Brooklyn, p.1
Brooklyn, page 1
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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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In Loving Memory
Tracy was a writer’s writer. She had a vivid imagination and was filled with enough ideas to write a hundred more books. She was always trying to improve her craft and took to heart every suggestion she received about her writing. She was working on three books simultaneously at the time of her death. But this book, Brooklyn, is one Tracy would probably gladly have chosen as her final opus. She was so excited to get to write a mystery and even more excited when her longtime editor, Monique Patterson, said she loved it. Tracy felt Monique brought out the best in her, and was proud to call her a friend, as well as an editor.
Tracy’s writings are a legacy that anyone would be more than pleased to leave behind. But Tracy was so much more than an author, and all her other life experiences contributed to the rich pictures she was able to paint on each page. She listened to ever- changing playlists as she wrote and was often inspired by performances she had seen at New York’s Joyce Theater, where she was a member of the board of trustees.
In addition to her novels and ghostwriting projects she worked on with celebrities, she wrote and directed two stage plays titled Brand New (2016) and Redeemed (2017). Tracy was the 2017 recipient of a proclamation from the New York City Council in honor of her outstanding service and enduring contributions to the community. She was the recipient of a citation for exemplary service from the New York State Senate’s 20th District; the 2017 awardee of a certificate of honor from the New York City Public Advocate’s office; and the 2013 recipient of the Humanitarian Award from the National Council of Negro Women.
She always reached back to help others. She was the director of the nonprofit organization We Are Ladies First LTD (d/b/a “Ladies First”), an organization that is on a mission to inform, inspire, and empower young women in urban communities. Ladies First provides an undergraduate scholarship and mentorship, sponsors young women to tour historically Black colleges and universities, and hosts financial planning and career readiness workshops.
And she didn’t forget the futures of those in prison. Tracy volunteered as the instructor of a creative writing course for young ladies in a correctional environment of the New York State foster care system. It is a course that she had also taught to scholars at the Staten Island charter school Eagle Academy.
Above all else, Tracy Brown was a proud mother and grandmother. Her family came first no matter the myriad other obligations, which were legion. In addition to creating all her amazing books, she had a full-time job with a group of lawyers.
Tracy Brown always believed in dreaming big and she left her indelible mark on this world. Think of this amazing woman as you enjoy her final offering. She will be missed.
THE END
CLOVE LAKE PARK
Sunday, February 9, 2003
I’m dying.
The hands around my throat press tighter with each second that passes.
My fingernails dig into those hands desperately as I battle to breathe. I fight for my life, kicking violently at my tormentor, some of them landing, none of them causing the suffocating pressure on my throat to relent. I try to scream but no sound escapes me. The silence makes the horror even worse.
I can’t believe this is how it ends. I’ve been slick and slippery my whole life. One step ahead of everyone else. I pride myself on that.
But I fucked up this time. And I’m about to pay for it with my life.
It sinks in as I stare up into the pitiless eyes of my grim reaper. I feel life slowly exiting my body. The pain becomes unbearable, and I feel my limbs start to relax. But I know the relief I’m experiencing isn’t a good thing. This isn’t a peaceful feeling. This is final.
If I thought God would listen, I’d pray. I know it’s pointless, though. God knows I deserve this.
But I’m not ready to die.
I strike hard, scratching, slapping, bucking my body with all my might to free myself. For a cruel and fleeting moment, it seems to work. I gasp for air as the pressure on my throat decreases. I struggle to scream, but my voice is hoarse. Dazed, my ears ringing, I feel the pressure intensifying again. I try fighting, but I’m easily overpowered now. My hands are pinned beneath heavy knees, and I can’t breathe. I look pleadingly into my killer’s eyes. The hate in those eyes is palpable, and I know that there will be no mercy for me.
Monday, February 10, 2003
The vine-choked woods were quiet that morning. Eerily so. A gray squirrel scampered swiftly up a large oak tree. The branches swayed against the force of the relentless winter wind. A bird flew overhead, gliding in elegant contrast to the ugly scene on the ground.
“This was such a beautiful place until now.”
Detective Ivan Ramos spoke solemnly to his partner Detective Charles Lee as they stood feet away from the gruesome crime scene in Clove Lake Park.
“I wonder what the fuck happened to this girl.”
CHAPTER ONE
Church Girl
December 1995
The church was rocking like a rap concert. People were on their feet finishing the pastor’s sentences like lyrics to a song they all knew.
Reverend Elias James stood tall in the pulpit with the Bible gripped firmly in his hand. His deep, melodic voice boomed across the sanctuary, eliciting shouts of “Hallelujah!” and “Amen!” from the crowd.
Brooklyn Melody James was a seventeen-year-old beauty. Named after the borough where she was born, she seemed to embody the spirit of the place. Tough, trendy, edgy, and popular. Although she was born there and bore its name, she had few memories of the place. Her parents had moved to Staten Island, the city’s forgotten borough, when she was just a child. In a place with such an interwoven community, her golden skin, bright eyes, and dimpled smile made her a magnet for just about every type of attention. Boys wanted to date her, girls wanted to be her friend, and everyone seemed eager to be liked by her. As the middle child in her family, she felt like the black sheep at times.
