Free The Bridge by Solomon Jones Page B

tow, Lynch knew that the only way to make the impending furor die quickly was to find the man who was really responsible for what had happened to Baylor.
    Lynch had to find Sonny Williams.
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    The news van arrived at the accident scene and parked in the midst of neighbors who’d been drawn out of their homes by the loud crash and screaming sirens.
    When Jim Wright stepped out of the van with his receding gray hair and weathered, leathery skin, he knew that it was bad, because no one saw him—a newsman who’d spent the last fifteen years on the air. They only saw the accident and the firefighters working feverishly to free the bleeding victim from the wreck.
    Wright loosened his tie as his cameraman arranged the apparatus they would need to report live from the accident scene. Then Wright removed a notepad from his shirt pocket and reviewed what he’d written on the way.
    Because he’d spent the morning monitoring his police scanner and speaking with department sources, he knew the chase that had critically injured the judge was all about a suspect who’d assaulted a police officer.
    He also knew that the suspect was wanted for questioning in connection with the disappearance of a little girl from the East Bridge Housing Project. Beyond that, he knew nothing. But that was easily remedied.

    Wright walked slowly to the edge of the crowd, scanning faces that were fixed in the slack-jawed expression of shock that people wear when viewing death.
    About twenty feet from Wright, a woman of about thirty was speaking to an officer from the department’s Accident Investigation Division.
    As the woman explained with animated hand gestures how the accident had happened, the officer took copious notes. Wright moved close enough to hear snatches of the conversation, and as she spoke, he took a few notes of his own.
    â€œBlue unmarked police car … chasing this green Mustang … flying through here … wrong way … hit the car … kept going.”
    The officer asked the woman if the police car had stopped.
    â€œNo,” she said.
    The officer thanked her and said he’d be in touch.
    As the AID officer walked away, Wright pulled out a cell phone, called a police department source, and asked him to run the tag of the wrecked car.
    â€œAre you sure?” he said into the phone when he received the owner’s name. “And neither the car nor the tag has been reported stolen, right? Okay, thanks.”
    Wright disconnected the call and moved through the crowd until he was standing next to the woman who’d witnessed the accident.
    â€œExcuse me, miss,” Wright said. “Would it be okay if I interviewed you on camera about what you saw here?”
    She looked at Wright, and then at the camera. She shook her head no. And then, without a word, she resumed staring at the car.
    Wright followed her gaze, and for the first time, looked hard at the twisted, powder-blue Mercedes Benz and the bloodied brown face of the man staring out from its shattered windshield. Like the young woman, Wright was at once repulsed and fascinated by the crumpled wreck. He stood for a moment in stunned silence, and
decided, in a rare fit of humanity, not to press the woman for an interview.
    As the firefighters worked to split open the roof of the car, Wright turned to his cameraman and nodded. The cameraman hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and Wright worked himself into a space that would allow the wreck to be seen on camera.
    There was a countdown, then an intro, and then they were live.
    â€œThis is Jim Wright, reporting live from Eleventh and Oxford Streets, in the Yorktown section of North Philadelphia, where a police pursuit has ended in tragedy. A car apparently registered to highly respected Common Pleas Court Judge John Baylor—the man widely regarded as Philadelphia’s next district attorney—has been involved in a serious accident. As you can see here around