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Butter been missing?”
    “Since yes’day evening and I called the police but they ain’t wanna come out here and do nothing. Won’t nobody help me and then the kids say you was out here the other day and was real nice so I thought …”
    “How old is Butter?”
    “She six.”
    “Are you married, divorced, or a single mother?”
    “Single mother.”
    “Could Butter be with her father? Maybe he stopped by and got her and didn’t ask—”
    “No, he’s in the army, stationed overseas.”
    “Could Butter be at a friend’s house, with another relative, something like that?”
    “All her friends live in the neighborhood and they ain’t seen her, and all our relatives in the city live right here, in this house—my mama, my sister, her son, me, and Butter. We done searched everywhere. She ain’t been to see her daddy’s people in the South but twice and Butter don’t know nothing about getting down there.”
    “Okay, who did you talk to at the police station?”
    “Sergeant … uh-uh … Reynolds, then I talked to a Sergeant McGuire …”
    I knew McGuire. He was a bit moody but always straightforward. I had talked to him a couple of times today when I called about the drive-by.
    “… and nobody wanted to help me! Butter is a good girl, too. Butter gets awards in school and in church. Spelling champion. Perfect attendance. Damn, don’t y’all get it? My baby is a good girl and she’s missing!”
    This kid, Butter, didn’t sound like a runaway. “Okay, Kelly? Kelly, hang on. I’m with you. Let me go talk to my managers here at the station about coming out to do a story—”
    “Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you!”
    “I’m not making any promises, Kelly, but I’ll do what I can and I hope everything will turn out okay. Give me your number and I’ll call you back.” I wrote down the number and hung up the phone.
    I walked over to the assignment desk where the managing editor and the assignment editor usually sit. It’s the hub of the newsroom and it’s set off with maps, police and fire scanners, computers, and things needed to make quick decisions on what to cover, who to send, and how to get there. My managing editor and assignment editor are both white men. They were sitting there with Bing, also a white man, discussing a special project for next month. The top decision-makers at WJIV are all white men.
    “Hey, guys, I just talked to a woman named Kelly Stewart. Her daughter is missing.” I relayed the facts I had, which included where the family lived. “I want to do a story.”
    Bing, the senior manager, scoffed, “Well, I say no, kids like that are always getting into trouble and running away.”
    “Kids like what, Bing?”
    “You know, kids that
live there
. We can’t do a story every time some kid in the ghetto runs away from a bad home.”
    I wanted to go upside Bing’s head. How cheap. How insulting. Instead, I inhaled and exhaled sweetly. “So, you’re assuming because this is a poor black child that she’s in trouble or she’s a runaway? That’s …”
    I paused. I started to say “racist” but that word would set Bing off on a defensive pattern that I didn’t want to deal with right now. And it was clear that the other two managers sitting there were not going to help me. As usual, there was a big gap in understanding between me and the white boys, a gap as wide as a crater left behind by an earthquake.
    “… that’s a common assumption and surely you all are above that in this wonderful, fair, and impartial newsroom in which we work.”
    I could tell from their looks that I hadn’t drawn blood. I had to make a decision: throw a fit or try another angle. “The point is, guys, that the family lives in the same area where the drive-by was two days ago. If I go cover this story, that gets me points with the people in the neighborhood, which builds contacts and sources for future stories. I’ll need that help because Detective Eckart told me off camera that he thinks a