Challenge 01 - Heather in the City

Heather Cameron drove off the campus and put her vehicle in drive for the journey down to the city. She moved past the sign-boards proudly proclaiming her college's identity but barely noticed them. Those words had been a key part of her life for so long. She had once hoped that they would be so forever but just now she had other matters on her mind. The insatiable curiosity that fuelled her studies could also send her in other directions. Directions like the one she was taking now.

The two words on that sign board had been with her since she had first started school. Since the nuns had begun the long programme of education that had got her to where she was now, the holder of a prestigious research fellowship operating out of her own alma mater. That didn't happen often.

If she had glanced in her mirror she would have seen the small frown unconsciously crossing her face. Heather was a smart cookie for sure but her attainments weren't necessarily down to that. The fact that her grandfather had made a huge endowment to the college's expansion had not hurt her prospects any.

She had read an unauthorised biography of her grandfather only last year. Her family name was well known in the valleys not so far north of the college. Many of the settlements up there had developed around the plants established by her family. Three generations of old-style buccaneering 'robber barons'. Taking on Carnegie and the rest and holding their own. Tough hard men but also men that brought jobs and relatively good pay to areas that had seen little of either before them or since their departure.

She knew her ancestors well - each had been painted and had their images in the family home. Blue eyes as cold and hard as ice, impressive facial hair, stern set mouths. They weren't fools and they were hard men but they were fair. Their company towns hadn't had the strikes and trouble that some of the others had. They had been good places to live - while the company had stayed on.

Hard but fair. Her grandfather had apparently only inherited half of those family traits. Perhaps she was being unfair herself. Maybe he had just seen how things were going before some others. He'd felt no responsibility to his workers or his factory towns. He had sold them off without a second thought. Had apparently taken no interest in the rapid collapse that followed, in the hollowing-out of those once proud communities. The world was changing and he'd shifted the family's base of operations just before the cliff edge had become apparent. Moved into property and squeezed his tenants for every cent. Invested in just the right land at just the right time before so many prestigious Federal and State projects. She didn't believe that was down to her grand-father's genius any more than his biographer had. 'Inside information' was the more generous explanation. 'Corruption' the more accurate one.

She had never met her grandfather. Her own father was born when the old man was already in his sixties and had been the only child to survive him. His two sons by a previous marriage had gone to war and not come back. It must have been hard but the old man had taken it out on the world. Making money to fill the gap, to fill the time, to earn and insist on respect. Letting nothing and nobody stand in his way. A hard man indeed.

It had worked - at least in the eyes of the world. He had become more rich and powerful than any of those forbears whose portraits she knew so well. It had never been enough for him. Still he had wheeled and dealed, cleared and evicted, gouged and rent-hiked. Nothing had ever mattered except that bottom line. There had been chapters of that biography that had not made good reading for the subject's grand-daughter. It almost made it worse that she was sure that her grandfather wasn't a bad man. He just hadn't cared, maybe hadn't even noticed the real cost of some of those profitable transactions.

Until the first heart attack. The biographer had been outraged by her grandfather's business methods but he was scornful of what happened next. Their family had originated in the glens and moors of the Scottish Highlands . Forced off their land by rapacious landlords - an irony not lost on Heather. She had wondered if her grandfather had ever considered that, if her father ever considered that. At the end of the day she was well aware of where her trust fund had come from, why she need never go without. She might understand all that but it didn't stop her taking the money. It was that money which funded her researches, her studies, her fellowship.

The endowment of the college and the creation of trusts for his son and any grand-children had been part of her grandfather's repentance when that heart attack had reminded him of his mortality. He had embraced the faith of his forbears, the dogged Catholic clansmen of Lochiel. The college and the church - both had received generous funding. As far as she knew he hadn't cut a single rent though for all of his newly-found Christian charity. The warning of mortality had been timely - the second attack a couple of years later had taken him off.

Her father had lacked the old man's ruthlessness or perhaps the stomach for what was required. Their properties had been run by agents for as long as she could remember. She was an only child and she knew she was loved but that hadn't stopped her parents packing her off to the exclusive Catholic boarding school for girls, the junior institution attached to the college where she was now a Fellow. There had once been lots of establishments like those across the country but most had gone in the last century or become co-ed. That her college was still thriving, expanding even, was in no little part due to her grand-father's generosity and the smaller sums since provided by her father. She knew that had played a big part in securing her Fellowship. She hoped, no believed, that it wasn't the only reason.

Her father was not political. It frustrated her - especially when she read about her grand-father's actions She felt the heavy weight of responsibility. Just as an example the old man had played a key role in driving a freeway through the city to the south, the city she was now driving towards. Long-established neighborhoods had been destroyed and their communities broken up.

She knew that her funding ultimately came from that. Not that it was her fault - this had all happened long before she was born. So she could usually push it to the back of her mind. It was still always there though, a nagging disquiet, a responsibility.

