March 21, 1977 | 11:43 AM
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"Dammit Robert, when are you going to get your shit together?" It was unlike Janet to yell at her son, but lately, his behavior has hit the dirt.

Ditching class, stealing from convenience stores, acting abruptly loud with more attitude and less refrain. At first, she thought it was a short phase, those raging teenage hormones the other parents talked about, but this worsened as the months went by and it was now interfering with her work. Within the past week Janet had missed five full hours of work, the equivalent of an extra thirty dollars down the drain, meeting with teachers, supervisors, and now police officers regarding Robert's actions.

Being a single mother working three jobs is not what Janet forshaw in her future, losing Joe made her and Robert's world more difficult. She often dreamt of a magic genie to perform magic and make life more pleasant, more enjoyable for the two of them-almost always, wishing Joe back. Instead, she was now in a situation where Robert's jail bond would be too steep of a price to pay.

"How was I supposed to know it's illegal?" Robert replied while leaning his head forward onto the rusted metal bars.

"Do you see anyone else doing it in public, huh?" Janet took a large, calming, exhale before speaking again. How did her son get this way, she continuously thought? He was such a good boy—now, he's fucking more than young girls over. He's not only ruining his future, but also her own. "You're gonna have to face the penalty," Janet claimed. "What was it, three days?"

"What? No way."

"Yes, way." Although Janet very much hated seeing her son this way, she couldn't afford to take out another loan or losing more money. "Take the time in this cell to think about your actions, think about how they affect us. Because we can't—I can't afford this shit no more Bobby. "

"But Mom-"

"No but's," Janet turned away, quickly hiding the tears coming down on her face. "I'm done, Robert. Done."

With haste, Janet jolted out of the police station with Robert begging out to her, "You have no right to do this! Mom! Mom! Come back. Mom! I'm sorry."

Stepping out of the police station wasn't easy for the heart, hearing her once-little boy cry out her name. Wanting her. Needing her. How could any true mother deny those words? It killed her.

She slowly approached her parked car, which was a few blocks away. With her vision blurred and salted tears staining her silk blouse, Janet unlocked husband's formerly used Volkswagen and plotted down onto the driver's side. Staring at her vehicle keys with self-resentment and frustration, she was having a difficult time accepting that she, a single mother, would be without her son for the coming days.
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Rebecca Caruso
June 12, 2017 | 1:25 PM
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Bright white lights began going off from a distance. The press and paparazzi went into a flash frenzy as soon as I stepped out through the screen door of my former home.

"Shit, that's Rebecca Caruso!" I quickly nudged my head down as I walked forward, avoiding having my face plastered on tomorrow's Tribune or RedEye magazine.

"She's not supposed to be out for another month." The murmurs around the now-excited crowd became clearer as I walked closer toward the police barracks.

"How did she get past us?"

"Quick, Tom, go live!" Anchors and reporters scattered into position, as cameramen and overhead boom holders, scurried behind them. Small red lights began flickering on simultaneously.

"This is Anita Pedia from Fox-32 reporting live..."

"Bill Amaro here from NBC-5..."

" This is a live ABC-7 exclusive from Police Superintendent Robert Caruso's home in Avondale-we are witnessing his daughter, Rebecca Caruso walking out of the home."

"Shit. They're all live, on-air." I froze as cameras began panning, showing a clear juxtaposition of me along with the narrative voice-overs of the proceeding newscasters.

The police and security team immediately became overwhelmed by the floods of people. Using their strength to hold crews back, shove cameras onto the ground, and push the metal barracks back for distance, no one was there to assist me through the crowd.

There was nowhere for me to maneuver around. If I walk through myself, I'll be attacked like the vultures they are-spinning whatever comment they obtain, to sell more papers, to bring more viewership, anything to display the significance of their station...

I jumped back as I felt an arm go around my waist.

"Relax." I looked, even though I knew exactly whose it was. "It's only me, Beck. I'm here to ask for my Ray Bans."

"Seriously," I gestured toward the animal-like crowd of people in front of us.

He tugged my waist even closer, trying to draw me to go in a different direction. "Sometimes I wonder how you even passed the police exam in the first place."

I shrugged my shoulders as the overwhelming sounds of reporters caught me completely off guard.

"Rebecca, here!"

"No, here. Here"

"Rebecca!"

"I'm here to get you out," his voice asserted as he exhaled with angered exhaustion from the crowd. "Cause that's what good people do, remember?"

I raised my eyebrows in immediate acceptance, and I allowed him to take the lead. Christopher guided my body, alongside his, as we power-walked through several front yards.

