(4 of 5)
A local priest told him those scriptural commands required that he give up his worldly possessions. "I thought he was full of it," Tomes says. But he kept running across that sentence in other religious volumes. Finally Tomes gave in--and gave away his televisions, his radios, his Russian artifacts and even his bedroom. "I moved into the basement of a friend's house and slept on cardboard."
That year Tomes was asked to take on the role of youth minister for a parish and work with the street gangs in the surrounding projects of Henry Horner Homes and Rockwell Gardens. At the time, the neighborhood was rife with killing between the Vice Lords and Gangster Disciples. On Tomes' first day in the projects, he was snubbed. Some gangsters threw rocks at him. On his second day, the gang voted in council whether Tomes should be killed, but decided that his intentions were only positive and that he should be protected rather than removed. The gangsters also accepted a couple of Jesuit volunteers, who were along to help Tomes.
It didn't hurt either that Tomes, only an average hoopster, managed to impress the gangsters on the basketball court. "Once, I shot the ball, and it was clearly going left of the basket, but curved and went straight through the net," he says. "God was definitely helping me."
A year after Tomes began working in the West Side projects, his labors caught the attention of Joseph Cardinal Bernardin, Archbishop of Chicago, and he expanded Tomes' purview to include gangs throughout the city.
The phone calls usually come at night. The voice is always low, distressed, the tone conspiratorial. A Gangster Disciple or Vice Lord assigned to murder informs Brother Bill that warfare is on the horizon, that just moments ago he was instructed to kill a rival gang member. "I don't wanna shoot nobody, and I don't wanna die, Brother Bill," the voice whispers. "Please come over here. Nothing's gonna happen if you're here. Help me, man."
When fighting erupts, Brother Bill has his routine down pat. From his Evanston home, it's a 35-min. drive to Cabrini. En route, he pulls on his robe and begins prayer. Upon arriving, he walks briskly to the scene, where the shooting has usually already begun. His pale blue robe aflutter, he stands in the center of gang gunfire. He says he can hear the crack of guns from snipers in the buildings as well as see shooters running on the ground or ducking in and out of entryways. But thoughts of his safety never cross his mind. He understands that he can be killed, but he knows this is the core of his work, and he feels an absolute peace. Sometimes gang members scream out angrily, "Get out the way, Brother Bill. Move!"
It doesn't work. "No, I will not," Brother Bill tells them, "because I love you."
Quickly the shots grow sporadic. Early last spring, after gunfire had shattered the windows of dozens of apartments, children ran out onto the balcony chanting, "Brother Bill, make the peace! Brother Bill, make the peace!" He heard, as did the shooters. Three more shots were fired that night, and peace was declared. "It's like if Brother Bill is willing to take a bullet because he loves you that much, it makes it harder for you to hate the other side," says Antonio, a 26-year-old gang member. "I think that's why the shooting stops."