<< Back 5/15/02 Hysterics pay off when calling 9-1-1 By Marshall Frank Sometimes it pays to lose your cool. The following story is true, and it proves my point. Lenona, 13, was raised as an only child by a single parent who worked by day and mothered by night. Nurtured by love and driven to ambition, she dreamed one day of becoming a lawyer and prayed that she would make grades good enough to warrant a scholarship. She was a pretty child, razor thin with smooth chocolate skin and slanted eyes which suggested a hint of Asia somewhere in her bloodline. Mama had been married once, but her man vanished one day after a night out with the boys. Lenona was only a year old. Mama worked the next 12 years cleaning white folk’s homes in upscale neighborhoods. She was a devoted mother, determined that her daughter would never suffer the same fate, marrying a loser and having no skills other than scrubbing toilets and floors on bended knees. She read Lenona stories at night, helped her with homework and preached openly about sex, drugs and the rigors of life. She often left Lenona home alone during late afternoons while she worked past rush hour. “If you’re ever real sick or you’re hurt, or you’re afraid, be sure and call 9-1-1,” she said. “They will be at the house in seconds. And whenever you talk to the police, be calm and speak clearly so they can understand you.” “Okay, Mama.” One bright Thursday afternoon while Lenona was doing homework, she heard a rap at the window. There was Darryl Ray Stiles, a 15-year-old boy she knew from school, a boy who had often made advances for her attention to no avail. Lenona waved him off. “Go away!” But Darryl was persistent. He beat on the window, then went to the front door. “Let me in,” he shouted. “Go away! Please.” Lenona scampered from door to door making sure bolts and latches were in place. Then she peered out the windows, following his motion as he circled the house. She could see that he was wired, intense, determined. As he pounded on the door, she was afraid that he’d break the locks. Petrified, she lifted the phone and called 9-1-1. Her mother’s words echoed through her brain. “When you talk to the police, be calm ....” Lenona: “Hello, my name is Lenona Suggs. I’m 13, and I’m alone, and there is a boy trying to break into my house. He’s outside right now, please send someone.” Officer: “I see. Give me your address young lady.” Lenona: “It’s 3640 Northwest 77th street. Please, he trying to get inside.” Officer: “Do you know who this boy is?” Lenona: “Yes, his name is Darryl.” Officer: “Uh huh. And how do you know this boy, Miss Suggs?” Lenona: “He be after me all the time in school. Please, send someone out here. He’s trying to get into my house.” Officer: “Sure. Just stay right there. We’ll get someone there as soon as we can.” By judging her quiet and deliberate manner, the complaint officer logged the call as a domestic dispute between schoolmates and laid it atop the “non-emergency” stack. Other more pressing calls would be dispatched first. Thirty-five minutes later, a two-man cruiser arrived and found the rear kitchen door ajar and jalousies broken with shards of glass strewn about the floor. Inside, Lenona Suggs lay on the bedroom carpet agaze at the ceiling in a crimson pool, clothes ripped from her body and a screwdriver impaled into her heart. Lenona’s dream of becoming a lawyer was forever terminated by a young lunatic and his rock of crack cocaine. No one will ever know, for certain, if Lenona’s life would have been saved had the police been rushed there in emergency mode, as they should have been. But we do know that split-second decisions are often guided by the emotional pitch of the moment. In this case, Mama’s good advice backfired. Sure, Darryl Ray Stiles was arrested, tried and sentenced to life in prison. So what? Mama disappeared from the face of the earth, just like Lenona’s father. The Complaint Officer? Handicapped and wheelchair bound, this congenial old man simply thought there was no emergency because the girl didn’t sound like she was in peril. He said he wished the caller had been more hysterical. He’ll live with it for a lifetime. (Marshall Frank is a novelist and retired Metro Dade law enforcement officer. He can be reached at mlf283@aol.com)