The Short and Tragic Life of Robert Peace (42 page)

The door on the plane had kinked only a fraction of an inch. When he pulled the can back farther and once again closed the bay door, everything looked fine. The super tug was already hooked to the nose of the aircraft and facing away at such an angle that his partner hadn't witnessed anything. Rob folded the rails down on the can and returned to his passenger seat.

“Good to go,” he said.

Twenty minutes later, the plane idled at the proper gate, and the delayed, disgruntled passengers were boarding while the dispatcher laid into Rob about the holdup. The luggage crew hurriedly loaded the plane, disengaged the can, and closed the cargo bay door. Then the communication paused, and runway workers began gathering beneath the cargo bay door, squinting upward. The pilot had radioed the tower that a warning light was flashing in the cockpit because the luggage compartment had failed to seal properly. The maintenance team arrived with ladders and quickly identified the damage. The plane was put out of commission and towed to a hangar by another team. The passengers would have to wait three hours for the next available plane. The physical replacement of the door would cost roughly $20,000; the labor and service costs associated with interchanging planes and travelers missing connections most likely ended up in the same vicinity. The question became: Who was the last person to handle the door?

Rob came forward. He told them that the door had looked fine when he'd left the last gate, perhaps figuring that the blame would be dispersed among the whole crew, or perhaps, like the child who'd once spilled milk in the kitchen on Chapman Street, he was simply relying on the old reflex of figuring out how this was not his own fault.

The surveillance footage from the tarmac revealed whose fault it was before the day was over.

Accidents like this happened from time to time, and a protocol existed. The very first step of that protocol was a urine sample.

Rob refused to provide one.

He also refused to file the first of three appeals granted him by the union's contract with the airline.

After an afternoon spent getting reamed out by various supervisors, both on the tarmac and in the administrative offices above where his skills had once been sought, he was fired. No one there except Lisa Wingo heard from him again.

T
HE
F
ACEBOOK MESSAGE
from Rob came in August 2010:

Long time no hear from. Just checking in on u and the family. I hope all is well.

I replied:

Hey Rob! Was talking to Ty and he said you're back home again. Hope we can catch up next time we're in NYC—probably Christmas. Wishing you all the best till then . . . jeff

The previous fall, Rebecca had given birth to our daughter, Lucy. Via Facebook (and in the midst of my disbelief that Rob had created an account), I'd sent him a few pictures. In reply, along with the words, “She's beaooooootiful,” he'd attached his own photo, from Rio, backlit by the sunset, each arm around a curvy woman in a thong bikini, all of their respective features obscured by shadow except for the whiteness of Rob's grin. I knew that he'd worked at the airport, but not in what capacity; I'd assumed he'd taken some kind of corporate job. I had no idea that over our last three years of periodic visits to friends and family in New York, on the few instances when we'd calculated that the cheaper flights into Newark International were worth the extra cab fare
from there to Brooklyn, Rob might have been the one handling our bags on the tarmac below. His words, “Long time no hear from,” were true, and the distance was my fault. Since September 2009, I'd been taken up in my role as more or less a stay-at-home dad, and I was overly prideful about it (a mother walking around with her infant was generally probed for her flaws in the role, while a father seemed to be given undue accolades for showing even minor aptitude). In the mornings I tinkered with a novel revision that, in theory, was supposed to lift our family out of the debt we'd undertaken to have our child. I seemed to spend much of that time changing commas into dashes, then back into commas. Forgotten was the literary success that Yale and a splashy first novel had seemed to promise; all I wanted was for us to be out of the red for a year. Embedded within these anxieties was the larger question of what difference it actually made. In college, immersed in classes taught by famous academic minds on Shakespeare and Faulkner and Dante and Joyce, I'd presumptuously dreamed of being a “writer” who “mattered.” Now that I was trying to accomplish that dream and failing to be much of a writer at all, let alone one who mattered, writing began to strike me as inherently selfish. All the highbrow talk of “cultural measuring sticks” that had characterized college writing classes played on rewind in my head and sounded self-gratifying at best.

I began to envy people like Ty and Rob, who had geared their education around science: concrete contributions to the well-being of the people around them. In my small world, the only thing I seemed capable of that had any functional significance was to raise decent children, children who were unfairly difficult for us to have. The multiple miscarriages had familiarized us with the concept of potential, which, politics aside, was really all an unborn child was. With each loss, I'd experienced anew the thousands of footballs I would never be throwing into a son's outstretched arms, the hundreds of ponytails I would never be twisting on a daughter's tangled hair (the image of which called to mind, as it still does when I wrangle Lucy's hair, all those women investing precious hours in Rob's cornrows during college). Ironically, upon
losing each fetus, I had wondered with increasing power what kind of father I would be. Now I was a father, and I was determined to be an active one—to participate in the evolving personhood of my daughter, hopefully with some level of competence.

