Ghettoside (16 page)

Bryant had never mixed with many of the young people in his neighborhood before. His parents had carefully controlled his activities. It is one of the astonishing details of Bryant’s story that despite having lived, as his father wanted, in the same house all his life, he was a stranger to kids living on the same block. Wally and Yadira had limited him to private school friends and the children of families they trusted. Bryant was extraordinarily sheltered.

But now he was on foot or on his bike around the neighborhood, and made his first acquaintance with some of the young people nearby. A short walk from his house was a shabby rental home where a family with gang ties lived. Older family members were more involved, a younger one, Christopher Wilson, less so, though compelled by his relations into some fellowship with the 8-Trey Gangster Crips. Walter Lee Bridges was a friend of Wilson’s. With Josh Henry and some other young men, they formed a loose clique of what Josh would later call “affiliated” kids. Young men in South Central borrowed cop’s jargon as readily as cops expropriated theirs: “affiliated” referred to youths who weren’t necessarily criminal or violent but were inclined or obliged to be on friendly terms with the gang. None of Josh’s friends were “hard-core” gang members. But they had all been in fights from time to time, and some had been shot at. They knew friends who had been murdered. They had an unwritten code of having each other’s backs if need be.

Mostly, they just hung out together, fixed up their bicycles, smoked pot, and tried to figure out how to be cool and meet girls. Many white suburban teenage boys spent their time in much the same way. Asked later why Bryant had taken to wearing a baseball cap with the insignia of the Houston Astros on it—the covert symbol of the nearby 8-Trey
Hoover Criminals—Josh reacted as if the answer were self-evident. For the same reason they all wore such attire, he said: “To get girls!”

That spring, Bryant, Chris, Walter, and Josh began hanging out regularly. Their circle eventually expanded to Chris’s girlfriend and her pretty cousin Arielle Walker from down the street. Arielle was black-eyed with a hint of ruddy cinnamon in her complexion. Her father was in prison for murder.

To the group, it was as if Bryant Tennelle were a visitor from some exotic shore. He was astoundingly naïve. He had never drunk alcohol, didn’t fight, and knew nothing about gangs. He didn’t even know how to kiss a girl. He had this nice home and proper family and an intimidating cop for a dad who puttered in the driveway with his cigars. And not only did Bryant work, he was
punctual
, something none of the rest of them were. Bryant would hang out, then cut it short to start his shifts. The others liked him and called him by his last name. But they didn’t know what to make of him, with his beloved pet ducks and chickens and his gentle, sensitive ways. He wasn’t aggressive. He wasn’t loud. He sought to downplay conflicts. He wanted everyone to get along.

The last part was most novel of all. Lawless violence burdens black men as no one else. Walking with a bopping limp that suggests you have survived your share of street fights, yelling a lot, wheeling your eyes around angrily—these were learned behaviors among ghettoside men, affectations they adopted as preemptive defense against attack. Appearing weak was dangerous. Many men described having been robbed and threatened from childhood, relieved of their lunch money on the way to school, beaten up for backpacks and shoes, constantly called out to fight. Undersized boys were tormented, tall ones tested. It was frustrating and draining. Many black men were left with a version of the sickening sensation most males probably feel at some point in childhood, knowing a bully awaits them after school, wanting to fight. But the difference for these men was that the feeling was sharpened by fear of death and pervaded their adult lives. The stress wrought deep unhappiness. In the streets of the Seventy-seventh, men talked of suicide. Others were fatalistic and resigned. Lots of men, deep down, didn’t want to fight. They
tried to avoid it, acting tough to discourage challengers. They conveyed, with every mannerism and gesture, a message that said “Don’t mess with me.” It was an exhausting act to keep up. But it was worth it to feel safer.

Josh, Walter, and Chris wanted to toughen up Bryant. They threw play punches at him, trying to get him to jab and dodge. They tried to educate him in street codes. Bryant was too kind, raised too well. “He was nowhere near us,” Chris said. So far above them, he meant.

Arielle was so unfamiliar with middle-class mores that she was amazed by the simple fact that Bryant got up early every morning. She knew hardly anyone who did that. “It changed us so much as a group,” Arielle recalled. “We never had anyone like him around.” Before long, she and Bryant were dating.

Bryant’s family was less enthusiastic about his new social life. DeeDee had no patience for Bryant’s “hanging out.” She considered Arielle “a hoodrat” and the rest of the bunch “unsavory.” She was worried. Bryant was a sponge, she observed—easily influenced. “If he doesn’t get his act together, it will drive my parents crazy,” she thought. She began job hunting for him, poring through lists of city openings in the hope of finding something more durable than the hourly, part-time work Bryant was doing.

For his part, Wally Tennelle was on high alert. At work, he increased his detours to check up on Bryant. The cop side of his brain was fully engaged. He studied his son’s clothes and movements and scrutinized his friends. Bryant was too old for his parents to dictate his friendships. But Tennelle watched, all the time. He perceived the rough vibrations around Chris Wilson and Walter Lee Bridges. But he could also tell they were not “hard-core.” He recognized them as that familiar, softer breed of “affiliated” kids. Both young men were intelligent and likable—good guys, there was no doubt about it. They couldn’t help where they’d grown up. Tennelle knew that Bryant was mostly building bicycles with them. He knew that this pursuit meant a lot to Bryant. When he questioned him, Bryant assured him it was bicycles he liked, not gang-banging.

Yadira worried, too. But she never knew how deeply anxious her
husband was over Bryant. Wally Tennelle would get up at 2:00
A.M
. to check Bryant’s room and make sure he was home. He churned with anxiety every time Bryant left the house. He harped on Bryant’s whereabouts, nagged him about his social activities. Time after time, he gave the same lecture: “You walk like a duck, talk like a duck, and people gonna think you are a gangster.” Despite the strains, the two remained close, collaborating on projects around the house.

