A LAST SUMMER DAY

Tyshaun Cauldwell was asleep in front of the TV when his friends came
knocking at the back door around 9:30 a.m. Flora Johnson tried to rouse her
10-year-old grandson. "I told him 'Rasool and Boo are at the door.' Then he
jumped right up, got dressed and went out."

Tyshaun hopped on his silver Mongoose bicycle and took off with his
friends, Rasool Muhummad, 10, and Juliuan "Boo" Hadley, 7.

The boys never rode far -- just to the corner, or one block over to
Rasool's house, or to the corner store to buy chips and juice.

Those streets are scarred by trash, pot-smoking loiterers and boarded-up
houses. Some houses emit a stench of filth and decay.

This neighborhood had been Tyshaun Lamar Cauldwell's world since he was 6
months old. The youngest of four children, "Ty" lived at 11 Kondolf St.
with his mother, Charlotte Hill; grandmother; 16-year-old sister, Tiara;
and 5-year-old nephew, Audley "Nikko" Campbell. Ty would have been a
fourth-grader at nearby School 17 this fall.

After a few hours of bike riding, Tyshaun came home. He had skipped
breakfast and he was hungry. His grandmother fried him some chicken wings.

Later, she gave him $1.50. And Tyshaun biked to the corner store to buy his
favorite ice cream -- cookies and cream.

"He used to come in here 10, 20 times a day," said Lisa Martinez, manager
of Aredo Deli and Food Market on Whitney Street.

By 4:30 p.m., it was hot and muggy and Tyshaun was playing in his
inflatable swimming pool in the back yard. When his oldest sister, Tenille
Wilson, 22, stopped by, she teased him about his fat belly hanging over his
shorts.

Ty was having fun. That evening, he told his grandmother he hoped the
summer would never end.

Around 9:30 p.m., Tyshaun's mother came home. She had been gone since 6
a.m. working two jobs and visiting Tenille.

"I only got a second to talk to him," Hill said. Noticing that his
3-month-old, $75 Nike sneakers looked beat up, she joked: "Boy, you know
you can tear up some sneakers."

On that hot Friday night, Tyshaun and his family -- like many in the
neighborhood -- sat outside to get some air.

At about 11 p.m., Tyshaun hopped on his silver Mongoose and followed Tiara
to a house at 185 Whitney St., across from his favorite corner store. Tiara
was standing in the driveway talking to Joseph Phillip Wright, known on the
street as "Swift," when she saw Tyshaun.

"I told him to go home," Tiara said. "He just looked at me funny and left."

But at some point, Tyshaun returned. Swift and another woman began arguing.
As Tiara backed away from the pair, she noticed her little brother on his
bike behind her.

A shot was fired.

When Tiara turned to tell Tyshaun again to go home, he was lying on the
driveway. He wasn't moving.

Charlotte, sitting on her front lawn about 30 yards away, thought the boom
she'd heard was a firecracker. Then someone ran up to her and told her
Tyshaun had been shot.

She kicked off her shoes and ran across the street to her son. When she saw
him, she started screaming. Tyshaun was already dead, she later learned.

Every night at 11 o'clock, Charlotte walks across the street to the spot
where her baby boy died. On the driveway, leaning against a chainlink
fence, are shelves filled with teddy bears, flowers, candles, two Bibles
and a selection of Tyshaun's favorite snacks.

She lights candles. She says a prayer. She tells her son goodnight.