Jackie, when pregnant with Rob, had never imagined that the little kicking body within her would one day be the leader of his class at St. Benedict's before going on to Yale. She'd hoped it, or something like it, but she'd never divined a reality in which it would actually
be.
The reality he seemed destined for, back then, had more to do with the streets in and around East Orange, the task of staying afloat, and a stable job. Now, twenty-nine years later, her son's life was tied to two of those things. The third, his job, had fled him.

Jackie missed her son. The feeling was reminiscent of but more heartbreaking than when he'd left for college. Back then, in the fall of 1998, she'd cried every night for two months. But those tears had been laced with pride, hope, relief, and a litany of positive emotions that had accompanied this pinnacle of all her son's achievements (and, sadly, admission to Yale still remained the pinnacle twelve years later). Now, in the late autumn of 2010, there were no tears. Though Rob was technically living on Chapman Street, spending most afternoons sitting beside Frances in the living room, reading and watching TV and holding his grandmother's hand, he was not
present
there. He didn't listen to her in the same way. He wasn't curious about her days. He still left money on the counter even after losing his job, $100 or $200 a month, but he did so without the pride that had previously fueled him. The gesture was more automated than that, the way a smoker pulls from a cigarette while wishing he could kick the habit. He rarely slept in the house. She didn't know where he slept, or if he slept at all.

In Rob's stead, Carl typically stayed at Chapman Street. Jackie wasn't comfortable spending nights in the house without a male presence, for
security purposes, particularly with Frances sleeping on the ground floor. Carl was the only one around without family tying him elsewhere, so he did this to help look out for her, as she'd always looked out for him. On a number of evenings, she'd heard the particular choking of Rob's engine turning off Center Street onto Chapman, and she'd looked out the window as the beater trudged its way down the block, leaning back from the part in the curtain so that he wouldn't notice her watching. When Rob saw Carl's car parked, he accelerated and made a right onto Hickory, and headed back toward East Orange in the dusky light, away from her.

Rob on the “stairway to heaven,” below the Cristo Redentor statue in Rio de Janeiro. He would often call this 2003 trip the best time of his life.

Part VI

The Gray Area

Postmeal at one of Raquel Diaz's dinner parties on 119th Street in Spanish Harlem, during which she typically tried to set Rob up on dates. “Girl,” he told Raquel once, “I wouldn't know what to do with a good woman even if I found one.”

Chapter 14

M
Y FIRST FOUR YEARS
, we led the nation in crime reduction,” Cory Booker said in a 2010 interview. This had been one of his top priorities entering office in 2006, and he touted the statistics proudly as he ran for reelection. As with most such claims in the political arena, the raw data existed but the interpretation was less than precise. Murders had fallen over 20 percent, from 104 in 2006 to 80 in 2009. “Shooting hit incidents,” the total number of instances in which guns had been fired, had fallen from 435 to 256. “Shooting hit victims,” the total number of people actually struck by a bullet in said incidents, had dropped from 502 to 316. But Newark's numbers were also in line with a nationwide downward trend of violent crimes, and the FBI made a point never to rank cities in crime reduction, due to hazy figures in general and geographic variables in particular. The organization denied any affiliation with Booker's claims.

Still, the mayor had without question lived up to his promises to make Newark safer. The police force was bigger and more directed than it had been in decades, with a focus on regular patrols in the most dangerous neighborhoods, an effort called Operation Impact. He'd installed a citywide camera system to monitor high-risk intersections day and night. Massive drug stings had steadily been targeting high-rise hot zones, such as the Garden Spires complex, where in the spring of 2010, 149 arrests were made and $50,000 worth of drugs were confiscated. The operation was a very public triumph that occurred symbolically at
the same project towers where Mayor Booker had camped in a tent for months as a city councilman in 1999. But even with the falling statistics and the much-broadcast seizures, large segments of the public remained skeptical. “They can't arrest their way out of the problem,” said one bystander at the Garden Spires. “There need to be alternatives to crime. The root cause of it all is poverty.”

