We may never know what drove Chicago School Board President Michael Scott to take his life.

At the time of his death, Scott had been subpoenaed by a federal grand jury looking into the admissions practices at Chicago's selective-enrollment schools.

As a member of Mayor Daley's failed Olympic bid team, he also came under unfavorable media scrutiny for helping a group of ministers develop land that would have netted a hefty profit had the bid been successful.

Scott denied having a financial interest in the development.

Ald. Isaac Carothers (29th), who has been charged with taking bribes and has been identified as wearing a wire for the feds, has not recorded any conversations with Scott, a source said.

Still, who knows what toll these probes were taking on Scott?

But if anyone can understand the pressures Scott may have faced, it would be Sharon Grant.

From 1993 to 1995, Grant headed up the Chicago Board of Education.

In 1996, Grant went to federal prison on tax charges.

She came home a year later and picked up the pieces of her life.

Grant started a consulting company, and quietly began helping children in juvenile detention centers nationally.

"We are not allowed to make a mistake, [but] we are all human," she said.

"Once an investigation starts, people feel pressured," Grant said, adding that she is not implying that Scott did anything wrong.

"He may have come out smelling like a rose," she said.

"But the mind has a way of working on your mental health."

Two other public officials, both of whom were snared in political scandals, have committed suicide.

Chris Kelly, indicted in the Rod Blagojevich case, committed suicide in September. Orlando Jones, the godson of former Cook County Board President John Stroger, died from a gunshot wound. His body was found on a Michigan beach.

If Scott, a longtime Daley ally, had been caught up in a federal investigation, it would have tarnished a name that has earned a great deal of respect in the city.

"My mother [Illa Daggett] was one of the people who put Michael on his road" to public service, Grant said.

"I remember going with my mother down to Daley's campaign office, and they had Michael stuffed back in a small little office. My mother was angry about how she perceived he was being treated," she recalled.

"They had to move Michael's office up to the front. My mother loved Michael Scott and wanted him to be successful."

Grant said she couldn't see Scott enduring a deluge of negative media.

They grew up on the West Side during an era when the worst thing you could do was bring "shame" on your family.

The weight of such condemnation can crush the spirit, Grant told me.

"When you are going through that, you are in a very dark place. You can't see any light. But nothing lasts forever."

As for Scott's upbeat attitude, Grant said most people saw only one side of him.

"Michael was not a jolly person. Michael was a serious person," she said.

"The reason he always wanted to please everybody is because Michael could not take confrontation. When people came at him, he co-opted.

"Michael didn't like to give bad news, and he couldn't take bad news," she said.

Friends and people who worked with Scott are still reeling from the shock of his sudden death.

On Wednesday, a coalition of ministers and activists called for a state or federal investigation into Scott's death.

The group argues that Scott's death should be classified as a murder.

But Grant believes that Scott's death isn't a matter of foul play.

"We need to look at the pressures and the turmoil that is caused by being in the public eye and having to function while under investigation," Grant said.

"Having been through a federal investigation, I know it is almost unbearable.

"But there is nothing that you can do in this life that is so bad that you take your life," she said.

"Michael couldn't stand any public humiliation because he loved this city and he loved the people in this city."

Not even two weeks ago, I was watching Chicago School Board President Michael Scott as he tried to encourage a busload of disillusioned CPS students.

He was both charming and patient.

And if you had asked me to describe his mood, I would have said he was as upbeat as I've ever seen him.

But Scott had not been getting a lot of positive press.

Earlier this year, he was subpoenaed by a federal grand jury investigating how students were selected for CPS magnet schools.

And he recently came under scrutiny for his role in a land deal that would have reaped a huge profit had Chicago hosted the 2016 Summer Games.

Scott appeared to shrug off the probes as if they were inconsequential.

So you can imagine how stunned his family and friends are by the Cook County medical examiner's ruling that Scott killed himself with a gunshot wound to his head on Monday morning.

"I have met with Michael Scott over the years and I have never seen a suicidal tendency in his spirit," said Conrad Worrill, a longtime professor at the Jacob Carruthers Center for Inner City Studies at Northeastern Illinois University.

"I just do not believe Michael Scott committed suicide. This is a tremendous loss," he said.

The Rev. Jesse Jackson told reporters that he spoke to Scott last week and he sounded normal.

"People are so very sad," he said.

Scott's family reported him missing from his Near West Side home on Sunday. His body was recovered from the Chicago River by fire crews about 3:20 a.m.

His blue Cadillac was found parked near the river, and his cell phone was left on a ledge.

Worrill noted that Scott's death is not without irony.

