S Street Rising: Crack, Murder, and Redemption in D.C. by Ruben Castaneda
Book: S Street Rising: Crack, Murder, and Redemption in D.C. by Ruben Castaneda
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Authors: Ruben Castaneda
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civilian.
We sat on the bed inside my room. Raven slipped off her jacket and broke out the party kit: two rocks, a pipe, a lighter. She cut one of the rocks in half with her fingernail and handed it to me. I grabbed it and hesitated.
“Wait a second,” I said. I stepped into the bathroom and grabbed a bath towel.
Carefully, I folded it into a thick white rectangle, then bent down and patted it into the space between the floor and the bottom of the room door. I rejoined Raven and lit up.
Three days blew by.
By day, I worked hard. I rode out to Moore’s last known L.A. address and knocked on neighbors’ doors. I called every LAPD detective and street cop I knew. I rang up county prosecutors, defense attorneys, federal agents, private eyes—anyone who might be familiar with the woman who’d lured Barry to the Vista. Nobody knew anything about her.
My intentions were good. Every day, I thought about calling one of my friends and visiting my family. But my need to get high took precedence. At the end of each workday, I knocked back a few drinks at the hotel bar and ended up at the cheap motel off Olympic with Raven and a couple of rocks.
I compartmentalized. I kept my advance money and traveler’s checks in a plain white envelope. I paid Raven from my own money, which I kept in my wallet. Since my assignations with her were on my dime, I was fine, I convinced myself.
My return flight was a red-eye. The airplane was filled to capacity with Salvadorans, mostly young men and women, with a few kids sprinkled in. It was obviously some kind of aerial version of an Underground Railroad for immigrants. A great story—maybe even one that would have landed on the front page. And maybe one that would have led to an immigration bust.
I kept my notebook holstered. These folks were heading east to work very hard for little pay at jobs most Americans would consider beneath them. Their lives were hard enough; they didn’t need me adding to their struggles.
I was feeling bad enough about the L.A. trip as it was. I hadn’t shirked my job, but the frequency with which I’d hooked up with Raven was unsettling. Getting high once or twice a week was manageable. In L.A., I’d done it four nights in a row.
I spent my first couple of days back in D.C. brooding.
A brazen shooting got me back on track.
Three nights after I returned, I headed to Northeast Washington for a homicide that was announced over the scanner. The victim was inside an SUV at the intersection of 5th and K Streets Northeast. Uniforms cordoned off the intersection. A couple of detectives in suits and overcoats peeked into the SUV. The victim, a young black man, was slumped in the front passenger seat.
I stood dutifully behind the yellow tape. We were in a residential neighborhood of brick row houses with small porches and small front yards. It was a cold night. Though it was only 8:00 p.m. , there were just a few civilian bystanders.
A white shirt provided a brief narrative: Witnesses said the victim had been shot in the street. His pals had tried to load him into the SUV, maybe to take him to a hospital. A squad car rolled up. The buddies ran away, leaving the victim inside the vehicle in the intersection.
It was unlikely this murder would become a story. I was just grinding, putting in the time necessary to develop sources. Showing up at late-night crime scenes in combat zones helped me build credibility with white shirts, detectives, and street cops. At this scene, I was waiting to talk to a detective, hoping he would be helpful, or at least cordial. If a detective was friendly at a crime scene, I’d ask for a phone number, or simply call the homicide office some night down the road and ask for that investigator. That’s how a night crime reporter develops police sources.
I blew out white breath and rocked side to side, trying to keep warm. My trench coat, gloves, and fedora were no match for the bone-chilling cold.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
Six
We sat on the bed inside my room. Raven slipped off her jacket and broke out the party kit: two rocks, a pipe, a lighter. She cut one of the rocks in half with her fingernail and handed it to me. I grabbed it and hesitated.
“Wait a second,” I said. I stepped into the bathroom and grabbed a bath towel.
Carefully, I folded it into a thick white rectangle, then bent down and patted it into the space between the floor and the bottom of the room door. I rejoined Raven and lit up.
Three days blew by.
By day, I worked hard. I rode out to Moore’s last known L.A. address and knocked on neighbors’ doors. I called every LAPD detective and street cop I knew. I rang up county prosecutors, defense attorneys, federal agents, private eyes—anyone who might be familiar with the woman who’d lured Barry to the Vista. Nobody knew anything about her.
My intentions were good. Every day, I thought about calling one of my friends and visiting my family. But my need to get high took precedence. At the end of each workday, I knocked back a few drinks at the hotel bar and ended up at the cheap motel off Olympic with Raven and a couple of rocks.
I compartmentalized. I kept my advance money and traveler’s checks in a plain white envelope. I paid Raven from my own money, which I kept in my wallet. Since my assignations with her were on my dime, I was fine, I convinced myself.
My return flight was a red-eye. The airplane was filled to capacity with Salvadorans, mostly young men and women, with a few kids sprinkled in. It was obviously some kind of aerial version of an Underground Railroad for immigrants. A great story—maybe even one that would have landed on the front page. And maybe one that would have led to an immigration bust.
I kept my notebook holstered. These folks were heading east to work very hard for little pay at jobs most Americans would consider beneath them. Their lives were hard enough; they didn’t need me adding to their struggles.
I was feeling bad enough about the L.A. trip as it was. I hadn’t shirked my job, but the frequency with which I’d hooked up with Raven was unsettling. Getting high once or twice a week was manageable. In L.A., I’d done it four nights in a row.
I spent my first couple of days back in D.C. brooding.
A brazen shooting got me back on track.
Three nights after I returned, I headed to Northeast Washington for a homicide that was announced over the scanner. The victim was inside an SUV at the intersection of 5th and K Streets Northeast. Uniforms cordoned off the intersection. A couple of detectives in suits and overcoats peeked into the SUV. The victim, a young black man, was slumped in the front passenger seat.
I stood dutifully behind the yellow tape. We were in a residential neighborhood of brick row houses with small porches and small front yards. It was a cold night. Though it was only 8:00 p.m. , there were just a few civilian bystanders.
A white shirt provided a brief narrative: Witnesses said the victim had been shot in the street. His pals had tried to load him into the SUV, maybe to take him to a hospital. A squad car rolled up. The buddies ran away, leaving the victim inside the vehicle in the intersection.
It was unlikely this murder would become a story. I was just grinding, putting in the time necessary to develop sources. Showing up at late-night crime scenes in combat zones helped me build credibility with white shirts, detectives, and street cops. At this scene, I was waiting to talk to a detective, hoping he would be helpful, or at least cordial. If a detective was friendly at a crime scene, I’d ask for a phone number, or simply call the homicide office some night down the road and ask for that investigator. That’s how a night crime reporter develops police sources.
I blew out white breath and rocked side to side, trying to keep warm. My trench coat, gloves, and fedora were no match for the bone-chilling cold.
Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!
Six
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