Tamron Hall's First in New Jordan Manning Series, As The Wicked Watch, Sets the Bar High for All Future Books! Wow!

 

I turned on the radio in the middle of Lauryn Hill’s “Killing Me Softly,” and my shoulders, tightened by stress, relaxed. It wasn’t looking good for Thomas. All I could think about was taking a shower and settling into bed just as the city was coming alive. Groups of friends walked vibrantly down Restaurant Row, while others congregated on the sidewalk waiting for a table at a new high-end diner. No longer in my twenties, I couldn’t be further from that energy. Jockeying for a reservation or mapping out which bars to hit on the weekend didn’t appeal to me as much as it used to. Dinner at home or at one of my girls’ places with a couple bottles of wine, laughing and talking as loudly as we wanted to without worrying about someone overhearing us and calling a gossip columnist to spill the beans on the lady from the news, made for a much more pleasurable evening. 

But tonight, it would be just me and my salad watching the evening news, then lights out. I pulled into the driveway, reached into my console, and grabbed the key fob, my golden ticket home, easing into the garage. Lauryn sang me up the spiral drive, and I turned up the volume as the song climaxed and cruised to the eighth-floor landing. Then my moment of Zen was shattered—someone had parked in my space again. “F***! This cannot be happening! What is wrong with people?” I pounded on the steering wheel as I drove past the gray sedan, eyeballing the Illinois license plate JLV 5491. My head throbbed and my face grew hot with anger. This time, I decided, I was going to file a complaint with the board, and, in fact, would compose a letter and email it tonight. “This is ridiculous! I cannot believe!” I fumed all the way down the driveway back to street level to access the roof. Thank God it’s not raining or snowing. As I exited the garage, I caught a glimpse of Bass having an animated conversation with someone at the guard’s desk. Bass talked to everybody. It was his favorite way to pass the time on the night shift. 

On the deck, as I feared, nearly all the spaces closest to the door accessing the stairwell had been taken, and I had to park in the farthest corner away. I turned down the radio just in time to hear my phone ringing. It was Joey. “Hello?” I answered, sounding angrier than I meant to. “Hi, what’s wrong with you?” he said. “I’m sorry,” I said, turning off the engine. “Someone parked in my space again tonight. This is the second time in a week! Pisses me off! Excuse the rant. Did you get my message?” “Yeah, I did. So these two guys came to blows? How bad was it?” “Yvonne told me Manny was on top of Terrence beating him in the face and head, so pretty bad.” “What set him off?” Joey asked. “Yvonne confronted Manny... about letting him off the hook when he acted like he barely knew Masey after she disappeared. That obviously was a lie, because he’d bought her an expensive jacket and took her and some of her friends on a photo shoot.”  'What? A photo shoot?” “Yeah, I didn’t tell you. This guy passes off as connected in the entertainment world. Music, fashion, you name it. Manny called him and asked him to stop by. Manny asked him if he did something to Masey. When he acted nonchalant, Manny flipped out on him...and his dealings with Masey would come out. What’s a thirty-year-old man doing hanging with a bunch of teenage girls and buying them clothes and shit? Manny should’ve beat his ass for that alone. A man who just got off parole wouldn’t risk going back to prison if he didn’t think this guy hadn’t done something.” “Or maybe he just has a short fuse,” I said. “He did go to jail for battery.” “Well, now you know why I told you to stay from over there. It’s dangerous, Jordan,” he said. “Guys like that disgust me. I’ll find him.” 

I started to gather up my things to get out of the car. “Okay, Joe, thanks for calling. Let me get inside my apartment. I need a reset.” “All right,” he said. “Good night.” My hands full, I got out of the car, struggling to carry the food, my gym bag, and my extra-large tote at once. I could use another hand or could just make another trip, which wasn’t going to happen. My thighs couldn’t handle the burn. The release from my workout, however brief, and my thirty seconds of Zen on the drive home were long gone. Right now all I want to do is eat my salad under the covers and be done with it. 

And as crazy as this day has been, some things never change. The light near the access door was still broke, only now instead of flickering, it was completely out. Damnit, how hard is it to fix a lightbulb? I pulled a pen with a flashlight at the tip that I picked up at the dentist’s office out of the tote and used it to help illuminate my path. Who knew it would come in handy? Steps from the heavy steel door, I heard a man’s voice. “So you’re still not married, Jordan?” I looked around. “Excuse me?” Gil from the radio morning show had razzed me about my marital status during my appearance. “Gil?” I turned around. “Is that . . .” I felt an explosion of pain in the middle of my forehead, then another to the back of my skull. I spun around and fell backward. My head hit the pavement so hard it bounced off the concrete. “You f***ed up, bitch! You f***ed up!” The fall knocked the wind out of me. I couldn’t even scream. I was disoriented, and what little I could make out in the darkness was blurred. Before I could recover, the force of his fist struck me hard across my right cheek. Dear God! What is happening? Help! There was another blow to my forehead. He was saying something, but I couldn’t make it out. The next thing I felt was his body on top of me. He was yelling, crushing me, cutting off the little bit of air that remained in my lungs. I felt something warm running down my nose and mouth. Everything was moving in slow motion but rapidly at the same time. I could feel his warm breath on my face as he continued to shout words I couldn’t make out. But I could feel his rage. He closed his hands around my neck and pressed down. I would’ve fought him if I could, but I was overpowered, gasping for air. For the first time in my life, I thought This is it. This is how I die. And the world went dark.

