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mother.”
    “That’s fine but he was living with his grandmother.”
    “You sure?”
    “The information we got in the briefing was that he was with the grandmother. We were the big bad wolves hitting grandma’s
     house. There was no father in the picture and the mother was in and out, living on the street. Drugs.”
    “Okay, then I’ll talk to the grandmother. Where’s the place?”
    “You’re just cruising on down to say hello?”
    He said it in a disbelieving tone and I knew that was because I was white and would likely be unwelcome in Alonzo Winslow’s
     neighborhood.
    “Don’t worry, I’ll take somebody with me. Strength in numbers.”
    “Good luck. Don’t get your ass shot until after I go off watch at four.”
    “I’ll do my best. What’s the address, do you remember?”
    “It’s in Rodia Gardens. Hold on.”
    He put the phone down while he looked up the exact address. Rodia Gardens was a huge public housing complex in Watts that
     was like a city unto itself. A dangerous city. It was named after Simon Rodia, the artist who had created one of the wonders
     of the city. The Watts Towers. But there wasn’t anything wonderful about Rodia Gardens. It was the kind of place where poverty,
     drugs and crime had cycled for decades. Multiple generations of families living there and unable to get out and break free.
     Many of them had grown up having never been to the beach or on an airplane or even to a movie in a theater.
    Braselton came back on and gave me the full address but said he had no phone number. I then asked if he had a name for the
     grandmother and he gave me the name I already had, Wanda Sessums.
    Bingo. My caller. She had either lied about being the young suspect’s mother or the police had their information wrong. Either
     way, I now had an address and would hopefully soon put a face with the voice that had berated me the Friday before.
    After ending the call with Braselton I got up from my cubicle and wandered back into the photo department. I saw a photo editor
     named Bobby Azmitia at the assignment desk and asked if he had any floaters currently out and about. He looked down at his
     personnel log and named two photographers who were out in their cars looking for wild art—photographs unconnected to news
     events that could be used to splash color on a section front. I knew both of the floaters and one of them was black. I asked
     Azmitia if Sonny Lester could break free to take a ride with me down the 110 Freeway and he agreed to offer the photographer
     up. We made arrangements for me to be picked up outside the globe lobby in fifteen minutes.
    Back in the newsroom I checked with Angela on the Open-Unsolved Unit story and then went over to the raft to talk to my ace.
     Prendergast was busy typing up the day’s first story budget. Before I could say anything he said, “I already got a slug from
     Angela.”
    A slug and budget line were a one-word title for a story and a line of description that was put on the overall story budget
     so when editors gathered around the table in the daily news meeting they would know what was being produced for the web and
     print editions and could discuss what was an important story, what wasn’t, and how it should all be played.
    “Yeah, she’s got a handle on that,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know I’m going to take a ride down south with a photographer.”
    “What’s up?”
    “Nothing yet. But I may have something to tell you later on.”
    “Okay.”
    Prendo was always cool about giving me rope. Now it didn’t matter anymore. But even before I got the Reduction in Force form,
     he had always exercised a hands-off approach to reporter management. We got along pretty well. He wasn’t a pushover. I would
     have to account for my time and what I was pursuing. But he always gave me the chance to put it together before I had to bring
     him into the loop.
    I headed away from the raft and over to the elevator alcove.
    “Got