Amir was the firstborn, a son, the heir to Daddy’s throne. His name meant “ruler” in Arabic, a sign that the bar had been set high for him from birth. He had graduated high school the year prior and was taking some time off from school while he decided what to do next.
Hope was the sweet baby girl of the family. The gentle and sheltered one. She was respectful, always following the rules of the family and of the church. She had a pure and gentle heart that made her popular with children. It also made her a favorite of the church elders, who often held her up as an example of what God wanted the youth to strive for.
Of the James siblings, Brooklyn was the most outgoing, the most outspoken, and by far the most challenging of them all. She questioned everything, never failed to speak her mind, and had no problem challenging authority. Without realizing it, she managed to do everything her mother didn’t have the courage to.
The church her father was preaching at today was a Baptist congregation in the Bronx, celebrating their elderly pastor’s thirtieth anniversary. It was clear to Brooklyn as she watched the reaction from the packed house that they hadn’t heard such a rousing sermon in a long time. Half the sanctuary was on their feet, hooting and hollering so heartily that the sound shook the room.
Brooklyn watched her father work. She had heard him preach this sermon before. It was an old favorite that he often reverted to when he was invited to churches as a guest preacher. This was one such Sunday.
She sat on the cushioned front pew next to her mother Sabrina. Her brother Amir and her sister Hope sat to the right of her. To the world, they looked like a picture-perfect family. A postcard for Black excellence. But Brooklyn knew the truth. Behind their carefully crafted public image of stellar Christian living were many twisted secrets.
Elias reached the grand finale of his sermon as sweat seemed to drip from every pore of his body. Brooklyn’s gaze roamed to the choir stand, aware that it was now the moment they had all been waiting for. Scanning the soprano section, she found her best friend Erica and watched as she calmly stood up, stepped to the microphone, and unleashed her anointing—a voice so angelic and clear that people began to weep.
As Erica sang her song, Elias summoned the congregation to the altar for prayer. Brooklyn watched as the flood of people rushed forward, many of them falling to their knees. Her mother Sabrina stood and joined the host church’s aging first lady at the altar. Together they stood with their hands interlocked and their heads bowed, ad-libbing as the prayer went on.
Brooklyn watched it all, thinking that this was one big well-orchestrated production. Her father was the main attraction, but the choir was always the crowd-pleaser. No matter how stale the sermon or how recycled the scripture, even the worst Sunday service could be salvaged by some good old-fashioned singing. Once t he altos and sopranos came together with the musicians, and the rhythm of the drums and tambourines hit the sanctuary, it was time for church.
She glanced at the drummer Jordan as he looked at Erica and nodded, signaling that it was time to hit the song’s crescendo. His tempo sped up a notch, the beat of his drumsticks intensified, and Erica hit the high notes effortlessly.
Elias shouted “Amen!” and the spirit moved freely through the church. Brooklyn had seen it all before. The fainting, shouting, hands raised to the sky, mouths parted wide with praise. All while the ushers rushed forth with the offering baskets, urging everyone present to empty their pockets in Jesus’ name.
“Will a man rob God?” Elias quoted scripture as the ushers moved slowly down the aisles.
Brooklyn watched as her mother demonstratively dropped a hefty envelope into the basket, setting a fine example for everyone else to follow suit. Brooklyn had to resist the urge to laugh, aware that her mother knew full well that that money was going to find its way right back into her household in one way or another. The trustees of both churches were already waiting in the back to split up the loot the moment the shakedown was over.
As the ushers conducted their business, the choir joined Erica for the chorus of “At the Cross.” The whole room was on their feet now, and Brooklyn clapped her hands to the beat of Jordan’s drum. She made a mental note to compliment him on a job well done during the ride back to Staten Island. Today’s service had been a well-executed performance on everyone’s part, which meant the envelope her father would be taking home would be a hefty one.
By now, Brooklyn understood that money was the name of the game. Sure, the goal was to save souls and spread the Gospel. But growing up as a preacher’s kid had taught her that behind all that was a desire to increase membership, thereby increasing the tax-free tithes and offerings they could rely on each week. The goal was to book popular guest preachers and to go “on tour” and do preaching engagements at other churches where the offerings were often higher than the ones they got at home. In Brooklyn’s eyes, it was all a hustle. One big game with everyone fighting for status, power, and prestige, which all equaled cash. And her father was the greatest hustler she had ever seen.
Not unlike the ones she encountered outside the church’s doors.
Crime had ravaged New York City over the past decade or more. The mayor had empowered the police to conduct themselves like a gang in order to regain control of the city. Poverty, despair, and hopelessness had driven multitudes of people to the altars at houses of worship across the nation. And Promised Land Church in Staten Island, New York, was no different. That was where Reverend Elias “Eli” James and his lovely wife Sabrina were the pastor and first lady. Along with their three children, the couple greeted their faithful congregants each week, always perfectly coifed and perfectly groomed. Every detail tended to by Sabrina James’s critical and unflinching eye.