To the countless children missing or taken by the darkness of the world. You are more than a story. You are more than words on a page. You are loved, you are missed, and you are not forgotten.

~~~

Tamron Hall dedicates her first in a series book to all of the countless children missing or taken. Indeed, during the story, she points out that many, many Black girls just disappear and little is done to find them. For me, I had become aware of the sad tale of some police actions against Black young boys due to bias, but, I must say, that the tragedy of lost girls had escaped my awareness, except, of course, in a general sense, knowing about the Human Trafficking problem that America faces... And, once again, I wonder--Why is that?! But I learned that Tamron not only had a personal tragedy in her family, but also has hosted a real crime television program, quite different from the talk show host that we all know and love...

 

Jordan Manning is a young crime reporter who has gone the extra mile to become certified in forensic investigations--so much so that when the latest case comes to her attention, she is caught with a very real need to begin to handle the actual investigation herself! Thankfully, she has been able to build a local community of friends and confidential confidants who were there when she most needs them. Already, I am wondering if, during the series, she might actually cross over into the investigative side because, certainly, she has the interest and the skills. 

When a young girl, just 15 disappears, Jordan became involved, even to the extent that she personally talked with the girl's mother often, even when there was no news to report. In fact, the girl was gone for months and the police had made a decision that it was a run-a-way case and did little to actually work the case.

Until, finally, a body was found in a nearby but totally neglected children's park--a park where parents had been trying to gain local officials to clean up the vermin-infested location, but were ignored. Was it because it was a primarily Black community?

If any movies are created, I vote for
Tamron to play Jordan!

Jordan was the only Black reporter where she worked. Her friends in the area came through their personal connection--her guard where she lived who she had begun to see as a younger brother... And it was, Bass, with a nickname that evolved from his background, who, when Jordan who had gotten too close to the truth, actually saved Jordan from what could have been her death by the guilty criminal. Instead, he was stabbed and was rushed into surgery immediately afterward, in critical condition for weeks after. 

Jordan's injuries were intentional, I believe, and were aimed at her face--the face she needed to be sharing live news. She was forced off for a time, but continued to work the case, interviewing people, tracking down leads. Leads that were not even on the police's radar... And, which, they paid little attention because they had already arrested who they thought were guilty--three Black boys, ages 12 and 13! And the older one, 13, was to be tried as an adult! Put in regular jail--and beaten!  But then another girl was found with the same torture markings...

The Black community was more than angry...

“Jordan, with yet another murder of a young African American woman, what are some of the community leaders saying? Are they questioning how police are handling these cases?” Did she lob that question at me to get me to state the obvious? That people had doubts that the police would use all the resources available to draw a connection between these two homicides, if there was one? Or was she oblivious? Of course people were asking that question. Wouldn’t you if you lived here? “Diana, there is a growing wave of discontent over the number of unsolved murders of Black women on the South and West Sides. Now, with the murder of Tania Mosley, that number stands at eight over the last two years.” “Thank you, Jordan, and again, I look forward to your special report, which airs tonight during the ten o’clock broadcast, with Tania’s mom.” I wondered whether Diana fully understood what this latest murder meant. Would she be looking forward to a special report about White girls being killed? My thoughts went dark, realizing my snap judgment was unfair. She wasn’t looking forward to a report on anyone’s being killed, no matter their race. It was just that scripted language trap many anchors tended to fall into after years of seeing the same kind of story over and over again. In a few seconds, this story would vanish and the commercial break would act as a palate cleanser until the next funny video everyone was talking about or the comforting kicker about someone or some company doing a good thing. From confronting you with a murder to making you feel motivated in twenty-five minutes or less. (OMG!)

I have purposely not talked about the victim(s) or the villain(s) or the modus operandi used. Hall has kept her readers working right along with her main character to find out the Truth! And Truth will come out in one way or another if a crime has indeed been committed. Tamron Hall's experience as a journalist, as a television host for true crime, et.al., has certainly given her the ability to move right into a top-notch fiction crime writer! Kudos Tamron! I now truly am a member of your TamFam, and for, especially, Jordan Manning!

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