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Inevitably, Brother Bill, whose small stipend of $20,000 is funded by the nonprofit Catholic Charities, has his critics. But not many. Some say he goes too easy on gangsters who recount their murderous acts to him without fear of betrayal, who borrow money from him and never pay him back, who curse, smoke and drink around him as if he were one of them. "He gives all his attention to the wrong people," gripes a Cabrini resident.
Brother Bill doesn't subscribe to tough-love theories. He believes that gangsters will not change their ways simply through fear of prison or even the carrot of education or employment--but only by viewing themselves as under the light of a divine presence. He doesn't preach; he loves. His vulnerability, his willingness to put his life on the line, his unconditional offering of acceptance and forgiveness and, yes, love are a constant source of astonishment for men and boys weaned on hate and rejection. "I think he's an angel," says a 22-year-old Vice Lord. "I really think God sent him here."
Lessons, though, walk at their own pace. And Brother Bill can hardly trumpet a major victory over gang violence. True, Cabrini-Green enjoys more spells of peace than it has in years. And some hard-core gangsters have managed to break away to find jobs and move from the projects. Nonetheless, in a city with an estimated 125 active criminal gangs with as many as 70,000 members, Cabrini-Green remains the most entrenched subculture around of poverty, drug use and gang violence. So much so that the Federal Government has begun, in piecemeal fashion, to simply tear the place down.
But Brother Bill keeps only one stat: souls saved. And he tries to save them with one small act of kindness at a time. When a rusty green Ford sedan pulls up, he senses that Dee has become distracted. A customer has arrived. Dee hugs Brother Bill and walks off. Then he turns around and yells back, "Yo, I need a ride to the courthouse Monday. Can you gimme a lift?"
Brother Bill nods a yes and gets back into his car. Driving off, he turns up the volume of Saint-Saens. As rain and snow come down hard on the windshield and the classical music begins a crescendo, the old Catholic missionary looks suddenly weary. He is still recovering from a recent triple-bypass heart operation, and he's been told the prognosis is not good. "People think I'm a fool," he says, "but I love these guys--all of them. I know that many of them have done some really bad things, even killed people. But no matter what, I won't turn my back on them."
Brother Bill is standing with the gang members on their usual gathering spot outside a building in Cabrini-Green, the place where drug users looking for marijuana, crack cocaine or heroin can always find it. The air is frigid but charged with the warm sound of horseplay and laughter.
"The first time I got shot, I cried like a baby," says Paris, a flamboyant 21-year-old. "And I didn't care who saw me--I just cried."
Pat, another gang member, chimes in: "When that bullet goes into you, it hurts like nothing you've ever felt before." Says another: "It burns like hell--like fire."
"Every time I take a bullet, I only have one request," says another gang member softly. "And that's for a cigarette. I always smoke when I get shot."