Her field of study was economic sociology. She had a natural interest in it and she thought she had a talent for it. She had become interested in that city to the South, a city so different from her own surroundings, a city notorious throughout the nation and beyond. She knew there had been innumerable studies of gang life and poverty. She didn't want to tread such well-beaten paths. Besides, the reports and studies piled up but nothing was ever DONE about it. Maybe always looking at the problems and failures was not the way forward. Maybe they needed to look at life down there more broadly and at the cultural inter-actions happening. Heather was young enough to believe no-one had ever thought of that before.

Her problem of course was that her privileged background had ZERO resemblance to life down in the city. Her project would be approved - well of course - but she was hardly the natural fit for it. The answer, as so often, was the internet. She knew that it was a shadow-play of reality but it might give her some ideas. She found a few accounts and boards that were of interest. The latter were mostly dormant but they supplied some background. Social media was more current but very superficial. Still she observed and picked up information here and there.

Her break-through came when she began noticing references to the TKB. She expected it to feature on google but none of the returns seemed relevant. So she returned to her sites and boards and searched for just that term. It took several days but in a long-forgotten post she found a link. She half expected it to be defunct but it wasn't. However, it was protected and apparently not admitting members. Another dead-end.

Finally she had posted on one of the most active sites she had found. She had requested information and contacts. The response had not been encouraging. A lot of scorn and not a little abuse. One response had been a little different.

'You think you the first? You think our time and knowledge is worth nothin. Why should we help you?"

Not exactly encouraging but literally the only response that even suggested the possibility of assisting her. She tried other sites and accounts but that really was as close as she got and so she returned to it. This account, unlike most, wasn't accompanied by a picture. However, that answer did open the possibility of a DM. The outside chance of a contact and an 'in' down there was certainly worth a try.

She sent the account a DM outlining her study and suggesting how good it could be for the neighborhoods studied. A little stretching of the truth maybe but she hoped someone might take notice.

"Nuff BS. One last chance girl...'

Heather re-evaluated her approach. Clearly what worked with her faculty staff wouldn't work with contacts like this. So she tried again. She gave a straight-forward outline of what she was interested in and what she needed. She asked for help.

'Better. Just that u don't seem the best to be doing this. U know ANYTHING about down here?'

'I've done my preliminary research. I've read all the studies I could find. Now I need the ground-work. But first I need contacts. Could you help?'

He responded with an image. An area of wall, strangely ridged, with graffiti. Stark large letters in blue outlined by black. Around it the white scrawl of smaller painted symbols and words. 'Find that and get a picture in front of it. Then I know u serious, not frontin. Then maybe I'll help.'

She looked at the image more closely. She remembered gang studies she had read and understood the symbolism. The letters were the gang, the smaller symbols surrounding it were members. She also knew just which gang it was - that was easy. The 'BLN' or the Black Lords Nation. Which was great but the BLN was one of the biggest gangs in the city. These markings were used to lay claim to neighborhoods and so she could guess they were located round the edge of BLN territory but that still left a lot of ground to cover and her assumption might not even be right.

However, it had been enough to inspire her first trip to the city. A long day of driving, a long day of searching. A long day that told her a lot about the city and its geography but yielded no positive results. She saw the letters many times but never quite the same as in the image. She took one photograph and sent it off.

'No cigar. I need you in front of THAT image. But I guess u tryin. Where u been?'

She got up the map and listed off the territory and streets she had covered.

'Been busy. Notice anything about yo inter-communal relations. Look at the pic again. Then send me what I asked for tomorrow or stop wasting our time.'

She had looked again at the image that had been sent to her. Had she missed some indication of where it was. Part of a sign or an ad perhaps. She was sure she hadn't missed anything so obvious and she immediately found that was so. She looked again - at the wall, at the same ridges on it. Her mouth opened a little as she realised her mistake. It wasn't a wall at all. It was like a rolling garage door but on a very big scale. Now she knew what to look for. She felt her heart beating, the thrill of the chase, as she scanned the BLN territory for potential locations. It only took a couple of minutes. 'Urban transit storage depot.' Storage for parts and equipment up to and including city buses. Just the place for doors like those shown. She searched again and found a report of the depot's closure a couple of months before. On to Google Earth and - disappointment. There was the depot with just the right sort of doors but no tags. But when had that Google image been taken and when had her contact's? It would be her first stop the next morning.

So Heather found herself again driving South. On the way she recalled that last DM. Her previous visit had taught her something. Turn a corner in the city and you could go from 90% white folk to 90% African-Americans to 90% Hispanic. The boundaries weren't coded in law any more but they were still there. 'Inter-communal relations' were clearly still the exception not the rule. Which made them all the more interesting, all the more worthy of study.

The city had areas that seemed to be doing well and others that definitely weren't. Heather felt very self-concious in the latter and for once was pleased she had never been a very good driver. Why buy an expensive car if you were going to ding it parking up? She had gone for functionality and simplicity over style and speed. Her wheels didn't draw the eye and that was probably a good thing around here.

She found her target quickly and let out a little squeal of triumph. Even across the street she could see the big doors and their decoration. She retrieved her phone and brought up the image. There was no doubt. This was it!

Heather parked up and moved across the road, concious of eyes following her. This was most definitely not one of the areas that was 90% white. For the first time she knew what it was to be the minority, to feel out of place. Well if you didn't count skiing in the Alps, but even there nearly everyone spoke English and were part of the trade.

