community.
It not only made him more sympathetic, it also made him more accessible to suburban readers: Joseph Okeke wasn’t just another black guy who got killed in Newark, he was a Rotarian.
And, okay, maybe he wasn’t the perfect victim. But he was an acceptable victim. I definitely could have done worse.
* * *
I returned to my car and worked my phone a little until I found Okeke’s previous address, which corresponded to the current address of one Tujuka Okeke. It was closer to downtown, in an area of Newark known as University Heights.
It took less than ten minutes to get there. This is one of the advantages of traversing a city whose neighborhoods are 163,000 people short of peak population. Traffic in the middle of the day is usually pretty light.
What I found upon arrival was a detached, single-family home with a short driveway. It also had a fence around it, but this one was more than merely decorative. It was high enough to keep out the riff-raff, assuming the riff-raff weren’t Olympic high jumpers.
There was one car in the short driveway. It was a Toyota, maybe three or four years old. Not as savory a piece of bait for a carjacker.
I parked just outside. Again, I tried to prepare myself for what might await. Mrs. Okeke was not, technically, a widow. But it sounded like the split had been …
Well, let’s be clear: the term “amicable divorce” ranks alongside “jumbo shrimp” as an oxymoron. And yet it seemed Joseph and Tujuka Okeke had parted ways in as friendly a way as possible, at least civilly enough to allow what sounded like effective coparenting. And he was still the father of her children. She would have all kinds of conflicting emotions. I was willing to bet the mention of his name would bring tears to her eyes. The mention of his insurance company, meanwhile, might bring fire.
The gate had been left open, so I walked up the front steps and rang the bell. It was answered by a woman with jet-black skin and short-cropped graying hair.
“Ms. Okeke?” I said tentatively.
“Yes?”
“My name is Carter Ross. I’m a reporter with the Eagle-Examiner. I’m working on a story about Joseph.”
She didn’t cry. Instead, her face twisted at the mention of the name.
“I have nothing to say about him,” she spat.
She gripped the door like she was about to give it a high-velocity ride back to its jamb. Then she thought better of it for a second and added, “Joseph is a fool. For what he did? He got what he deserved.”
Then she slammed the door in my face.
Amicable divorce, meet jumbo shrimp.
I stayed on the stoop for another five seconds, my finger poised near the doorbell. Then I thought better. I wasn’t giving up on Tujuka Okeke. But I was going to let her breathe a little bit.
Retreating down the steps, I returned to my Malibu and got it rolling back toward the newsroom. Clearly, postmatrimonial relations between the Okekes had not been as cordial as I thought. Still, I wondered if there was something more going on. What foolish act had he committed? And who deserves death-by-carjacking?
It was another small thing about Joseph Okeke—like stopping at a green light late at night—that set my easily addled brain to work.
CHAPTER 8
I was five minutes away from the office when my phone rang again. This time I managed to interrupt my daddy-delirium before it reached seizure stage and pulled my phone—more or less calmly—out of my pocket.
Then I saw where the number was coming from and started shaking all over again. It was someone in the newsroom.
This was it. Tina had doubled over with a contraction just outside the copy desk and grabbed the nearest phone to demand I take her to the hospital.
“Carterross,” I said breathlessly.
“Carter, my boy, it’s Harold Brodie. How are you today?”
Hearing our executive editor’s voice, which kept getting higher and breathier as he worked his way deeper into his eighth decade, did little to soothe my nerves.
It not only made him more sympathetic, it also made him more accessible to suburban readers: Joseph Okeke wasn’t just another black guy who got killed in Newark, he was a Rotarian.
And, okay, maybe he wasn’t the perfect victim. But he was an acceptable victim. I definitely could have done worse.
* * *
I returned to my car and worked my phone a little until I found Okeke’s previous address, which corresponded to the current address of one Tujuka Okeke. It was closer to downtown, in an area of Newark known as University Heights.
It took less than ten minutes to get there. This is one of the advantages of traversing a city whose neighborhoods are 163,000 people short of peak population. Traffic in the middle of the day is usually pretty light.
What I found upon arrival was a detached, single-family home with a short driveway. It also had a fence around it, but this one was more than merely decorative. It was high enough to keep out the riff-raff, assuming the riff-raff weren’t Olympic high jumpers.
There was one car in the short driveway. It was a Toyota, maybe three or four years old. Not as savory a piece of bait for a carjacker.
I parked just outside. Again, I tried to prepare myself for what might await. Mrs. Okeke was not, technically, a widow. But it sounded like the split had been …
Well, let’s be clear: the term “amicable divorce” ranks alongside “jumbo shrimp” as an oxymoron. And yet it seemed Joseph and Tujuka Okeke had parted ways in as friendly a way as possible, at least civilly enough to allow what sounded like effective coparenting. And he was still the father of her children. She would have all kinds of conflicting emotions. I was willing to bet the mention of his name would bring tears to her eyes. The mention of his insurance company, meanwhile, might bring fire.
The gate had been left open, so I walked up the front steps and rang the bell. It was answered by a woman with jet-black skin and short-cropped graying hair.
“Ms. Okeke?” I said tentatively.
“Yes?”
“My name is Carter Ross. I’m a reporter with the Eagle-Examiner. I’m working on a story about Joseph.”
She didn’t cry. Instead, her face twisted at the mention of the name.
“I have nothing to say about him,” she spat.
She gripped the door like she was about to give it a high-velocity ride back to its jamb. Then she thought better of it for a second and added, “Joseph is a fool. For what he did? He got what he deserved.”
Then she slammed the door in my face.
Amicable divorce, meet jumbo shrimp.
I stayed on the stoop for another five seconds, my finger poised near the doorbell. Then I thought better. I wasn’t giving up on Tujuka Okeke. But I was going to let her breathe a little bit.
Retreating down the steps, I returned to my Malibu and got it rolling back toward the newsroom. Clearly, postmatrimonial relations between the Okekes had not been as cordial as I thought. Still, I wondered if there was something more going on. What foolish act had he committed? And who deserves death-by-carjacking?
It was another small thing about Joseph Okeke—like stopping at a green light late at night—that set my easily addled brain to work.
CHAPTER 8
I was five minutes away from the office when my phone rang again. This time I managed to interrupt my daddy-delirium before it reached seizure stage and pulled my phone—more or less calmly—out of my pocket.
Then I saw where the number was coming from and started shaking all over again. It was someone in the newsroom.
This was it. Tina had doubled over with a contraction just outside the copy desk and grabbed the nearest phone to demand I take her to the hospital.
“Carterross,” I said breathlessly.
“Carter, my boy, it’s Harold Brodie. How are you today?”
Hearing our executive editor’s voice, which kept getting higher and breathier as he worked his way deeper into his eighth decade, did little to soothe my nerves.
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