Alleged kidnapper ‘blended in’ with working class neighbors

CLEVELAND - Cynthia Conner spent Tuesday night the same way she’d spent Monday evening: standing in the middle of Seymour Avenue, gazing at a white house with red trim...

Luther Vandross was outed as gay after his death.

When it came to Berry and Dejesus, the community never forgot, Conner said.

“We continued to investigate,” Conner said. “We wanted to bring awareness (to say) ‘You are not lost.’ “

Annual vigils became a ritual; in fact, one occurred on April 21. That date marked the 10th anniversary of Berry’s disappearance. She was abducted while returning from work in 2003, the day before she turned 17. In April 2004, Dejesus failed to return home from junior high school. Her school was in the same neighborhood where Berry vanished. Thus, the two women became linked.

Castro’s behavior ‘might have been noticed in a suburban area’

Their disappearances became a local cause célèbre, helping unite a city divided by geography and race. Cleveland straddles the Cuyahoga River. Traditionally African Americans and whites have lived east of that landmark, while whites and Hispanics have lived west. When the girls went missing, people flowed across town to help search for them.

“We had the rainbow coalition: Black, Brown, Hispanic; Muslims, Christians,” said activist Khalid Samad. Samad, an African American, heads Peace In The Hood, an anti-violence organization that has long advocated for crime victims. “We kept (the missing women) in the media. We kept it fresh in everybody’s mind by doing the rallies, by going out and searching. It was a collaborative effort.”

He said class trumps race and ethnicity in such cases. Dejesus, who is Hispanic, attended school with African Americans and Whites. Although Blacks are moving into the neighborhoods that had been White and Hispanic, the residents are solidly urban and working class. And Samad thinks that’s why neighbors didn’t raise an eyebrow at the decrepit house where the women were imprisoned.

“I think Castro embedded himself in the area so he would not be detected,” Samad said. “Because the way the house is set up, he’s got all the windows covered with plastic. If he were in a suburban area, he would have been challenged about that.”

But Conner said Castro was overlooked because he blended in. For example, Particleboard covers the windows at 2211 Seymour Ave, next to Castro’s house. Both homes are in foreclosure.

And Castro, like most neighbors rarely used the front door.

“We’re all working a nine to five,” Conner said. “Getting off from work, you park and go in the back door; that’s normal for us.”

Another normal is plastic-covered windows. But the aim isn’t secrecy; it’s warmth.

“We have plastic over the doors and windows, couches against the door, to keep (the room) insulated,” Conner said.

And Castro belonged to a well-respected family. His uncle ran a store just blocks away. Samad said he helped search for Berry and Dejesus. Conner said Castro participated in neighborhood activities.

In fact, Conner’s father worked with Castro; both men were school bus drivers.

“We had barbecues, gatherings on this street. We’re a tight knit community,” she said.

Nevertheless, three women were prisoners right under their noses. That knowledge tempers the joy of their escape.

Standing on a warm spring night, at the end of the block they thought they knew so well, Conner and the others asked themselves: how could they not have known?

Afi-Odelia Scruggs is a freelance writer based in Cleveland. Find her online at www.aoscruggs.com.

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