|Park Place Apartment|
Over my 15 year in Utah, I've steadied myself and entered the grey brick structure perhaps, 10 times. The first time being the most memorable, when a man woke up one morning, snatched up a decorative sword, and began swinging it at people in his apartment. The violence spilled into the street as the man, latched onto that blade, began chasing people around the neighborhood.
I'm here today because a man nicknamed "Ramen Noodle," used to date a woman who lives at the Park Place. She filed for a protective order against Noodle, back in 2009. I was hoping she might be able to shed some light on the alleged crime spree for which Noodle had been recently arrested.
|Park Place Apartments|
The door opens slowly, and the small woman on the other side, only allows the flimsy door to reveal a sliver of her face. "Hi, I'm Chris Jones, from 2News," she is unimpressed as she scans my clothing from top to bottom she's likely suspicious of my tie, and perhaps searching for a badge, or maybe a gun. She takes a drag from her cigarette, "and?" she responds, as smoke unfolds out of her small apartment. "I'm looking for Antoinette," I say as I hear the blast of children unleashing holy-hell in an apartment around the bend of the hall. "I told you to be quiet!" bellows the deep howl of a man who has had enough.
The woman, stares into my eyes, "I don't know." She says, again pulling from her cigarette. "Does she live here?" I ask. "Why?" She retorts after a few seconds, and I explain the reason for my visit. "She's not here." She deadpans. "Is she working?" I ask. "I don't know." She responds. "She's at work?" I press, "yeah," the door begins to squeeze closed, "Where does she work?" I say realizing I might be wasting her and my time. "I don't know."
Eventually I earn a modicum of her trust and she agrees to calls Antoinette, who explains she stopped seeing Noodle because he roughed her up, and because he "got into drugs and pills," she continues, "he's always in jail," and she says, anticipating my next words, "I don't want to be on TV answering questions."
Eventually I make my way down the sad hall passed an old tube TV resting on the tile outside one of the apartments, to the news truck. Outside I meet a man pushing a rattling grocery cart filled with cans, he asks "what's the news doing here?" to which I say, "just asking some questions," As the man shuffles off, pressing his cart forward likely tired of getting questions and little else from people like me, curtly adds, to no one in particular "they've always got questions for people here."