Dena manoeuvred her car through Chicago’s rush hour traffic her mind occupied, like it was a lot of the time, with one of her students. Just after lunch the police showed up and took Leroy Washington away to jail for suspected homicide. Dena was still reeling, there had to be some mistake. Leroy was a senior at Springs High School. A B student, which was a big achievement given his home life. His mother was a drug addict, his father in prison and he had three younger sisters to look after. Leroy Washington was a success story. But now he was being arraigned for murder.

It was days like this one that really zapped Dena’s energy. She knew when she took the job at Springs High in Chicago’s notorious Southside it was not going to be easy. In the seven years since she’d been the school’s principal they went from being in the bottom 10% of schools in the country to being in the top 30%. Violence in the school had nearly disappeared where before it was a haven for drug trafficking and gang activity. And slowly people like Leroy Washington were rising to the top as role models for other students. That’s what they needed. A safe place for learning to take place, discipline for both teachers and students, high standards with no leeway and people like Leroy Washington to show them that even under the most trying conditions success could be found. But now she felt like everything she had worked so hard to build was collapsing.

Dena banged her hand on the steering wheel in frustration. What could have gone wrong? Leroy’s homeroom teacher, Mike Proctor, said the police told him it was gang related. Dena couldn’t believe that Leroy was in a gang. It was just not possible. Mike Proctor said, “Anyway, a tiger doesn’t change its stripes. You tried your best but these people are just like that.”

Dean turned on him. “These people? What does that mean?”

“I’m just saying, this is their life.” He shrugged his shoulders and pushed back his thinning blonde hair. “It’s what they know. Gang banging, guns. What can we really do?”

“How about your job?” Dena turned and walked away before she said something that had Proctor running to his union rep.

Proctor and his kind were part of the problem. The worst of them she’d managed to get transferred but despite her best efforts Proctor stayed put. How can you have racist teachers in a school that was 99% African-American? She’d explained the situation so many times to so many committees and boards that she knew her speech by heart. After that comment, Proctor had risen to the top of her hit list. The next board meeting she’d be gunning for him. She needed a team that worked together for the same goal. There was no space for people like Mike Proctor in her school.

She turned onto Milwaukee Avenue. Her familiar neighbourhood. She’d lived here almost all of her life, an Irish family in a Polish neighbourhood but they managed. Her father was a firefighter and so were quite a few of their neighbours and that bonded them together more than anything else. Most of the neighbourhood was Catholic including her father and attended St. Michael’s, that meant more to most of the neighbours than if your ancestors came from Warsaw or Dublin. These were the things that kept the community tight, though like everywhere, things were changing. People moved away. The concept of neighbourhood was receding into the past like a bit of quaint historical colour. For a few years, Dena lived in a condo downtown, but after her father’s accident, she and her daughter, Robbie, moved in with him in the family’s double story house on Milwaukee. She’d liked her independence, but she also like the familiarity of home.

Dena promised herself she’d go down to the jailhouse the next day. She needed to talk to Leroy. She needed to hear his side of the story. She knew it wasn’t as simple as another gang murder. Something had happened and she was going to find out. Everyone told her she made things too personal, but she didn’t care. It was personal. These kids were important, these kids mattered, and she took their education and their welfare personally. If that was wrong, then she must have lost her moral compass somewhere, because to her it seemed the only right thing to do.

She parked her car on the street and walked up the sidewalk to the two story red brick house. The big maple tree out in front of the picture window in the living room was turning red, the ground underneath scattered with leaves like a scarlet carpet had been laid down. It was the first week of October; winter would be here soon enough. The seasons in Chicago stamped their authority without mercy. Wet, temperamental springs, hot, humid summers, cool crisp falls, bitter cold winters. It suited Dena, even the long winters. She like the cyclical nature of the seasons.

The house had a small patch of lawn at the front, big enough for her and her friends when they were growing up. A place to make tea parties with their dolls when they were little, to set up lemonade stands. To malinger with boys after school dances when she was a teenager. She’d had a good life in this house.

She opened the door and the familiar smells of polished wood, boiled cabbage and Lysol filled her nose. Her father’s leg was permanently damaged from the shooting accident, but it didn’t keep him from keeping the house spotless. Dena’s mother died in a car accident when she was nine, so her father was used to playing both parents’ roles. He was happy when she and Robbie moved back home, it gave him something to do, take care of them.

“I’m home,” Dena shouted into the house.

“We’re in here,” her father said.

Her daughter, Robbie, sat at the table with her math homework. Her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her little face scrunched up in frustration.

“Hey Pumpkin. That math whipping your butt?” Dena asked bending down and giving her daughter a kiss on the top of the head.

“I hate math,” Robbie said, her big blue eyes looking sad.

“I know, Pumpkin, but I’m pretty sure math loves you.” Dena knew her daughter liked the easy way and math was a struggle for her. Her pretty blue eyes often got her out of the things that troubled her, people gave in to her too easy and too often for Dena’s liking. Dena came from the school of thought that said struggle built character and she wanted her daughter to believe that too, so there would be no easy way with math tonight. She’d struggle through it alone now matter how many sad eyes looked up at Dena.

Dena patted her father’s back where he stood at the stove working on dinner as she reached in the cupboard for a wine glass. She passed the fridge and plucked out the last half of a bottle of chardonnay and sat down at the table. She poured herself half a glass, drank it down, and poured another.

“Bad day?” her father asked smiling down at her nearly empty again glass.

“You know, Pa, sometimes you think you’re really doing something. Really making a difference in people’s lives. And then a day like this comes along and shows you the truth.” She shook her head and watched her daughter erasing an answer to a long division problem that proved wrong on the checking.

“What happened?” Her father put the lids back on the pots and sat down opposite Dena. Mac Leary was 62 but didn’t look a day over fifty. A tall, tough man, even now. He’d been legendary on the force for his strength and bravery. He took a big knock when his wife died suddenly leaving him with a broken-hearted little girl, but he took responsibilities seriously. He’d been the best father any girl could have hoped for. He still was.

“You remember that boy, the one with the mother who’s a crack addict? With the three little girls?”

“Sure, Leroy something. Was it Washington?” Mac asked.

“Yeah, that’s him. He was arrested at school today for homicide.”

“What’s homicide?” Robbie asked.

“They say he killed someone, Pumpkin.”

“I thought he was your role model down there at Springs?” her father asked. “Your success story?”

“Me too. I don’t know the whole story yet. I’m going down to the jail first thing tomorrow. I hope there’s been a mistake. It has to be a mistake. You know how the police are now; pick up all of the black kids hoping one of them might be the culprit.”

“It’s got to be a mistake. You’ve got good instincts. You’ve always had good instincts, Kid.” Her father patted her hand and then got up to check his pots. “Dena, can you reach and turn the news on, it’s just about six.”

Dena turned around and reached for the small TV on the counter and switched it on. She topped up her wine and turned her chair to watch the news. And with one flash of a photo, her bad day suddenly became much, much worse.

***

Tell us what you think: Do you think Leroy is guilty or is Dena right in thinking they are accusing the wrong person?