Brooklyn looked at her mother now and grinned. To anyone watching, it might have appeared that she was a loving daughter staring fondly at her beautiful mother. But Brooklyn’s smirk was a cynical one. She knew the truth about her mother and hated her for it. Behind the image of purity and perfection was an unsavory truth. Their family was a fraud, and her mother was the ringleader.
To the church, the first lady was a loving wife and mother who served the Lord with no ulterior motives. At home, she was a hawk, watching over the family’s movements and maneuvering them all like a chess master. In Brooklyn’s eyes, Sabrina was a cold and heartless woman, too eager to overlook her husband’s womanizing, whoremongering, and philandering. Too willing to believe lies that were easier to accept than the truth.
But the insiders knew the real deal. Among the inner circle was an unspoken truth that Eli was a handsome man who took full advantage of his role as pastor. Brooklyn watched him laying hands on breathless women at the altar. He kept a weekly appointment at the barbershop, sported a neat mustache and goatee, maintained a sepia skin tone, and was always dressed to impress. He even smelled good, the scent of him often lingering pleasantly in his wake like a sweet savor.
His wife was a vision of loveliness herself. Sabrina was a fair-skinned woman with long hair, doe-shaped eyes, and a shy smile. She spoke softly, dressed appropriately, and quietly supported her husband as the walking personification of a virtuous woman.
At least in public, she did. At home, it was another story altogether. There, she tossed sarcastic, biting remarks at her children. She cut silent glances in their direction dripping with threats and warnings. They were never allowed to step out of line, and she carefully analyzed and criticized their speech, posture, manners, and most of all their friends. It was their mother who chose the guests invited to their birthday parties, who they spoke to on the phone, and where they spent their rare moments of free time.
Brooklyn’s thoughts wandered involuntarily to the root of her distrust and disdain for her mother. It began the year she turned thirteen. She had blossomed that year from a young and naive tomboy into a curvy and carefree teenager. The shift had happened overnight and was obvious to everyone except Brooklyn herself. She had felt like the same little girl, just with blooming breasts and hips that swayed when she walked. Unaware that her sweet dimples and sparkling eyes were suddenly garnering smiles of a different kind from the men around her. Sabrina became more protective of her, and Elias agreed with his wife’s approach. They limited her sleepovers at the homes of her friends, much to Brooklyn’s dismay. But she was permitted to spend the night with her cousin Nicole and her “Uncle” Morris.
Morris was Sabrina’s stepbrother. They had been raised as siblings and were only ten months apart in age. Morris’s father had married Sabrina’s mother when the children were ten years old. Sabrina had grown up extremely poor in Brownsville, Brooklyn. She was the only child of a single mother who had struggled desperately to keep them afloat. When Sabrina’s mother Gloria had met and married George McDonald, everything changed. Sabrina and her mother moved out of their rundown, rat-infested tenement building into a home with a backyard in Clinton Hill. Sabrina adored her stepfather, George. Whenever she spoke about him, it was evident that she respected and revered the man. Even after Sabrina’s mother died, she continued to enjoy a beautiful father/daughter relationship with the man who had raised her and elevated her out of poverty. She cared for him so much that she let him come and live with the family when he got too old to care for himself. Brooklyn remembered those days fondly. “Papa George” had always been willing to listen to her ramblings about school, her friends, and the TV shows she liked. He colored with her, both of them going outside the lines, and she listened to his stories about the old days. Before George died, Sabrina promised him that she would always look out for her stepbrother Morris. And she had kept true to her word.
As Brooklyn grew up, she spent a lot of time with “Uncle Morris” and his family. He and his wife—a heavyset woman by the name of Audrey—had two children: a son they called “Junior,” who was away at college, and a daughter named Nicole, who was the same age as Brooklyn. The two girls spent a lot of time hanging out together. With Sabrina’s approval, the girls took turns over the years enjoying fun and giggle-filled sleepovers at each other’s homes.
That fateful summer had been no different. The girls hung out together enjoying ice cream cones and chattering on for hours. One particular weekend, Nicole had invited Brooklyn for a sleepover at her house, and Brooklyn’s parents had agreed. Uncle Morris and his wife took the kids to the pool that Saturday afternoon, and it was one of the happiest memories Brooklyn had of her time with her “play cousin.” She and Nicole were about to start eighth grade and both of them were excited about it. They chattered endlessly that day about boys, music, and all the things teenage girls are obsessed with. Morris’s wife splashed around in the water with the girls while he sat poolside and watched them all. The girls had such a great time that neither complained when it was time to leave.
They had McDonald’s afterward—a rarity for Brooklyn, because her mother always cooked meals from scratch at home. She enjoyed the treat and thanked her aunt and uncle repeatedly as they devoured their meals. When they got back to Nicole’s house, they showered and watched TV for a while and were both knocked out before 10 P.M.
