Deadly Assets

VIII
[ONE]

North Twenty-ninth and West Arizona Streets

Strawberry Mansion, Philadelphia

Saturday, December 15, 5:40 P.M.

Reverend Josiah Cross, in his signature flowing black robe and white clerical collar, stepped onstage just as the rail-thin Tyrone “King 215” Hooks shouted out the last refrain of his “Beatin’ Down The Man.”

Using the profane language of the street, the rapper’s song preached that they had failed at overcoming the oppression by The Man through peaceful methods and encouraged not only responding in kind in the event that The Man used violence-but also preached instigating it.

The oppression by The Man, according to the hip-hop lyrics, occurred every day in the form of any police action, but particularly a shooting-thus justifying the title and refrain of the song:

“To our brothers the fuckin’ Five-Oh daily rains / Nothin’ but nines to our young brains / We got to get beatin’ beatin’ beatin’ / Get beatin’ down the man!”

The music-mostly a deep bass beat blaring from the pair of heavily amplified speakers on either side of the podium-was replaced by loud applause and cheering from the crowd that packed the streets. Cross estimated there to be at least a thousand people, maybe even a couple of thousand.

Most of those in the crowd appeared to be in their twenties and thirties, about a third of whom were white, with the majority a mix of those with darker complexions.

Directly in front of the stage, facing the crowd and standing shoulder to shoulder, stood a line of a couple dozen people who wore over their coats and sweatshirts the white T-shirts with STOP KILLADELPHIA! in bold lettering on the front and back, the STOP printed in bright red ink and the KILLADELPHIA! in black. A cameraman from a local TV news station, moving slowly in a crouch down the line, captured video of them with Hooks strutting onstage in the background above them.

Hooks, now holding his chromed-mesh microphone triumphantly over his head, took a grand bow as Cross, his robe flowing, swept across the stage toward him.

Cross carried his own microphone and put it close to his mouth as he waved his free arm over his head to draw the crowd’s attention.

He loudly announced, “Let’s give Philly’s favorite hometown artist another big round of applause for that very gifted performance.”

Cross, startling Hooks, then grabbed his outstretched hand and added, “Sisters and brothers, King Two-One-Five!”

Hooks recovered, and did a short celebratory dance that consisted of jumping up and down a few times, and bowed again.

Cross then proceeded to carefully tug him in the direction of the end of the stage. When Hooks felt the tug, but in the excitement of the moment did not initially move, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his rib cage. He looked at Cross, but could not tell if the elbow, hidden from view by Cross’s flowing black garment, had been thrown intentionally or not.

As Hooks hopped down from the stage, Cross quickly swept back across it to the podium and placed his microphone beside the dozen others already there that belonged to the news media. Draped above and behind him, tied across the red faux pagoda roof, there was a white banner emblazoned with the same red and black STOP KILLADELPHIA! as the T-shirts.

Cross gripped the top of the lectern with both hands and quietly scanned the crowd, making eye contact as he did so.

As the people became more quiet, he then leaned forward.

“This, my friends,” he intoned in a booming voice, “is both a very sad day-we mourn those who were killed today and pray for their souls, and”-he paused as there came a wave of people saying “Amen!” then went on-“and it is an uplifting day because all of you have gathered here to help”-he gestured dramatically at the banner behind him-“to Stop Killadelphia!”

The crowd applauded. There were more amens.

Cross waited until the crowd again became quiet, then deeply intoned, “Seventeen thousand! That’s how many citizens of this city have been shot in the last decade! They are our brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles-loved ones all. Seventeen thousand in ten years! That equals four of God’s children each day. Four a day, I say!”

Cross then formed an imaginary pistol with his thumb and index finger and, as he repeated “Pow!” two times, mimed firing at the line of people before the stage wearing the STOP KILLADELPHIA! T-shirts.

With the first Pow! the third person from the far end fell to the ground, his arms flailing in dramatic fashion. At the second Pow! a woman at the opposite end of the line dropped to the ground, her arms flailing also in dramatic fashion.

A couple of TV news cameramen from different stations swept in for close-up shots as this was repeated twice more.

“That was yesterday,” Cross then loudly proclaimed, and again repeatedly mimed firing with his imaginary pistol, only this time in rapid fire: “Pow-Pow-Pow-Pow!”

And four more wearing the STOP KILLADELPHIA! T-shirts reacted theatrically as they fell to the ground.

“And that was today!” Cross said, his voice booming.

An anxious murmur arose from the crowd.

He paused, and slowly looked around at the people.

“And what do you think happens tomorrow?” he then said softly, drawing out the words as he dramatically raised both hands over his head. “Tell me what happens tomorrow?”

“Four more!” a middle-aged woman in the crowd yelled, smiling broadly at being so quick with her answer.

