Hope Park - A Phillip Hardaway Mystery

1

The early morning jogger on the narrow path alongside the lake in Hope Park wasn’t sure what she saw at first. Slowly approaching one of the wood and wrought iron benches that dot the lake, she was certain now it was a body, supine as if sleeping. It had snowed lightly the night before, but the unusually warm, late fall temperature was melting whatever was left on the ground. The middle-aged woman stopped and examined what was a young African-American man, a teenager. His letterman jacket, burnished gold with white sleeves, had the letters ‘BK’ in white on the front. His handsome face and clothes were wet from last night’s precipitation. Reaching out cautiously to arouse what she thought was just an inebriated high school athlete, she recoiled in horror. A large pool of blood had gathered under the bench, and she could see several holes in his jacket. Bullet holes.

The death of Rodolfo Tate shocked the South New Jersey town of Brookland, just over twenty miles outside of Philadelphia. Its proximity to neighbors Cherry Hill and Moorestown labeled it, like those cities, a jewel destination for commuters heading to and from Philly. However, unlike those places, which long ago welcomed well-heeled out-of-towners, Brookland fought against the influx of high-priced coffee shops and clothing stores, pretentious art galleries and rising rents to preserve its small-town flavor and charm.

Any longtime resident, if he or she were honest, would tell you that Brookland struggled initially with the sudden influx of minorities in search of good schools and moderately priced homes. Black and brown people moved there for the same reasons everyone else did; it was akin to an island in the middle of the madness of big city headaches.

The murder, the city’s first in close to two years, brought to light a stark reality; no matter how insulated the residents perceived their lives to be, the bubble they existed in was porous, and harsh truths will insist on intruding upon that delusional perception.

Seventeen-year-old Rodolfo Tate should be the last person the citizens of Brookland would hear about like this while downing their morning coffee and catching the local news before rushing off to work.

His father, Warren, moved the family from Chicago to New Jersey four years ago. Along with his mother, Yvonne, and younger sister Monica, they settled into a four-bedroom, two-story colonial on Forge Road. Yvonne, an English professor at the University of Illinois at Chicago, had already secured a position at Temple University in Philadelphia. Warren, a former professional football player, was talented, popular and charismatic during his playing days. He remained highly regarded post-football, in his job as the sports announcer on Chicago’s WSTW television station. After the relocation to Brookland, he became a member of an angel investment group that included two former players and things were going well. Rodolfo entered Brookland High and immediately became a standout running back.

It was a given he would follow in his dad’s cleats. Back in Chicago, Ro, which is what everyone called him, ran all over the field as a Pop Warner sensation, continued his ascension in junior high and was runner-up all-city while maintaining a B average at Lincoln High as a freshman. One day, after walking his girlfriend home from school then taking the bus across town, something he did a couple of times a week, Ro was a block away from his Hyde Park home when shots rang out from a passing car. It was odd to hear gunshots in his neighborhood so it took a split second for him to realize what he heard before frantically taking cover, diving behind a parked car. When the screams finally subsided he guardedly stood and saw a boy close to his age he knew from the neighborhood lying motionless while blood pooled on the ground from several fatal wounds to his body. He didn’t know him personally but saw the lanky youngster around. People had already used their cell phones to call 911 and in no time the street was swarming with cops and EMT personnel. Ro called his father, who’d heard the sirens and had begun quickly making his way to where the action was. He told his son not to talk to anyone and to move away from the scene, he was on his way. Warren saw Rodolfo running desperately towards him and he closed the distance between them.

“Are you okay, Ro? What happened?” Warren breathlessly asked while embracing his son.

“This kid just got shot, dad,” Rodolfo stammered, almost crying. “I saw his body in the street. He looked dead.”

“Did you know him, was it someone from your school?”

“I’ve seen him around. No, he didn’t go to my school.”

Rodolfo was not unaccustomed to witnessing violence; fights broke out occasionally at his high school, but no one had ever gotten shot. One day he asked his parents why they didn’t enroll him and Monica in a private school. Warren and Yvonne explained that even though they could afford to, they wanted him and his sister to have the same, unique experiences they did by attending public school. He added that private school doesn’t shield kids from bad things happening.

It shook Ro to his core. “Kids aren’t supposed to get shot like that, dad.”

“No, they’re not son,” Warren told Ro as they walked back home, his arm reassuringly draped around the teenager’s shoulder, feeling the tremors in his son’s body slowly subsiding.

“Too many young men just like that one, gone. Either by the police or somebody who looks like them. I wish I had a solution.”