The issue of poverty remained as pertinent and divisive as ever, perhaps more so in the context of the Great Recession. With such a large percentage of its population living below the line, paired with high taxes, poor high school graduation rates, and an ever-contracting employment sector, the residents of Newark and its surrounding townships were as vulnerable to the recession's social and economic effects as anywhere else in the country, save perhaps the auto-dependent communities of Michigan and Ohio. The city was also less capable of rebounding once the national “recovery” began. As the foreclosures that inspired Rob and Tavarus's Section 8 proposal proliferated, the city's revenue, so closely linked to property taxes, declined in inverse proportion to the demands that social safety nets placed on its coffers. In the late fall of 2010, more than a year after the Great Recession was proclaimed officially over by the federal government, Mayor Booker made painful budgetary concessions. Perhaps the hardest of these was the decision to cut 163 police officers, or 13 percent of the force. Residents, store owners, the remaining police, and public school administrators collectively began to murmur that the milieu in which they lived resembled that of the 1970s. During the ensuing four months, the city's murder rate would spike by 65 percent over the same period one year before.

The mayor nevertheless was skilled at inspiring hope among those who listened. “We are brick city,” he said in more than one speech. “We are like bricks themselves. We are strong. We are resilient. We are enduring. And like those bricks that build bridges and mighty structures, when we come together, there is nothing that we cannot do, create, or overcome.”

STATEMENT OF PURPOSE

Science has always been my passion. Perhaps it was the first laboratory course I took at Essex County College on Saturday mornings in the early 1990s that engendered my research career. Or maybe it was the summer I spent working with the electron microscope at the University of Medicine and Dentistry of New Jersey during high school. It is impossible to pinpoint the exact moment, but these are the experiences that drew me into the laboratory. Initially I aspired to become a surgeon. My volunteer experience in the emergency room while getting my Emergency Medical Technician certification my senior year of high school made me realize I was more interested in the science behind the treatments, as opposed to the actual practice of medicine. My insatiable curiosity led me to Yale University where I majored in molecular biophysics and biochemistry.

It was at Yale that I studied different branches of chemistry, biology and physics and how they applied to biological molecules. In addition to the various lectures and lab courses I studied to complete my major, I had the opportunity to conduct research in the labs of two principal investigators. I worked with Dr. Diane Krauss during the summer of 1999 while participating in Yale's Science Technology and Research Scholars Program (STARS). It was a critical learning experience as I was able to put into practice many of the molecular biology techniques I learned in class. The project involved determining the genes responsible for stem cell maturation into different cell lines. As I familiarized myself with electrophoresis, northern blotting, and rodent dissections, I realized I enjoyed collecting and analyzing scientific data. The experience left a lasting impression on me and once my water polo season ended in the fall of 1999 I began looking for another lab to gain more experience in.

In February of 2000 I joined the lab of Dr. Elias Lolis, where I was teamed up with a graduate student and was trained on how to
use the different equipment. Soon I was adding to the repertoire of skills I had learned previously. Initially, I assayed macrophage inhibitory factor (MIF) for binding affinity to small molecule inhibitors. Next I screened crystallization conditions, trying to find the optimum conditions for co-crystallizing MIF with the small molecule inhibitor that had the highest binding affinity. Although I was able to produce crystals, none of them were of diffraction quality. I learned many important skills and techniques to help me in the laboratory and in life. I regard persistence as the most valuable of these. Day after day, I completed my tasks, interpreted the results, and made changes accordingly. The weekly lab meetings and talks with my advisor helped me maintain my focus and work through the different complications that arose. After I graduated, I continued in the Lolis lab until February 2003.

For the next three months I would return to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. I secured an apartment, learned to communicate effectively in Portuguese, and overcame my fear of the unfamiliar. The interactions and exchanges that took place there forced me to realize all the possibilities that I never considered before. It was a moment of clarity similar to the peace I found while working in the lab. Just as my understanding of science changed when I began doing research, my understanding of the world changed when I began to see humanity from different perspectives. After viewing poverty in a developing country firsthand, I realized that growing up in Orange, New Jersey was not the worst starting point imaginable. But more importantly, I became aware that my journey had just begun. But before I could continue my formal education I had to first experience more of the world. When I returned to New Jersey in June of 2003 I was more focused than I had ever been in my life.

