Materials of D.E.L.I.A. (1)

To be honest, I was planning on taking a couple of days off to go to Long Island, lie on the beach with a beer, and listen to the new Eminem album on cassette. But no, Elizabeth Crowe, our nosy boss, was in her element: she burst into my office with a box of papers and telegrams, shoved them under my nose and said, "David, get this in order by next week, we need a readable report for the committee." I almost choked on my coffee. There were at least a hundred pages in there: police reports, some medical records, letters from a detective named Earl Knight, and telegrams from the chief of police. Elizabeth, of course, didn't explain why this was happening, she just muttered something about "important business" and left. So here I am, sorting through it, trying to make something coherent out of it. Earl's handwriting is like a chicken's paw, and the police telegrams don't even have dates, like they were just writing at random. Well, that's what I got out of this mess. I hope I didn't screw it up.

Biography of Isaac Brown, Miami, USA
Based on police reports, school records and eyewitness accounts, 1987-1995

Isaac Brown was born on December 22, 1987, in Overtown, a neighborhood of Miami, Florida. His parents were Edwin Brown, 28, a delivery driver at the docks, and Martha Brown, 26, a maid at a South Beach hotel, both Jamaican immigrants. In 1990, when Isaac was three, their house burned down due to faulty wiring-a common occurrence in Overtown, where half the buildings are falling apart. Edwin and Martha died, and Isaac was rescued by a neighbor. His custody was taken by Francois Leblanc, 41, a French-Canadian friend of Edwin's who ran a fish and chip shop in Little Havana, on SW 8th Street. Francois, a bachelor with no children of his own, lived in a cramped apartment above the store that smelled of fish and the Cuban coffee from the café across the street. I guess it wasn't easy for the kid growing up in such a place, but judging by the papers, he wasn't discouraged.

Isaac attended Frederick Douglass Elementary, two blocks from his home. Teachers describe him as quick-witted, with a Jamaican accent that clung to his speech even when he was chatting in English. He loved math, especially speed problems - he wrote formulas for racing cars in a notebook, dreaming of becoming a soccer player like Javier Zanetti.

Note from David S.: Earl's letter says that Isaac was pasting Sanetti posters on the wall, but it's unclear where Earl got that from - maybe from the neighbors? His handwriting is lousy, I can barely make out half the words.

Isaac was the life of the party in the school yard, kicking a ball around with the boys until sundown, when Francois would yell out the window, "Isaac, go home for dinner!" His best friends were Thomas Wilson, the son of a car wash owner, and Maria Gonzalez, the daughter of a cook at a Cuban cafe. The three of them would hang out in the vacant lot behind the store, playing soccer, throwing rocks at an old tire, and collecting baseball cards. Maria once gave Isaac a Spider-Man comic book, and they say he carried it to school until he tore it.

Note from David S.: This is from a school log, teacher Ms. Rodriguez wrote it down in 1994, but is that the correct year? The Miami police chief's telegram has no dates, just "mid 90's," so I guessed.

Isaac didn't live well. Francois earned pennies at the store, bought clothes at the second-hand store on the corner, fed the kid rice with beans, sometimes Jamaican party with beef filling. Isaac helped out at the store - cleaning the counters, carrying boxes of fish, although Francois grumbled that he was too small for such things. In Overtown, where every other house has boarded-up windows, and at night you can hear sirens, Isaac managed to be an optimist. Neighbors remember how he handed out candy to younger kids on the street if Francois gave him a couple of dollars. I think the kid was a real weirdo - in a good way, just like me in my snotty years, when I ran around Brooklyn with a slingshot and dreamed of becoming an astronaut.

Note from David S.: Neighbors, the Mendez brothers, gave statements to police in 1995, but Earl didn't say how they were found. Maybe he was snooping around the neighborhood?

In 1994-1995 (Isaac was 6-7 years old), teachers noticed that he was getting tired more often. In physical education, he was out of breath and coughing, although in Miami, heat and humidity are normal, everyone sweats and puffs. Francois, judging by the notes, thought it was a cold, and stuffed him with cough syrup from the pharmacy.

Note from David S.: Earl writes that Francois bought the syrup at a drugstore on 12th Avenue, but I'm not sure if I've deciphered his scribbles correctly - maybe it's 22nd?

At school, Isaac still carried the ball, but Thomas said he had become slower, and Maria noticed that he sometimes sat on the sidelines, clutching his chest. He and his friends still stuck together: they rode bikes along the embankment, looked at the yachts of rich tourists, argued about who was cooler - Spider-Man or Batman. In general, a normal guy, with his own dreams and pranks, despite their Overtown, where life is not a bed of roses.

In September 1996, Francois Leblanc, the guardian of Isaac Brown, died in his fish shop on SW 8th Street, Little Havana, Miami. He was 47 years old. According to the police report, on September 14, 1996, at about 3:30 p.m., Francois was working behind the counter, cutting tuna on an old fish cutting machine, a rusty contraption he had been fixing himself because he couldn't afford a new one. The machine jammed, and Francois reached in to fix it without turning off the power. The blade came loose and struck him in the neck. Death was instantaneous from massive blood loss. Police describe the body as being found behind the counter, his head partially severed, blood on the floor and boxes of fish, with a knife and an overturned box lying nearby. A neighbor, Jose Mendez, who owned a cafe across the street, heard the noise, ran in and called 911. A police photographer captured the scene: Francois lying in a pool of blood, wearing a work apron, his right hand clutching a screwdriver.