“You do what you can, dad.”

“It’s not enough. Just not enough, Ro.”

Rodolfo wondered what his father would say if he knew where he went when he met his girlfriend after school to walk her home. That her cousin was a hard-core gangster who once showed him a mean-looking gun and a thick wad of cash. Lil D told him that as long as he was dating Vandy he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing in the neighborhood. Lil D was fifteen, just a year older than Ro.

After the murder occurring practically at his family’s doorstep, Warren made immediate preparations to move. As luck would have it, the house sold quickly and Ro and Monica could start their new school only a few weeks into the beginning semester, he as a sophomore at Brookland High and Monica joining her eighth-grade class at Diamond Middle School. Brookland was worlds away from the frenetic pace of Chicago, but it was what they all needed. Rodolfo made friends easily and in no time became one of the popular kids in school. A few of his classmates, however, resented the handsome, gregarious young man, mostly because their girlfriends thought he was cute. That he was also one of the best football players that Brookland has had in a long time didn’t hurt. Normally, coaches rarely found a student-athlete talented enough as a sophomore to be considered for the varsity roster, but Ro was that exception. He quickly got their attention with his football IQ, speed and uncommon strength for his age. If he stayed healthy, the head coach told his staff, he could be the catalyst to bring Brookland their first state championship. Because Yvonne was a university professor, the student half of student-athlete took prominence, so it was no surprise he excelled in academics during his initial year. Intelligent, a potential football star, good-looking and personable, all the ingredients for success. Or a pathway to a huge ego problem. His dad made sure that the latter would never happen. Warren had great success as a cornerback on several NFL teams, most notably the Bears, the last team he played for before retiring. He realized through-out his career that staying humble and grateful for his abilities would take him a lot further than having a big head.

Growing up in Northern California, Warren Tate was a beloved athlete in his Oakland high school. Even though a standout player, he got a full ride to the University of Southern California on an academic scholarship. USC was where he would eventually meet and date a pretty, ambitious student who would eventually become his wife. Yvonne Hudson, who was on her way to becoming co-valedictorian of their senior class, easily fell for the magnetic young man.

Warren was drafted in the fourth round by the Dallas Cowboys but immediately traded to the Carolina

Panthers. Durham, North Carolina was where he and Yvonne set up their first home together, and where Rodolfo and Monica were born. Warren struggled his first year as a defensive back with the Panthers but improved rapidly the following year, becoming the one player opposing quarterbacks did not want to throw against. He was a vicious hitter with great hands and became the team leader in interceptions that season.

He was traded once more before finally landing in Chicago. In the league now for ten years, his skills diminishing, he and Yvonne decided the Bears would be his last team.

They fell in love with the city, despite the unearthly wind and brutal winters. Hyde Park appealed to them because it was near the lake. It was a vibrant, living, breathing city and the years they spent in there were wonderful.

After his playing days, along with the TV gig as a sports announcer, Warren partnered with an organization that counseled former gang members and other youths who needed guidance, a job, or wanted to finish school and leave the streets behind. He’d always been about action, not promises, and these young men and women needed to see that he was serious about their well-being and would follow through. Most of them had too much experience at being let down.

The killing of that teenager, so close to where his son walked home every day, hit him hard. As a youngster growing up in East Oakland, he lost two of his close friends to the streets. None of it ever makes sense. All Warren knew is he had to give Rodolfo and Monica every opportunity to realize their dreams. That boy lying dead on the ground, and so many like him, will never get that chance. No community is immune to crime or violence, but unlike most of the kids and families they counseled, Warren and Yvonne had the means to move to what they believed would be a safer environment. After careful consideration, instead of heading back west or the south they chose the Northeast. The deciding factor proved to be Yvonne, who accepted an English literature professorship at Temple University in Philadelphia.

For the Tate’s, the following year in Brookland was all about Ro and Monica. Witnessing them transform from awkward teens to young adults, experiencing life around them and learning about themselves was a joy to behold. Ro was now seventeen and a senior football star, while freshman Monica, at fourteen, developed, not only in ways that Warren wished she wouldn’t, at least not so soon, but in her role as secretary of Brookland High’s freshman student council. She had no intention of remaining in that position, however, and set her sights on nothing less than the Student Council President in her senior year. She hoped her involvement in her school’s politics would be her jump off to a career on a larger political scale. She also loved sports and played soccer, volleyball, and basketball, all while maintaining a B+ average. Both kids seemed to respond well to their new school.