In September 1996, the body of Henry McNeil Brown Jr., known as "Mandrake," was also pulled from the Chicago River.

Police noted there were no signs of foul play, leaving Mandrake's family and friends to ponder the mystery.

How could Mandrake, who risked his life to paint over billboards in the dead of night, have fallen into the Chicago River?

After all, he had to climb several stories above the ground to get at the alcohol and cigarette ads that he painted over.

At the time of his death, former Sun-Times columnist Lee Bey noted that Mandrake took an "unorthodox action in the face of glaring inaction by those in power who hadn't done a thing to solve the problem."

Scott will be remembered as a community crusader in his own right.

Whether it was at the Chicago School Board or at the Chicago Park District, he took decisive actions to solve problems.

While Mandrake was a permanent outsider, Scott was the ultimate insider.

But Scott used this privileged status to help the Mandrakes of the world negotiate government.

The majority of these outsiders quite honestly behave badly. They shout through bullhorns. They threaten. They bully.

Even so, Scott opened the door and brought them to the table.

It was not uncommon for him to sit down with someone who was giving him a hard time, and he knew how to forge community partnerships.

Worrill recalled how Scott took on elected officials to help him and the late Lu Palmer get a park at 39th and Cottage Grove named to honor Mandrake.

"Michael was basically a man on the inside who had great connections on the outside," Worrill said.

"He worked effectively through these relationships to advance many of the concerns of the community," he said.

Scott's death has left a lot of unanswered questions.

Those closest to him apparently did not see any of the warning signs for suicide, which can include hopelessness, rage and dramatic mood changes.

None of those labels seems to fit Michael Scott.

At age 60, Scott did not appear to be the kind of guy who thought life no longer had any purpose.

It's unfortunate that the Cook County medical examiner felt compelled to issue a quick ruling on Scott's death.

Without a suicide note, it is difficult for Scott's family and friends to accept that he ended his own life.

Such a horrible end to such a storied life is almost too much to contemplate.

Charles Walker is surrounded by images of the battles African Americans had to fight in pursuit of justice.

The entrance to his South Side town home and the upstairs hallway are plastered with huge black and white photographs of him with civil rights icons, such as the Rev. Jesse Jackson and Stokely Carmichael.

The significance of those battles has no doubt fueled Walker's outrage.

Last year, his grandson Cornell McKinney was gunned down in a hail of bullets in front of his own home, and the man who allegedly killed him walked away within hours without any charges being filed.

Chicago Police officers questioned Christopher Lloyd, a former suburban police officer and the ex-husband of McKinney's wife, for about four hours and let him go, determining that Lloyd fired in self-defense.

"I am just in awe," said Walker during an interview Thursday at his home.

"I thought he would be prosecuted. He didn't just shoot my grandson. He shot him 17 times outside of his home on the sidewalk. That is a cold-blooded assassination," Walker said.

Attempts to reach Lloyd were unsuccessful.

On Friday, a spokeswoman for the Cook County state's attorney's office said the office has decided to open an investigation into the shooting.

McKinney's wife, Nicole McKinney, has filed a civil lawsuit against her ex-husband; the Village of Robbins, Lloyd's last employer, and the City of Chicago in connection with the shooting.

"I believe my husband was murdered because there was no time where the person shooting him was protecting himself," she told me.

"My ex-husband was not being threatened," she said.

The couple's twins are not yet 2 years old. Cornell McKinney also had two other children who are in their teens.

Nicole McKinney had two children with Lloyd.

According to McKinney's brother Cortez, who arrived on the scene shortly after the shooting, the men got into an argument over McKinney disciplining Lloyd's daughter.

The McKinney brothers were barely one year apart. They talked every day and did just about everything together.

"We want to see this guy locked up," Cortez McKinney said.

Revelations about Lloyd's violent past have driven the family's campaign to have the Chicago Police Department review how this shooting was handled.

During a court hearing last year, Lloyd said he was involved in two deadly altercations as a CHA police officer that were deemed "clean shoots," WBBM-Channel 2 reported.

He was also recently identified by his father as the security guard who was captured on video breaking a 15-year-old special education student's nose.

And last month, Lloyd was arrested in Hammond and charged with sexually assaulting a woman.

Lloyd was released last week on bail and is now back on the street, according to the attorney representing McKinney's wife.

On Friday, Hammond police were unable to confirm Lloyd's release because the department's spokesman was out of the office.

"I am looking for justice," Nicole McKinney told me. "I'm looking for [Lloyd] to be held accountable for his actions and not be able to hide behind the fact that he was a police officer."

