Brooklyn Secrets by Triss Stein

a zone of privacy. Plus, I did not want to hear whatever she had to say.
    A quiet day at my part-time museum job, doing research for a new exhibit about children’s lives in Brooklyn over the decades. I had to look over files and files of snapshots, filtering for the curator who would make the final selection. Some distant day, when the funds were available, they would all be digitized. It would make the selection easier, but any historian would say there is value in handling the originals. At least, that’s what I thought they would all say. What I would say.
    When I had a day like this, the doubts about my choices fell away. I was fascinated by everything—the stickball games; potsy, a New York sidewalks form of hopscotch; the complicated jump rope combinations. The little Catholic girls, decked out like brides for First Communion. When I was little, that seemed as exotic as a grass skirt. The old-time eighth grade graduations, with girls in white dresses they had made in home economics class. No one taught home ec anymore, I thought. And here was one from Espy himself, children lined up like sardines on a fire escape, sleeping outdoors on a suffocating summer night. A rare Espy photo with no death or violence.
    It occurred to me that I had a living source of information for this topic. Ruby Boyle and Lillian Kravitz had plenty of stories about growing up in Brownsville. An interview recorded or on wall posters would be an effective addition to the exhibit. They would be actual voices from the past. And we should capture them while they were still around.
    I sat back, thought about it, and typed a memo for the curator. Ruby and Lillian could talk about Brownsville childhoods. Who else? Where would we find some other elderly, talkative folks from other neighborhoods, who still had good memories?
    I stopped myself. If I suggested it, I would own it. Right? And I would be crazy to volunteer. I did not have room for one more responsibility on my plate.
    Oh, heck. I was excited about this idea. My fingers flew over the keys as I described it for the curator.
    I hit Send emphatically. And then looked at my calendar to see what would be a good day to go back for another visit. Or if there were no good days, what would be a possible day.
    And then, mindful of Lillian’s request, I shot off a note to my friend Jennifer who worked at the Municipal Archives. I was pretty sure the official papers from the Murder Inc investigation and trials had ended up there. Maybe, who knows, if I ever found the time to look, or to beg or bribe my friend to look for me, maybeI would find something. Not likely, but at least I could tell Lillian I was trying.
    Before I left the museum, there was a response from the new exhibit curator. She’d be happy to have me look into recorded memories as part of the exhibit. She loved it. She sent me names of some oral history organizations that might be helpful resources.
    I had certainly gotten myself into that one but I went home happy with my day’s work, a plan for dinner, an evening to catch up on schoolwork. Chris was in a good mood, thinking she’d done well on her chemistry test so we celebrated with hot chocolate. I dug the marshmallows out from way back in a cabinet.
    On the evening local news, half watching, I glimpsed the Brownsville police station again and the four young men, sweatshirt hoods shielding their faces, but—wait a minute. They were walking out, not in. What? This looked all wrong.
    It was not a replay from last night. An African-American man in a sharp suit was declaring at a near shout, “Justice is here today. My clients are not guilty of this tragic crime and their release confirms that. If NYPD had done their work, they would have known these boys have alibis for that night. We all offer our sympathy to Savanna’s family and we hope with them to have the right perpetrators—I say, the right ones!—held responsible soon.”
    What? How