Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Twenty-Six

The SUNDAY Daily Midway

Obituaries

January 18, 2003

By Calvin Ward –– A 21-year-old college senior and aspiring chemist was laid to rest today in the Otis Memorial Garden on the city's west side, following an emotional service at the adjacent Greater Cairo Missionary Baptist Church.

Tonya Stone, who worked as a night-shift chemical evidence technician in the Chicago Police Department's main crime lab, died Tuesday morning of injuries she suffered Monday night in a car accident.

Police say that Stone, while driving to work, was struck by an apparent drunk driver at the intersection of Capital Drive and Center Street but, citing an "ongoing investigation," have not yet released the driver's name, age, or any identifying characteristics beyond gender – male.

Though it's a cliché to acknowledge it, Stone was the image of serenity in an open oak coffin – baby-faced, shoulder-length locks coifed to perfection, lips pursed in a curious smile, and hands clasped and resting on a teal-green sundress. "Summer was her favorite season, and that teal was her favorite color," said Bessie Stone, the deceased's mother. "I don't care how gray it is out there or how much snow and ice is on the ground. She will meet her maker in the warmth she loved so much."

Tonya Stone was survived by just two known living relatives, her 10-month-old daughter Tasha, and her mother, Bessie, a widow herself, and a retired teacher's aide.

In spite of the lack of a larger family network, Stone's funeral was well attended by neighbors, classmates, fellow parishioners from Greater Cairo, and even members of the police department, including Major Brian Norquist, commander of District 1, which includes oversight of the crime lab.

"Tonya Stone was a valued member of the Chicago police force," Norquist said, during a brief turn at the podium. "That's right, a member. In my eyes, and I know those of officers and fellow lab workers alike, she was one of us. She may not have worn a uniform or carried a badge, but she was family. And it was her good work that allowed us to make cases against the people who would harm our city and steal our safety. So, I promise you all, I promise you, Tonya, that we will get to the bottom of this and see that justice is done."

Several other speakers, including Dr. Daniel Pogano, a professor at Duquette University, and Greater Cairo Family Pastor Eldrick Willis, recalled Stone's desire to serve.

"From her youth, she was that girl, that young lady who would drop everything to cradle a bird that had fallen from its nest or walk an elderly person across a street," Willis said. "She truly was a model in the best sense of the word and will live on through her stalwart mother and beautiful little girl."

I re-read Tonya Stone's obituary and then lock the car and head toward the carved stone steps leading up to Greater Cairo.

The sanctuary is beautiful, all teak and mahogany. Hand-carved crown molding, matching pews. Even the baptismal pool is framed in red hardwood. And the stained glass? Incredible. It is a story unto itself, each panel depicting a stage in the historical journey of African Americans, from a beautiful village setting in an East African jungle clearing to the Middle Passage, to auction blocks and slave labor in cotton fields, to the Civil War and emancipation, Jim Crow, even the Tuskegee Airmen in World War II, the Civil Rights Movement, Dr. Mae Jemison's service as an astronaut in the nineteen-eighties, and, most recently, the election of a black President of the United States.

I'm so enthralled with the visual storytelling that I don't hear Rev. Willis approach.

"I can stare at these all day, myself."

He stops beside me and gestures toward the panel showing Harriet Tubman, pistol in one hand, waving rescued slaves into the moonlit night with her free hand.

"You know what they say - if we don't heed history, we're doomed to repeat it."

When I don't respond, he smiles ruefully, turns on his heels, and strides purposefully toward the pulpit. I follow. A hidden door opens in the wall closest to the pipe organ, and we go through.

Must be what the passage from Wayne Manor to the Bat Cave is like.

I've been in Willis's office before\. He was one of the first community leaders I met after moving to Chicago years earlier.

I place him in the same category as Baller Johnson - shameless and willing to do just about anything for a buck. He'd better hope whenever he takes his dying breath that the scripture, "seventy times seven hast thou forgiven," applies to him...and is more like seven hundred thousand times seven.

Past his buxom secretary, past the walls lined with framed photos of Willis with congregants, then bigger framed photos of Willis with politicians and actors, and African tribal masks that are probably worth a city block's worth of affordable housing, we enter Willis's private sanctuary and he slides behind his enormous desk, custom-made to resemble the President's Oval Office desk in the White House.

I drop into a plush visitor's chair across from him.

"Tasha Stone is missing and possibly in danger," I say, giving him no time to spin another yarn or share another boast with me.

My shot is more about getting a rise out of him than anything else. And...it fails. He gives no reaction - not a frown, not a startled look. Not a series of rapid eye blinks or an uncomfortable squirm. Willis is unflustered.

"I'm sorry, is she a congregant here?"

I'm not so polished as Willis and grimace at his question.

"Rev., respectfully, you know Tasha Stone. She has been attending this church with her grandmother Bessie since she was a baby. Tasha's mother, Bessie's daughter, Tonya attended this church. You delivered the sermon at Tonya's funeral. You were quoted in the newspaper about how special she was!"

Now the act.

"Oh, Tasha Stone! I'm sorry. It didn't register immediately."

A dismissive wave of the hand is the perfect flourish.

"Even so, son, I'm not sure how I can help. I mean, are the police aware she's missing? Surely, they must have plenty of resources into finding her."

I explain that yes, the police are looking for her and a friend, but when the streets don't want to be found they won't be found.

Willis nods.

"I'm told that you were kind enough to briefly counsel Tasha a couple of years ago when she was having a particularly hard time with her lack of memory of her mother. Sometimes vulnerable people say things to counselors that don't seem significant in the moment."

Willis fingers his Movado watch absentmindedly and raises Bruno Magli'd feet atop his desk.

He frowns and shakes his head, "No, no. This won't do. I'm sorry Mr. Wilson. I'll pray for Tasha and her grandmother. And if I think of anything that might point to her location, I'll relay it to the police. But I can't share with you what we discussed. People count on clergy for confidence. And if we can't guarantee that, we're useless."

It takes all my willpower to not retort about what it means to be useless.