Rahsaan Gordon, McKinney's attorney, said the case highlights a giant loophole when it comes to policing.

Unlike Chicago, which has an independent agency charged with investigating allegations of police conduct, suburban police officers are virtually untouchable.

"Obviously the family has issues with how the investigation was done," Gordon said.

Jurdine Rutledge, Cornell McKinney's mother, thought she had beaten the terrible odds that defeat so many single mothers.

She raised four children by herself and watched as all of them graduated from college.

"To have something happen to Cornell, after he has accomplished everything he set out to do, is just too much," Rutledge told me.

"He had a good job. He was making money. He finished college, and he got married. You couldn't ask for more from a child."

The fact that Lloyd was not charged was a double blow.

"For [Cornell] to be shot right in front of his house, for me, it has been just devastating. My life is not the same," she said.

At the very least, this shooting should have been closely investigated because of the perception that this involved domestic violence.

Charles Walker says if people knew about what happened to his grandson, more of us would be outraged.

"This is why people don't respect the police," he said.

Here's a riddle for you: How does a non-running 2000 Dodge Intrepid disappear in broad daylight?

No. The police didn't tow it.

Danielle McCullough, the car's owner, believes a rogue tow truck driver snatched up her car and may have sold it for scrap.

"I am sure I am not the only person this has happened to," McCullough told me.

A spokesman for the Chicago Police Department confirms that McCullough's vehicle isn't in any of the city's auto pounds.

But she downplayed the role a tow truck may have played in the theft.

"When the initial report came in there was no mention of a tow truck," said Lt. Maureen Biggane. "There is no data to support that there is a rash of vehicle thefts around the city."

Biggane pointed out that vehicle theft in the city is actually down 25 percent compared to the same period last year.

But a Google search uncovered several complaints about rogue tow truck drivers in other cities, including Las Vegas, Albuquerque, N.M., Washington, D.C., Cleveland and Portland, Ore.

In 2007, Chicago Police rounded up 13 renegade tow truck drivers who stole cars from around the city, according to an article published by the Chicago Tribune.

"The thieves targeted all types of cars and stole them from neighborhoods across the city, from parking lots, street corners and even repair shops," said Harrison Area Sgt. Joseph Petrenko.

Because of the marks left in the street where her car was parked, and tips from neighbors, McCullough is convinced that a rogue tow truck stole her car from right under her nose.

McCullough has lived in Chatham for years. She used to sit outside her house and see tow trucks zipping up and down her street.

"I thought they were repossessing cars because they turned the corners really fast and would quickly let the claw down and take the cars," she said.

"Now it all makes sense."

There doesn't seem to be any point for McCullough to falsely claim that her nine-year-old car is missing.

She said she gave her youngest son the car so he could get back and forth to work, and bought herself a new one.

"I was trying to do what I needed to do for my son," she said. "Instead of buying a used car, I knew this car. I brought it brand new. It was well taken care of. My son's upset, but I'm more upset," she said.

The car was covered for liability, but when her son lost his job, he couldn't keep up with the maintenance.

Then the car had electrical problems. McCullough said the car wouldn't start. It had been parked outside her home for about a week.

She's disappointed that a police investigator assigned to the case suggested that she just get over her loss.

"I paid $30,000 for that car. I drove it for nine years. I dropped my kids off at elementary schools and then high schools in that car," she said, her voice rising with indignation.

"I bought that car fully loaded. I put a transmission on it at 125,000 miles. That car could have run for another 100,000 miles."

McCullough said that one mechanic who looked at the car marveled at its 3.2 V6 engine.

"The guy said I could probably get more for the engine than I would for the whole car."

The car didn't just go poof.

Since Chicago has its share of tow truck companies that scam and defraud the public, I think McCullough is on to something.

Both the Illinois attorney general and the Cook County state's attorney have filed suits against several Chicago area towing companies, alleging that they defrauded consumers by making false claims and charging excessive towing, storage and miscellaneous fees.

Two years ago, prosecutors vowed to work with the General Assembly to close a loophole that allowed the tow truck drivers to sell vehicles for scrap without showing a title.

McCullough is frustrated by her loss, and by the lack of interest she says police have shown in solving this crime.

"There is no reason to sit here and say somebody drove my car off when the car wasn't even running," she said.

"This is just crazy."

With respect to the Cleveland serial killer, it is too easy to blame neighbors for not knowing they were living next door to a monster.

Too easy to ridicule these people for confusing the smell of death with the smell of rotting meat.

And much too easy to point fingers at police officials for failing to follow up on reports that a naked and bleeding woman was spotted near the convicted sex offender's home.