One of my clogs sunk into the dirt and fell off as we continued. I quickly flipped the other one off my foot before the paparazzi caught a glimpse of where we went. Turning into the driveway of one of the homes, we went through an un-gated backyard and hopped over onto a gaveled, hidden, alleyway-where Christopher's patrol SUV was parked, waiting.

"Get in," He said as he slid his body over the hood and opened the driver's side door, "before they catch up."

I rolled my eyes at his childish action as I quickly opened the passenger door to get in. Chris revved the engine and activated the sirens as the vehicle veered out of the back alleyway and onto the paved street.

"Where are we going?" I yelled out while clicking my seatbelt in, hoping he could hear me over the sirens. I didn't want to go far; Camilla was still waiting for me at Starbucks-and neither time nor being with Chris was a friendly factor.

I should probably go to Starbucks alone—showing up with Chris, while Camilla may quite possibly have a coffee in her hand, is not a smart idea. The girl had a gift to turn anything into a weapon.

Chris ignored to answer my question as we made several turns before coming onto the quiet industrial street of Ashburn Lane. Still in Avondale's jurisdiction, and only a ten or fifteen-minute walk from Starbucks-this industrial area was in the works to become the newest startup hub; with the hopes of attracting more people to the area. Building construction was still ongoing, and within my six-month leave, it didn't look like there was much forward progress.

"Sorry," Christopher noted as he stopped the vehicle and turned off the obnoxiously loud siren. "Reporters don't like the sirens. It messes with their live broadcast"

To be frank, no one likes the sirens, including the police, firemen, and ambulance technician, themselves. "What are we doing here?"

"Blowing smoke." He pulled the keys out of the ignition and tossed them into the vacant cup holder on the center counsel, between us. "I told you not to get caught, now you got all of Chicago sniffing you out. So, we wait until your scent fades."

"Gee, thanks," I unfastened my seatbelt and grabbed the car door handle. "But I have somewhere I need to be."

He leaned back onto his driver's chair and closed his eyes, "So he's got you leashed, huh?"

"Just stop," I somewhat lied while opening the car door. "I'm tired of this game."

"Fine, I promise I'll stop. Just do me a favor when you see him then ask him what he did last night?"

I stepped out of the car and onto the bare gravel. The heat of the sun toasted the fine pebbles on the road, causing it to feel like burning hot sand. "Jesus, what are you insinuating this time?" I hesitantly asked while turning around to shut the car door. Something did strike me as odd when I first saw Marco this morning. I came to think it was from his new duties. Maybe there was something more? Perhaps another withholding.

Chris just sat there with his eyes closed—almost looking as if he was taking a relaxing nap from all the craziness going on. "Just ask him," he replied. "If he truly loves you, he'll tell the truth."

"If you truly love me, like you claim to," I reverted back. Playing him at his own game. "You'd tell me anyway. "

He did his signature side smile, saying nothing.

"C'mon Chris," I annoyingly demanded. "I don't have time for this cat-and-mouse type of bullshit." I must get going before Camilla freaks.

He opened one eye and peaked at my expression before opening both and saying, "You know your father, Beck—he wouldn't pursue anything without clear-cut evidence." Chris sat up straight from the car seat, "Do you know he's going after the Montanari's tonight?"

"Yeah." I got Irene to thank for that. "I heard."

"Why do you think that is?" He asked.

"Anger, grief, fear... Ratings?" Not to mention I've sided with their family now; it could be a lot of things.

"Sure, that may be part of it." He interrupted. "But Marco was the last known person to see Rafael. Your boy-toy is the person-of-interest."

I shook my head in disapproval. "He would have-"

"We have plate numbers," Chris continued, "and several witnesses claiming the two were together before the murder."

"Bullshit." Out of anger, I slammed the passenger door shut and began walking away. First me and now him? What's with this city and not arresting the real criminals?

Christopher rolled down the passenger window. "The evidence doesn't lie," he yelled from inside the vehicle.

I stopped and turned around to face him once more. "It doesn't tell the whole truth either," I knowingly, very well, yelled back. "There's gotta be more to the story."

"They're manipulating you, Becca," he pleaded. "Please, just listen to me—don't want to see you get hurt."

"You already hurt me plenty, Chris. I think I'm good to handle my own, thank you very much." I hesitantly took off his police-issued windbreaker and threw it toward the open passenger window.

The slight breeze took control of the light cloth as it drifted off course and landed on the ground near the rear wheel tire.

"Besides, I survived prison, fuck, I survived solitary," I remarked as if it was the answer to the million-dollar question.

"Please, Beck, can I at least drive you?" His voice, now faint, asked. "You have no shoes."

A drive would have been preferable, but I needed to make a point if I had to suffer from corns and blisters, then so be it.

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