The young man with the black Louisiana Pizza Kitchen T-shirt was
hurriedly shopping the market for Christmas gifts - he had already
scanned my table once, eying a necklace or two rather closely, then
darting over to a neighbor's table. These Pizza Kitchen guys never buy
anything, I thought absently. But almost as soon as the kid disappeared,
he reappeared, snatching up a necklace from my table and holding it up
to me with a grin. Dangling from the stainless steel chain was a small
pendant bearing the likeness of St. Bernadette; a young woman in
chains, engulfed in flames, staring defiantly upwards.

"How much for this?" he said.

"Ten dollars," I replied, thinking maybe the price was a little high,
prepared to haggle a little.

"Great," he said with a big smile, reaching into his pocket. No haggling.

"Wanna bag?" I said cooly - we market vendors tend to turn a bit chilly
once the sale's been made.

"Yes, if you don't mind, it's for a present." He grinned some more,
probably thinking about the expression on the recipient's face when
he or she opened it Christmas morning.

I cracked a smile too. The kid's good vibe was infectious.

"Thanks a lot, now," I said. "Have a good one."

"Thank you", he shot back, still grinning. He walked quickly to the Pizza
Kitchen, maybe thinking up something to say to the manager about why
he was a little late.

It was a few minutes past ten a.m.

About forty minutes later, a few of the vendors were making comments
about the fact that there was a guy with a video camera sort of lurking
about the restaurant thirty feet away. It was the big kind - not the
kind that tourists carry. This was a news camera. Can't be anything
bad, I thought to myself ; there's no police.

Then the ambulance arrived. And a few minutes later there were police.

A rumor was born and began to evolve. By about three o'clock it went
something like this:

There was a robbery last night. Four people were shot and left to die in
the freezer. Two had died, two survived. They discovered the victims
this morning.

This was horrifying to all of us, but there's still a certain comfort that
we take in knowing that heinous crimes happen at night in the city.
That bit of knowledge comforts us somehow, insulates us. There are
rules even in the criminal world we tell ourselves. Travel in groups. Be
careful where you walk at night. Exercise common sense. Follow these
rules and you'll be okay; bad stuff happens to those who are careless.

At this point it had not even occurred to me that the fellow who had
bought St. Bernadette that morning might be involved. It did not occur
to me because in my mind it was not possible - the one aspect of the
rumor that I didn't doubt was that the shooting had occurred at night,
during those insulated, cautious hours.

It wasn't until nightfall that I got a version of the rumor that was
closest to the truth. This version included one startling fallacy; that
all four victims had died (when in truth one had survived), and one
startling accuracy; that the shooting had occurred not last night but
this morning. In broad daylight. While hundreds of people milled about
outside getting ready for the day.

The shooting happened this morning?

With a chill I remembered the boy I'd sold St Bernadette to. And it
became very important to me what time the murders had occurred: I
had sold the necklace to him just a little after ten. If the shooting
happened before ten then he was alive. If it happened after ten then
he was dead. It was that simple.

I could not get an answer, even from the trusty rumor mill.

My own concern felt strange and somehow inappropriate. I had just
met this fellow, didn't even get his name - and my contact with him
lasted maybe three minutes. He was still a stranger, so why did it
matter to me whether he was the victim or some other stranger? But
it did matter. Because maybe my terse attitude was part of the last
conversation not involving a gun that he ever had. His last conversation
should not have been with a surly bastard of a market vendor like myself,
should have been with a friend, a parent. Maybe, had I been in a better,
more talkative mood I would have kept him standing around at my table
a bit longer, made him late for work - at least late enough. I know these
kinds of thoughts are unfair to my own conscience, but I can't help
thinking them.

I confided with one of the vendors about the boy and St. Bernadette,
about my fears - she remembered him too. She furrowed her brow a bit
then said she didn't think he was one of victims. After a moment she
added that if he was, then at least his last act was a kind one; buying
a present for a loved one. I choked up a little at that thought. And
maybe St Bernadette helped him, she said.

Another vendor who was listening in said sadly, "If he was in that place
this morning, St Bernadette can't help him now."

*

Two years ago, I moved to New Orleans from Baltimore, so I'm certainly
no stranger to the concept of people getting shot in the streets for
stupid reasons, no stranger to the fear of walking in your own
neighborhood at night. When I came to New Orleans I had the attitude
of acceptance: I'm moving into another high crime area, I told myself,
better be ready for trouble. But since I arrived, it's gradually - actually,
not so gradually - gotten worse. And somehow I've been okay with that;
I've been okay with the horrendous problems within the police force,
the relatively small improvements that have been implemented while
the criminal element slowly take over the streets. Shamefully, I've been
okay with it all.

Violent crime has become such a fundamental part of our lives that
we are essentially numbed by it. We still carry some emotion about it;
mostly fear and sorrow, but we are lacking in the one area that should
be a knee-jerk. Outrage.

There is a sickening lack of outrage in the general community regarding
the murder rate. At times we are almost tongue in cheek about it. We
should be ashamed. Why did these children need to die before we felt
genuine outrage? The answer to that is really simple.

It's all about proximity.

The projects may be close to the Quarter, but they seem a world away.
When Hoda Kotbe informs us of the latest killing at the Iberville housing
project we stare glassy-eyed at the tube not really sure where that is,
a little saddened by the news but not incensed by it. It is not our
neighborhood, we did not know the victims. Why the people of Iberville
do not march on City Hall demanding police protection I do not know.
Maybe the feeling of hopelessness there is so ingrained that they
accept the murders in their neighborhood the same way that we in
the Marigny have learned to accept armed robbery as an everyday
occurrence.

The truth is that these killings were simply too close to home for a
community that thought itself immune to such things.

The outrage of the French Quarter community regarding these killings
is not about black and white, as some very well intentioned people
insist - it's about proximity.

It's about blood on the sidewalk instead of inside the TV.

Monday night there was a community meeting at the Royal Street police
station regarding the killings. Most people had come to voice their anger
and fears, I had come for a more personal reason.

The only new revelation that came up at the police meeting was from
the homicide detective in charge of the case who filled us in on some
of the details of the case. The killers had used potatoes as silencers,
he said - that type of thing, forensic stuff. To me, the one important
detail was the exact time of the shootings; I simply had to know.
Finally, the homicide detective provided the answer: between 10:20AM
and 10:40 AM.

And then I knew that the kid I had sold St Bernadette to was dead.

The next morning's paper would run a picture of the victims, confirming
what I now knew. The boy's name was Santana.

*

The next night, following a march on City Hall and an emotionally
charged City Counsel meeting, there was a candle light vigil at Jackson
Square. The event was so clouded with emotion for me and my small
family that there is very little specifically that I can recall about it. I
remember singing Amazing Grace. I remember a lot of tear dampened
faces of strangers and friends. I remember our baby's reaction to the
sight of all the lit candles in the dark. She, with the innocent profundity
that two year olds miraculously possess, began singing "Happy Birthday
To You."

I remember feeling a little better.



Copyright 2008 by Louis Maistros

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