Mrs. Diaz was a handsome woman with broad cheekbones and strong hands. We were walking down a hallway running around the perimeter of the building. All the classrooms had windows facing the hallways, which gave the construction a large and airy feel, more like a fine office building than a prison school. We stopped in front of a classroom where a group of twenty teenagers, dressed alike in white shirts and navy pants, were sitting in a semicircle around a teacher in goggles performing a chemistry experiment.
“The day for our children starts early in the morning,” said Mrs. Diaz. “We have a regular school curriculum, supplemented in the afternoons with classes designed to meet the specific needs of the individual child. The afternoon classes include group therapy. What we have found is that these children go back to school with their scholastic skills improved to such a point that they excel, which is primarily why our graduates generally do so well on the outside. Through our monitoring and counseling program, which continues long after the children leave here, we have found that almost ninety percent have stayed off of drugs and out of trouble.”
“Explain to Mr. Carl where our funding comes from, Loretta,” said the councilman as we continued our walk down the hall.
“We get some support from the city,” she said. “Councilman Moore has been able to secure for us some federal funds. And of course there are private donations. Whatever you’d like to give, Mr. Carl,” she said with a warm smile, “would be greatly appreciated. And then CUP, Citizens for a United Philadelphia, has been extremely generous. In the past, whenever we have anticipated a shortfall, CUP has balanced our budget.”
We followed Loretta Diaz up a flight of stairs into a gym where a large class of young men and women in their blue pants and white shirts were marching, in short-order drill, like soldiers on the parade ground. A teacher was barking out commands, “Left face. Right face. Quarterturn. About face,” and the marchers were chanting together, to the beat of their footsteps, “We got to go home on our left, our right, we got to go home on our left, our right.”
“There’s a consensus growing around the country,” said Mrs. Diaz, “that army-type discipline helps build self-esteem. So-called boot camps. I’m not so certain about whether it works or not, but the President is enamored with the idea and so it helps with the grant monies. As our plans for the future are ambitious, everything we can do to increase our funding we do. Besides, the children seem to actually like it.”
“What exactly are your ambitions?” I asked as the footsteps of the marchers and the chanting rose around us. Left. Left. Your left, your right. Left.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought the councilman explained all that to you. The Nadine Moore Youth Home is a pilot program. We only have room in this facility for one student out of every thirty who are referred to us. Our goal is to build fifteen more here in Philadelphia and then expand into other cities. This home acts not only as a center for these children but also as a laboratory, and we expect our success here will serve as the model for a great bloom of healing. Our great hope,” she said, as the councilman surveyed the troops marching to and fro on the basketball court, something wet and glistening in his eyes as they chanted, Sound off, one two, little louder, three four, kick it around, one two three four one two – threefour, “our great dream,” she said, “is that for every child in this country struggling with drugs there be a Nadine Moore Youth Home to help her through her time of deepest need.”
“This is our next one,” he said. Henry had driven us to a vacant lot on Lehigh Avenue, across from a stream of crumbling row houses and boarded-up stores. A school was up the avenue just a bit. “The Art Museum fund-raiser gave us just enough to complete the effort. We start construction in two months. This will be twice the size of the facility you saw.”
“It certainly is a grand ambition,” I said.
“It will be her immortality,” said Jimmy Moore. “After she died I realized that what had killed my daughter was not someone else’s problem. It was everywhere. And I was in a position to do something about it. Something. For the first time I saw what politics could be about and it was not about hating or getting. That was when my passion reared and my mission began. First fight the dealers, then heal the children. We are making progress on both fronts and when I become mayor we’ll win it all. We’ll put the lords of death out of business and build those youth homes throughout the city. And not just homes, youth centers, boys’ clubs and girls’ clubs. I can do it. I will do it. It was as good as done before they set me up.”
“Who set you up?”
“I don’t know exactly. Maybe the mayor, maybe the dealers. I was in danger before the indictment. Why do you think I ride around in that limousine? My City Council car was shot up more than once by my enemies. But my black beauty is bulletproof now and I continue on. Then the feds, after consulting with the mayor, determined my fund-raising extortionate. And even if it is, so what? The money is going to the right place. But then came the murder and the arson and they decided to pin that on me too.”
“So you didn’t kill Bissonette?”
He turned to me and looked me square in the eye. “No,” he said without a flicker of his eye, without a hesitation in his voice. “Absolutely not. Why would I kill that boy? For money? That’s the problem with prosecutors, they’re so willing to sell out for a small piece of change they think everyone else is too. I’m on the track to something big, huge, and you’ve just seen the tip of it. Besides, did you know that the money Bissonette was able to mysteriously raise for Ruffing came from Raffaello?”
So that was what Raffaello had meant when he said Jimmy was too smart to kill as part of the extortion plot. What he meant was that Jimmy was too smart to fight him. “If you didn’t kill him, why are you setting up Chester to take the fall?” I asked.
“Because I don’t have a choice,” he said quickly.
“Bullshit.”
He let out a sigh, took out a cigarette, tapped it on its box, and lit it. “Maybe it is bullshit. Maybe I’m just a coward, I don’t know. I hire a lawyer, the best in the city, and I tell him to do anything he has to do to get me off and save my dream. He’s a hard bastard, clever, and what he tells me is that if he can’t prove who actually did the killing, the only way to get me off is to go after Chet. He told me we needed an attorney to represent Chet who wouldn’t get in the way. Someone he could control. First it was McCrae. But then he took his ill-advised trip to Chinatown and so we needed someone else.”
“And that was me,” I said bitterly. The cabana boy.
“He told me it was my only choice. That if it works right it will make the government’s case look so weak we might both get off.” Jimmy took a deep drag from the cigarette and let it out slowly. “So I told him to go ahead.”
“Even if Chester ended up behind bars for good.”
“What do you think, I like this? I don’t have a choice. No choice at all. We’re in a war here, fighting to build something grand and noble, but as in any war there will be casualties. Concannon might be one. I’ll take care of Chet, and he knows it. But my enemies are coming after me. I won’t let them win. If they do, it is the children who will pay the price. We need you to stick with us, to follow Prescott’s direction and foil the government’s plot against me. I brought you here so you would be aware of all you are endangering if you oppose us. Together we can make a difference.” He flicked his cigarette onto a tuft of weeds sprouting through cracked brick and it smoldered there. “If you want, I’ll put you on the board of CUP. A terrific position for a young lawyer. Together we can change the world for the better.”