation and arrests. Iglesias dreaded the hour when Mudrick would be injured or killed by a white racist. Or shot by a white cop. Leading his marches, Mudrick liked to boast that he wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest and he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  In front of the church were photographers, reporters, TV camera crews and bright lights, unnatural at this hour of the day. Here were “media people”—sought by Reverend Mudrick to promulgate his crusade.

  Not all of the media people were white. But even the dark-skinned among them looked and dressed conspicuously different from most Red Rock residents.

  Amid the yet-peaceful crowd filing into the church Ines Iglesias passed unnoticed. Not one police officer had so much as glanced at her, still less recognized her. No one among those entering the church knew her. Hispanic female in a long black leather coat, leather boots to the knee. Her fedora was pulled low over her forehead and her hair was pulled back into a neat Spanish knot. She wore tinted glasses of the hue of smoke. Her mouth was pale, with her sharp sculpted features Iglesias wore no makeup. Inside her clothes she carried her 9 mm police service revolver.

  Iglesias made her way to the front of the church and sat in the fifth row which was filling up quickly. The first several rows of pews had been reserved for “press.”