CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I knocked on a few more doors. Either no one was home or they weren’t answering. I considered what Duvall had said about the barriers to finding information in this neighborhood. He’d given me Little D’s number. I could probably afford to use him. William Jackson had agreed to pay me a healthy retainer plus expenses to defend his niece. Even so, I wasn’t going to fork over money to have someone else do what I could manage on my own—at least, not yet. And, bad as this area was, how much worse could it be than Bed-Stuy in the ’70s?
Rochelle Watson lived on the other side of Iverson Mall, in a cross-hatched network of streets near Marlow Heights Park. Another inside-the-Beltway enclave of old brick houses with big trees. The area wasn’t much different than working-class