Over the next four years, I taught biology at St. Benedict's Academy. I would learn twice as much from the students as I thought I was teaching them. The level of insight offered by some of these young men was matched only by the level of guidance others re
quired. As ideas and dialogue about science and life were exchanged, things began to come into focus. My career as a teacher reinforced what I had come to learn in foreign countries, it is the people I meet and how we influence one another's lives that give me satisfaction. The experience I gained as a teacher influenced my decision to pursue a doctorate degree. I am looking forward to returning to the classroom as both a student and a teacher. Ultimately I would like to teach at the collegiate level, instilling future generations . . .

I became enamored with international travel in 2000 and it has had a major influence on my life for the last 10 years. This would ultimately lead to my employment with Continental Airlines from 2007 to 2010 and would allow me to visit the limestone beaches of Croatia, the beef sushi markets in Seoul, and various other places. With each excursion I learn more about the world and myself.

My goal is to earn my PhD in at in the sic
] OR PROGRAM>. I have contacted sic
] IS A SECOND CHOICE NAME THEM ALSO> about his research and have expressed an interest in working with him/her. I would enjoy the opportunity to learn from them and work with them on new discoveries. I also welcome the thought of returning to the classroom as both student and TA. I look forward to learning from some of the brightest minds in the field. Once my core courses were completed, I selected Immunology and Structure and Functions of Nucleic Acids as my electives. These two courses influenced my decision to pursue higher education in the field of . I am seeking to increase my knowledge in this area for the purpose of addressing diseases like cancer and HIV.

The knowledge I gain from a [
sic
] earning a PhD will help me achieve my career objectives which include educating future scientists as a professor, becoming a principal investigator and con
tinuing scientific research to better understand the mechanisms underlying the pathways of life. Given to [
sic
] my academic preparation, research experience, and desire to teach at the college level I feel that this is an attainable goal that would allow me to both pursue my passion and contribute to the betterment of society.

Isabella Peretzian read the unfinished draft Rob had sent her. He wouldn't be able to enroll in graduate school for another year, but he wanted to have a head start on the applications so that they wouldn't fall by the wayside again, as they had every year since 2007. He'd emailed the document to her beneath a message that read,
Hey hun, You asked for it and here it is. Please be as harsh as you can possibly be. I tend to be fallin in love with sentences and will let shit ride just cuz.
She marked a few typos and then, in keeping with her task, replied that she felt the references to his foreign travels could be pared down—or cut entirely—because they gave the impression of a certain wanderlust. Rob called her immediately, and his voice was testy. While still being perfectly grateful, he argued that these travels were a fundamental part of who he was, and if a graduate school program had a problem with that, then so be it. He felt strongly that altering these sentences would compromise his integrity. Isabella replied, “Okay, it's fine, it was just a suggestion.”

Since his firing, Rob had been living off his rental income, plus unemployment checks of $412 a week. He was ashamed of those checks and the dependency they represented. But he took them out of their envelopes, deposited them, bought food for the house, paid attention to his grandmother, and maintained an uneasy truce with Jackie. On hiatus were the long nights on Smith Street with Tavarus, poring over their business proposal and planning a course of action to begin meeting with investors. Once again, he needed a job.

Jackie silently hoped that his firing from Continental would ultimately prove to be the best thing that had happened to her son since Charles Cawley approached him more than a decade ago. She knew that she had grounds to tell Rob, “I told you so.” She was not above saying
such a thing in general, but she kept those inclinations contained. Seeing her son struggle was hard, and made harder by his silent, simmering mood. She would look at his face while he ate, or read, or watched TV and observe this dark, almost cold visage that was no longer capable of concealing his interior. No mother could easily endure watching her child in stasis—and particularly Jackie, who felt unequipped to offer any specific advice that might help him.

Only in groups was Rob fully himself, at least outwardly. To the extent that he could at the end of each day, he surrounded himself with people. On Thanksgiving, just weeks after he lost his job, he performed his usual holiday routine of house-hopping: Shannon Heggins's to Lisa Wingo's to his cousin Nathan's to Victor's aunt's to Oswaldo Gutierrez's family to Jackie's to Smith Street and finally landing at Rene's after midnight, eating full meals at each destination. Laughing throughout the day, he betrayed no trace of the most recent turn in his life, and except for his close friends, no one really knew.

“Cut off your dreads,” Oswaldo told him. “Get a suit that fits right, that's not all baggy and hip-hop. Make eye contact. Don't mumble, don't swear, don't talk around the topic. Act interested.”

“What does that mean?”

“When you're not one hundred percent into something, you have a tendency to act above it all. Don't do that. Interviewers can tell, and it pisses them off.”