She walked to the doors and looked up at them. They were big. Whoever had tagged them had clearly brought a ladder. She got her phone out and began checking angles for her selfie

"Can I help?"

She almost jumped out of her skin and looked up to see what she had least expected to. Another white young woman, maybe a couple of years older than her, perhaps 25. She had an attractive face, her shoulder-length blonde hair cut into a fringe just above her eyes. She smiled at Heather.

"I'm just getting a picture," explained Heather.

The woman produced her own phone. "Nothing easier. Go stand over there."

Heather took position in front of the big light-blue blocked-out 'N'. She knew that had been the center of the other image.

"Done - just stand there for another just in case. Yeah, there we are, Now I'll e-mail it across. Where do I send it?"

Heather told her and seconds later her phone chirruped to signal their arrival. She looked and they were perfect. She thanked the woman who gave her a breezy 'No problem,' and then set off down the street and around the next corner.

Heather moved back to her own vehicle. By the time she got under way and glanced down the street there was no sign of the woman.

***

'OK - u good for now. Tell me what u need and I'll tell u if u gonna get it.'

She quickly and succinctly stated her hopes and requirements. Inter-communal relations and related entrepreneurship were to be the basis for her study. She thought again about what she had seen in the city only for the first response to echo her thoughts.

'H-Town ain't known for inter-communal relations. Not a big part of the image here.'

Heather felt her hopes dwindle. She'd expected this guy to tell her more than what everyone knew. A new DM flashed up.

'Thass why u need me. Heard of any of these.' He posted three names and numbers. It took only seconds for Heather to identify them all via the wonders of google. A jeweller, a baker and a small multi-media company.

She knew the third - had seen reports on a presentation by its owner. An impressive young African-American entrepreneur. Just exactly what she needed for her research. 'Do you know them? Would they be interested?'

'Long as u don't BS them and long as you play straight and don't waste their time. Gonna be putting my name behind u. Understand?'

She replied that she did but then felt she finally had to ask. 'Who are you?'

'Contact them tomorrow and tell them Harley sent u. That'll get you a hearing.'

She thanked him again and wondered if he was the one full of BS. Well what did she have to lose? The morning would tell.

***

"Yeah hun, no disrespect and I wish you all the best but I'm running a business here. You think you're the first to want to interview me - for this or that or some study or whatever. I just don't have the time - I'm sorry but there you are." Cordelia Brown's voice wasn't unpleasant or harsh but it was firm. She clearly meant every word she had said and in a couple of seconds the connection would be cut.

Heather went for broke. "Harley suggested that I talk to you."

"Ah shit," the voice on the line suddenly showed an awful lot more of its H-Town project roots. "You know that old bastard? Well you can come by this afternoon if you can make it. I can give you an hour. But you be sure to tell himself that he owes me you hear. See you round about two."

With the other two contacts she applied her lesson learned. She led with the name Harley and swiftly arranged her other two interviews. She knew they would be invaluable - they could also lead through to further contacts. It was a major break-through for her research. As an outsider, and she was well aware of her status, she needed that foot in the door and Harley had certainly provided it.

That evening she messaged him to thank him.

'Yeah - but they just small-fry. U know that don't u. Just that I know u not ready to deal with the real world. To see things how they really is.'

Heather felt her annoyance, her hurt pride. She stifled her initial desire to post an angry response and instead merely posted, 'What do you mean?'

'There's yo side the tracks and there's our side the tracks. Happy to help u on yo side but that's just part the picture. Best u stay there maybe.'

'What do you mean?'

'Gotta be careful. Meaning u have and I have. Come down here and you'll get eaten alive.'

Her curiosity was aroused. 'What are we talking here? Organized crime? Drugs?'

There was a long pause. Then finally there came the message.

'Not drugs. Maybe u need to see. Come down to u know where at 5 on Saturday.'

'Why?'

'That's how u get the answers. I gave u enough for yo project. But if u wants to know reality then u will be there at 5.'

'I'm not sure that would be a good idea.'

'Cool - go write yo paper. But it'll only be half the story. Know what I'm saying.'

'I'm sure you understand that it just wouldn't be smart for me to do what you are saying.'

'U have any issues down there then tell the motha-fucka that u with Harley. Dress neat and clean but not too rich or too fly. We'll look out for u.'

Heather was a capable young woman and not a naive one She knew the dangers implicit in accepting such a suggestion. She didn't know this Harley from Adam. Her attempts to research him had come up blank. It obviously wasn't his real name. Even assuming that he was genuine - that he existed at all outside of the nebulous realities of an internet identity. Then she remembered that she could prove that at least. She would follow that up in the morning.

***

Heather was careful. She checked the credentials of Garvey Multi-Media. They clearly existed and they clearly had contact information - but the number was not the same as that given to her the previous day. She rang the number and it was - after a wait - answered.

"Can I speak to Mr Benson please." That had been the name given to her before.

"Certainly - may I take your name and reason for calling." The voice was that professional reception voice - bright and slightly sing-song. A young woman and almost certainly African-American by her tone and accent.