Envy and jealousy are as much a part of high school life as tasteless lunches, and Ro and Monica experienced their share. “How come you talk white?” one of the few African-American students asked her one day. Rodolfo faced the same thing. On the football field, he was electric. In the classroom, he exploded the myth of the dumb jock and loved chemistry and science the most, but he heard the whispers; “Showoff.” “Didn’t know blacks liked chemistry.”

It wasn’t like they didn’t hear the same things in their schools back in Chicago, they chalked it up to stupidity and kept it moving. They were black nerds to their classmates, but instead of being upset they wore that badge with pride.

“Mom,” Monica said to her mother one day after school, “I thought by coming to a new school, kids wouldn’t mess with me because I get good grades. One of my classmates said I talk white. What the heck is talking white? And she’s black.”

Yvonne quietly instructed her daughter to have a seat at the kitchen table. “I’ve never told you this, sweetheart, but I’ve had to deal with the same thing when I was your age. I was ambitious and smart, just like you. Your grandparents made education a priority while assuring me that not only will some resent me for my intelligence and ambition but also because I was black. And a girl.”

Yvonne wistfully looked out of her kitchen window. Remembering those days recalled unpleasant memories mixed in with a lot of good ones, accompanied by the sad reality that in 2019 her daughter was still going through the same damn thing.

“Doesn’t seem like things have changed that much, Mom,” Monica said, reading her thoughts.

“And that’s unfortunate, honey. I know it can frustrate but you’ll have friends who will accept you for who you are. People can be ignorant no matter what color they are. Keep your head up and continue to do the best you can. Never play small, Mo. High school can be a wonderful time and also loaded with challenges. Most won’t come from your classes but your classmates. You understand, sweetheart?”

“Yes, I totally get it, Mom. Thanks. Got homework to do. Love you.” Monica kissed her mother’s cheek and took off for her bedroom.

Just then Warren walked in through the door from the garage, home from work.

“Hey baby,” he said, giving Yvonne a squeeze and a kiss. “How ya doing?”

“I’m good, honey. How was your day?”

“Great. Looks like the group will provide new computers and software to the entire Philadelphia public school system.”

“That’s fantastic, babe.”

“Yeah, you know we’ve been working on that for a while. New investors came on board and made it happen.”

Warren reached into the fridge and grabbed a beer. “How was yours?”

“Nothing exciting for me, business as usual, but Monica had an issue at school.”

“What happened?”

“One of her black classmates asked her why she talks white.”

“Wow, really?”

“Yeah, you believe it? I sat her down just before you came in and told her I went through similar things during my years in school, that some kids are just going to be jealous and not to worry about them, just keep her head up and do her best. She’s upstairs now doing her homework.”

“Looks like you handled it.”

“That girl reminds me of me.”

Warren laughed. “Yep, our daughter is something else. Heard from Ro?”

“Not since he called and said he was going to hang out with some of the players. They’re still celebrating.”

“State Champs, that’s what’s up!” Warren said, giving a high five to Yvonne.

“So proud of him,” she said.

“What’s for dinner?” Warren asked.

“What are you cookin’?”

Warren chuckled again. “I’ll hook something up, you know that.”

Two hours passed and still no word from Rodolfo. Warren dialed his cellphone and got the voicemail.

“Nothing from your son?” he asked Yvonne.

“No, and I’m a little concerned, Ro usually checks in. I’ll call Theron.”

There was a list of Monica’s and Ro’s close friends on a pad kept in a kitchen drawer. She moved her finger down the page and found Theron’s two numbers, one his cell, the other his home. She dialed his cell first.

Theron answered. “Hello?”

“Hi Theron, this is Mrs. Tate, Rodolfo’s mom.”

“Oh, hi Mrs. Tate.”

“Hi, is he with you, or have you seen him?”

“I saw him earlier, a few of the guys met at Ray’s after school for some slices. They were still there when I left, he isn’t home yet?”

“No Theron, he’s not, if you hear from him please tell him to call me or his father.”

“I will. Hey, Mrs. Tate, have you called Sonia? He might be there.”

“No, but I will now. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Yvonne hung up and searched the pad for Sonia’s number. It was not there. She ran upstairs to Ro’s bedroom where she rifled through his desk and dresser drawers. She had the password to his desktop computer and logged on, searching emails and anything with Sonia’s name attached. Yvonne saw several emails to Sonia Gonzales and hoped to find a number. She didn’t enjoy invading her son’s privacy, and wouldn’t have if this weren’t important. She didn’t find a phone number so sent a quick email;

Sonia, this is Rodolfo’s mother, Mrs.Tate. I was wondering if you’ve seen him tonight. Please respond asap. Also, his dad and I need your number. Here’s ours- 640-021-0234

Thank you

Before going back downstairs she went to Monica’s room.