Bryant showered in the bathroom off his parents’ room because the main bathroom was kept clean for guests. It afforded Wally an opportunity to covertly examine his bare skin. One day, he caught a glimpse of Bryant’s exposed back and saw what he dreaded: a new tattoo. It was not any symbol he recognized, no gang or neighborhood name. It was simply a logo of the city, the name “Los Angeles” with scrolls and angel wings. Wally confronted Bryant. There was another scene like the earring episode. But Tennelle was up against the fact that his youngest was no longer a child: “What can you do?” he said later. He had no legal right to demand that Bryant wear different clothes or have another girlfriend. “He is eighteen years old. You can’t chain him down. You can’t drive him out of the house.”

At the same time, Wally Tennelle was an astute enough observer of gang life to perceive that his son was not like the gangsters he had spent his career arresting. Bryant held jobs and was obviously committed to them. He got up early, worked hard, and was always on time. He was studying hard to get his final credits to get his diploma. Most of all, Bryant remained the “good boy” his parents had always known him to be. There was no new shift in attitude. Bryant was never sullen. He was always good-natured, obedient even when he didn’t have to be, loving to his mother, bonding with his father over various innocent pursuits—tropical fish and show-quality roosters—although neighbors’ complaints finally forced the family to give up the birds. Wally Tennelle knew these were not the hallmarks of a gang-banging criminal. And when he confronted Bryant, all those years of protective parenting were turned back on him: “Daddy!” Bryant remonstrated. “You raised me better than that!”

All teenagers go through phases. Wally and Yadira hoped they would get Bryant back on track when he got his driver’s license back. June 29 was the date they were waiting for.

By spring Bryant finished his class and at last he had the credits to get his diploma. It was cause for a family celebration. Wally and Yadira were so proud. Bryant told Arielle how happy he was. He told her how long he had been yearning to please his parents.

Yadira accompanied Bryant to pick up his diploma. Reiter and Bryant’s other teachers were planning a party. And there was more good news: with DeeDee’s help, Bryant had a secured a job with the City of Los Angeles Department of Recreation and Parks working with youths. DeeDee hoped this would turn into a career in public employment. She was now an accountant at LAX, working for the city, just like her father. Her aunt was also a municipal employee. DeeDee dubbed them “a city family.” The parks job would give Bryant a chance to shine in a new arena as a mentor to kids. He would thrive, she thought.

It was Friday, May 11, before Mother’s Day weekend. Bryant was to start his new job Monday. It seemed appropriate, like a Mother’s Day gift to Yadira. She had been hoping for so long for all these pieces to fall in place—the high school diploma, the real job. Bryant was excited to show his parents he knew how much effort they’d poured into him, wanted to show them how much he appreciated it.

He told Arielle to expect him later that evening because he wanted to buy a Mother’s Day basket for Yadira. Arielle was going to give him a lift.

The sun had not yet set. Bryant had some time on his hands. He bought a root beer with Walter and strolled along Eightieth Street pushing his bike.

“IT’S MY SON”

Wally and Yadira Tennelle did not hear the
pap-pap
of gunfire a short distance away.

As Walter Lee Bridges fled and Bryant collapsed, the couple were at home doing what they always did on Friday evenings—puttering, alone and together, doing their own thing. Yadira was in the shower. Wally was contemplating the cars in the driveway, about to move them.

At the shooting scene, Arielle Walker ran across the intersection to the cluster of screaming teenagers.

She saw Bryant on the ground, paramedics all around. Her eyes fixed on the cap full of blood.

She thought of Bryant’s mother. She grabbed the cap and ran.

Wally Tennelle had begun to move the cars when he saw a young girl coming toward him, weeping.
Again
, he thought.
Now what?
He braced himself for his neighbors’ latest drama.

Arielle quavered when she saw him. She was looking for Yadira. To Arielle, Bryant’s mother had always seemed approachable, kind—everyone in the neighborhood loved Yadira. Arielle barely knew Wally. She knew he was a cop and was intimidated. It hadn’t occurred to her
that she might see him first. But he fixed her with his gentle eyes. She would remember his first words to her: “I can help you. What’s wrong?”

Then his eyes dropped to her hand, to the blood-filled cap in her fingers.

Tennelle spoke before Arielle had a chance to, his eyes on the cap.

He knew that cap. “It’s my son,” he said.

The instant was all the notification he needed. He had not been a homicide detective all those years for nothing. As soon as he saw the hat, saw how much blood was on the cap, he understood that something irreversible had happened.

Tennelle thought of his wife inside. He called to her. She was still in the shower. He put Arielle in his car and drove over.

Josh, looking up, saw the big sedan zoom up and the door fly open. Tennelle hopped out while it was still rolling, its wheels coming to rest against the curb. He looked around. Bryant was on the grass surrounded by paramedics. The cops were putting up tape.

Tennelle noted his son’s position and scanned the street. Later he would be able to describe the scene using the same tone and terminology as for a hundred other crime scenes.
Victim down. Feet facing west
.

He turned to one of the cops and motioned toward Arielle.
This witness
, he said,
needs to be secured
.

He carefully placed the cap on the ground near his son’s head. Evidence. It belonged there.

He told the paramedics he would meet them at the hospital. He got back in his sedan and went to face Yadira.

Nearby, the man with the tile cutter was aware that a plainclothes cop with a professional bearing had arrived in a sedan. He assumed he was an LAPD detective sent to investigate. Only later did he learn who the detective was. He never heard him say a word.

“I think Bryant got shot.”

That’s how Yadira Tennelle remembers her husband putting it.

Please no
, she had thought. When he got back, she was out of the shower, waiting.