“No!” Cross called out in almost a shout, pointing his finger at the woman.

Then he wagged his finger at the whole crowd as he went on: “Oh, no, no, no! That is what is expected. That is what’s always been expected. And that is why we are here today-to Stop Killadelphia!”

He swept his arms, motioning toward the crowd as a whole.

“It is time for all of us to do something, not simply accept the same to happen again and again. It is time to rise up”-the eight people who had fallen to the ground after being “shot” now stood, arms held triumphantly above them, joining the raised hands of the others in the line-“and take back our neighborhoods, take back our city.”

There came another wave of cheers, and when that quieted, a chorus of amens could be heard.

“It’s no news when I tell you that we’re not safe on the streets of our neighborhoods, that we’re not even safe in our own homes,” Cross said.

There was a murmur from the crowd and he saw a lot of people nodding in a solemn fashion.

“And why do you think that is?”

He gestured at the Stop Killadelphia! banner.

“I want you to think of something,” Cross then said. “There’s no jobs here. No work. So our children, desperate, look for a way to make a buck. And that’s what? It’s drugs.

“Now, have you ever wondered what’s the real reason why drugs are not legal? Have you?

“Yes, there’s talk in City Hall about legalizing marijuana-even talk about cocaine-and selling it like alcohol, including those same folks in City Hall collecting taxes on it. But there’s only just talk.”

He paused, looked across the crowd, then went on: “Think about this: Even though they have signed a city ordinance that lets you have up to an ounce of marijuana, you still get fined twenty-five dollars if the police find you with it. You get caught smoking it in public, it’s a hundred-dollar fine. And if they catch you buying pot-and especially selling it-you’re gonna get thrown in jail!”

He paused for a moment, then added: “So, it really ain’t legal, is it? The Man, as King Two-One-Five raps, still be raining down on us.”

He swept his arms across the crowd.

“And do you want to know why that is?” Cross then said, carefully drawing out his words. “Well, let me tell you why. It’s because illegal drugs is a way to keep our young men killing one another.”

A murmur rose from the crowd.

“That’s right!” Cross went on, his voice booming. “They want us to stay here in the hood, selling to one another, getting hooked on smack and crack, and then either dying of overdoses, or going out in a gunfight.”

“Beat down The Man!” a young male shouted from the crowd.

Cross nodded as he added: “And when someone needs money, you don’t see them going into Center City or out to the fancy Main Line. No, the home invasions are happening here.

“These crackheads and junkies, they go into the homes of hardworking neighbors who they know aren’t going to call the police.”

He pointed off into the distance.

“Our neighbors over in Fairhill and other areas where people are coming to live from other countries, they are easy targets. They are getting robbed and raped in their own homes, but they don’t report it because they’re afraid to go to the police.

“And so every day four folks get shot. Every day! It’s a Wild Wild West culture.”

He then grasped the lectern with both hands, leaned into the microphone.

He evenly added, “And, as I said for the last four years serving on the Citizens Police Oversight Committee, that Wild Wild West culture must stop! The police department must set the tone, make an example. And today I say that must be done now, beginning with the one we have come to associate with that Wild Wild West culture”-he pointed to the front of the lectern, to the poster that had been attached there-“Public Enemy Number One, Sergeant Matt Payne, the so-called Wyatt Earp of the Main Line!”

The crowd roared.

After a long moment, Cross motioned with his hands to quiet the crowd, then went on: “And to show my dedication to our cause, I am resigning from CPOC! I will not be part of the problem. I want to be part of the solution that we. . Stop Killadelphia!”

The crowd roared again.

Just then, Tyrone Hooks jumped back onstage with his microphone-the crowd roaring even louder-earning him a glare from Josiah Cross.

“Yo, Yo, Yo! Payne Must Go!” Hooks shouted into the mic, playing to the crowd, pumping his left arm in rhythm and encouraging them to join in.

“Yo, Yo, Yo! Payne Must Go!” a few in the crowd chimed in.

“King Two-One-Five, sisters and brothers!” Cross said, trying to mask his displeasure while at the same time sharing in the applause, dramatically sweeping an arm toward him.

“Yo, Yo, Yo! Payne Must Go!” Hooks shouted again, fist pumping.

There was applause, then the crowd enthusiastically pumped fists in the air and more began chanting, “Yo, Yo, Yo! Payne Must Go!”

Cross went over to Hooks and again reached up and took his outstretched hand in his.

And then there suddenly came from somewhere in the crowd the popping sound of actual gunfire.

Both Cross and Hooks went down, crumpling to the deck of the stage.

People screamed and then began shouting as the crowd started fleeing in all directions.

Hands reached up and quickly pulled Cross and Hooks from the stage. They then disappeared with a small crowd through the red door of the ministry.