“Sweetheart, would you know Sonia’s number?” It was a long shot.

“No, mom. I see them together at school sometimes, though.”

“Ok baby, just checking.”

She went back downstairs and dialed the three other boys on the list and got the same results. Now she was starting to worry. It was after eight and the sun was setting. Rodolfo never, ever stayed out this late after school without calling. She called his cell for the tenth time.

Her cell buzzed in her hand and startled her. It was Warren. He had gone out to the school and to Ray’s Pizza, a known hangout for the high school kids.

“Hey, anything?” Her usually calm and even voice now shaky and agitated.

“No, I rode around and stopped at Ray’s, but most everyone had gone. Ray said he was there earlier.”

“I emailed his girlfriend Sonia, he may have seen her tonight.”

“I don’t think we should panic yet, honey, it’s only been a few hours. I’m sure he’s all right, we trust that.”

“You know I’m a nervous wreck, right?”

“Yes, I can hear it. I’ll be right home.”

“Okay.”

After another fraught two hours, it was now eleven-thirty. Warren had called a friend whose brother was a cop to get advice on what to do besides wait. Unfortunately, there was nothing police could do, they wouldn’t consider Ro a missing person until after twenty-four hours. He and Yvonne were trying to relax, but it wasn’t working at all. Monica, coming downstairs to ask again if Ro had called, couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer and went back upstairs to bed.

“I don’t care how late it is somebody wake me up to tell me he’s back,” she said.

Her parents promised they would.

Warren went outside. The quiet night oddly comforted him as he stood there watching the street, trying to will Ro’s car headlights to appear and end this ordeal.

He stood stock-still for almost five minutes before Yvonne came to the door and saw him.

“Warren, come inside, baby.”

“I feel so helpless, Vonnie.” He spat the words out in anger and pain without turning around.

His wife went out to the sidewalk where he was standing.

“Come inside, honey,” she said, putting her arm around her husband and guiding him back to the warmth of their home.

By 2:30 they had fallen asleep on the living room couch.

Five hours later, the chime of the doorbell abruptly awakened them, followed immediately by a forceful knock on the door.

Yvonne instinctively yelled out her son’s name while jumping off the couch, along with Warren.

“Ro, is that you?” he asked.

Before whoever was on the other side of the door could answer, she snatched it open and found a man and a woman standing there. The man, dressed in a rumpled black suit, white shirt, and black tie, looked to be about fifty. The woman, maybe five years younger, wore a blue pants suit and white blouse.

“Yes, what is it?” Yvonne asked warily, Warren at her side.

“Mr. and Mrs. Tate?” The man asked.

“Yes,” Warren answered.

The detectives wore their usual masks of indifference. It was their job to remain emotionally detached. Warren and Yvonne saw through it.

“I’m Detective Morrissey,” the male cop said, “this is Detective Gray, may we come in?”

“Is this about my son, is this about Rodolfo?” Yvonne asked, her legs suddenly struggling to keep her upright.

“Yes, Detectives, come in, please,” Warren said, and gently held Yvonne’s elbow to both steady her and to make way for the detectives to enter.

“My wife asked is this about our son.”

“We believe so, Mr. Tate. Would you like to have a seat?” Gray offered.

“No, we’d like to know what you have to say,” Warren said.

“Please, let’s sit down,” Morrissey suggested.

Yvonne took a deep breath and she and Warren sat down on the couch they had just been asleep on, tightly grasping each other’s hands.

Detective Gray spoke first. “Mr. and Mrs. Tate, the body of a teenaged black male was found in Hope Park early this morning. Identification on the person noted his name was Rodolfo Rey Tate. Is that your son?”

Detective Gray placed her hand softly on the clasped hands of the stunned parents and they both recoiled as if her touch was white hot.

“Yes, Rodolfo’s our son. Is he all right? What happened?”

“We’re sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Tate, but he’s not all right,” Morrissey said as gently as he could. “He was shot.”

“I knew it, I knew it. I knew something was wrong,” Yvonne cried out. “Are you telling us our son is dead?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so, we’re very sorry,” Gray said.

Warren held her close. After a minute of attempting to soothe her anguish, he asked the detectives, “What do you know so far?” his fragile composure cracking at the seams. Warren knew his wife needed him to be strong at that moment but all he wanted to do was break down.

“A jogger found him on a park bench, she thought he might have been sleeping.”

“Oh my god, my god,” Warren said, rocking back and forth, holding his head in his hands, eyes wet with tears.

Monica could be heard descending the stairs quickly, dressed for school, hearing her mother’s cries.

“Mom, what’s wrong? Who are they? Did Ro come home?” she asked, her voice shaking.

Warren and Yvonne knew this was coming, and it filled them with dread; how to tell Monica her brother was not coming home.

“Sweetheart, sit down,” Warren whispered.

“Dad, what’s going on?”

He delicately guided his daughter to the couch next to her mother, who placed her arms around her. He knelt down.

“Honey, these are detectives from the police department.” He could barely get the words out.

“Someone found Ro’s body in Hope Park early this morning. . . sweetheart, he’s dead.”

Monica sat there, unsure of what she heard. Did her father just say Rodolfo was dead?

“No dad, no, that can’t be right. It’s gotta be someone else, right?” And then to the detectives, “Right? It can’t be my brother.”

Warren hugged Monica tightly. Her slight body was shaking uncontrollably. He motioned for Yvonne to take her out of the room, although he knew the deep sadness and pain they all felt would never be tempered by changing locations from one room to another. Or, as he was now acutely aware, from one state to another.

“We know this is very difficult for you, Mr. Tate, but can you tell us anything about last night or the last time you saw your son?” Gray asked.

“We became concerned when Ro didn’t come home after school like he normally does. If he’s late he always calls.”

“What did you do?” Morrissey asked, writing in a notepad.

“I rode around, looking for him. The kids usually hang out at this pizza place, Rays, so I went there. The owner, Ray, said he was there but left. My wife spoke to one of his friends who were there with him. They’re all football players from Brookland High. They won the state championship and were celebrating.”

“What’s his friend’s name?” Gray asked.

“Theron.”

“Would you have the last name, Mr. Tate?”

Warren picked up the yellow pad. “It’s Ford, Theron Ford. His home number is 856-010-3830.”

Morrissey jotted down the name and number. “Is that spelled T.h.e.r.o.n?”

“Yes.”

“Any other friends? And what is your son’s cell number?” he asked.

Barely able to read the paper through tear-filled eyes, Warren handed the pad to Morrissey and told him Rodolfo’s number.

“Here Detective, all the names we have are on that pad,” Warren said.

“Thank you.”

Then he remembered Yvonne emailed Sonia.

“Ro had a girlfriend from school, her name is Sonia. I don’t have the last name or a number, but hold on one minute.”

He went up the stairs to Rodolfo’s room. Yvonne was with Monica in her room, both were crying, trying to comfort each as best they could.

He checked the computer and saw the message from Sonia. He copied the number and returned to the living room.

“Mr. Tate, I have to ask, was there any change of behavior in your son, did he start hanging out with the wrong people?”

Warren, taken aback, answered, “No, Detective, Ro was the kid any father would be proud of. He was the captain of the football team at Brookland, a star running back, a good student, popular. But both of my children struggled a little when we first moved here from Chicago. We expected a readjustment period. New school, trying to make friends, you know. They experienced a few typically racist comments from a kid or two.”

“What comments?” asked Grey.

“You know, things like, ‘I didn’t know blacks liked science’, that kind of stuff.”

Morrissey wrote something down in his pad.

“We won’t take up much more of your time. Did your son have a car?”

“Yes.”

“What was the year, make and model?”

“A 2014 Mustang, dark grey. Ro loved that car. He was responsible behind the wheel, he knew what would happen if he messed up.”

Warren went silent for a moment, took a deep, painful breath.

“We moved to get away from. . .” He closed his eyes, words dissipating into air thick with grief and heartache.

“Here’s Sonia Gonzales’ number.” He’d almost forgotten he was holding it. “My wife got her email address off of our son’s computer last night, we didn’t have her number. She sent Sonia an email asking if she’d seen him and for her number. She wrote back they were together for a few hours but he left there at 9:30.”

“Thank you, Mr.Tate. We’ll follow up with her. I think we have enough for now,” Morrissey said.

“We’ll be in touch later with arrangements for you to make an identification,” Grey added.

Once outside, Detective Morrissey turned to face Warren. “Again, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

Warren slowly closed the door, and with legs barely able to support his body, climbed the stairs to be with his wife and daughter.