When all is said and done, only the victims could have saved themselves from the despair and loneliness that drove them into a trap set by a sexual deviant.

There was no shortage of women who were willing to risk their lives for a drink and a moment of companionship.

So far, 11 bodies have been dug up in and around the house where suspected serial killer Anthony Sowell lived and allegedly raped and killed his victims.

No telling how many others Sowell would have murdered had a woman not escaped and contacted police.

Last month, she reported that Sowell punched, choked and raped her inside the home where the bodies were found.

Her claims led to an arrest warrant for Sowell, who had served 15 years in prison for the rape of another Cleveland woman.

Questions are now being raised about whether law enforcement was negligent in keeping tabs on Sowell, a registered sex offender.

This serial killing also has rekindled complaints that police are lax when it comes to searching for missing black women.

These are legitimate concerns.

Here in Chicago, relatives of 17-year-old Yasmin Acree have had to press Chicago police to keep looking for the teen who disappeared in January 2008.

After Yasmin's cousin, the Rev. Ira Acree, complained about the way police conducted the investigation into her disappearance, the Chicago Police Department was forced to acknowledge that officers left pertinent evidence behind and did not dust for fingerprints.

Yasmin -- then a 15-year-old honor student -- wasn't a runaway and did not hang out in the streets.

Acree has tried to keep her disappearance in the spotlight.

"Until she is found, any time we can talk about her is helpful," he said.

"There's not a lot of attention given to black women who are missing in urban communities."

Indeed, a story about missing black women seems to hold the spotlight only after a number of them are found murdered.

Unfortunately, these stories often shared a common thread.

Many of the women who were victimized were later identified as addicts who traded sex for drugs.

I'm not suggesting that these lives were worthless.

But, like runaways, the unsavory lifestyle of women living on the street almost has become a stereotype for poor, black women who go missing.

That has made it even harder for the relatives of missing black women to get immediate help.

For instance, another woman who had an encounter with Sowell came out of the shadows last week.

Tonya Doss claims that last April Sowell held her captive after she went to his bedroom to drink beer and watch a basketball game.

In a CNN interview, Doss demonstrated how Sowell allegedly choked her until she nearly passed out.

She said that after Sowell had several beers, he leaped on her, telling her that she could be another "b----on the street dead and nobody would care."

She escaped Sowell by telling him that she had to meet her daughter at the hospital.

Doss said she did not tell police about her near-death experience because she's been raped before.

After she went to authorities, her attacker got a light sentence and relatives blamed her, she said.

I kept waiting, in vain, for Doss to at least acknowledge that she made a terrible mistake going into Sowell's house in the first place.

For weeks to come, Doss' face likely will be the face of the missing women victimized by Sowell, and by extension, the face of black women who have gone missing.

If Sowell killed these women, he is the bogeyman that our mothers warned us about.

Those of us who fail to heed those warnings still do so at our own peril.

Last Thursday morning, Chicago School Board President Michael Scott stood on a corner at Altgeld Gardens and surveyed the landscape.

The unseasonable chill was a warning of things to come.

It would not do to have students waiting in a snowstorm for a bus to take them to Fenger High School.

Scott thought arrangements had been made with a local community center.

"What community center? Where?" asked Marguerite Jacobs, the lone parent on hand when the yellow school bus rolled up at 7 a.m.

Although her son is not yet in high school, Jacobs said she is concerned about CPS' plan to keep sending students to Fenger.

"My kid is not going to walk into this mess," she said.

Turns out, the community center that Scott thought would be a haven is a couple of blocks away and doesn't open so early in the morning.

These kinds of glitches make him want to "see for himself" how the Board of Education is responding to the controversy surrounding the beating death of Fenger student Derrion Albert.

"When I have my board meetings, parents from the different communities tell me what is going on, and I'm getting conflicting stories," he said.

But the Chicago school system also has a lot on the line.

With U.S. Education Secretary Arne Duncan approving a $500,000 emergency grant that will fund efforts to stabilize Fenger and the surrounding elementary schools, school leaders are under a lot of pressure to get it right.

So far, four people have been charged in the fatal beating of Derrion -- one of them a 14-year-old.

Since the tragedy, five students have been arrested at Fenger for a lunchroom brawl.

Shortly after 7 a.m. each school day, Fenger students emerge from the shadows of Altgeld Garden's renovated buildings.

About 40 students board two buses for the 30-minute ride to Fenger.

"Half the time, you can't even get them to speak to you," Jacobs told Scott.

Scott boarded the bus last and took an empty seat near the front. After introducing himself, Scott tried to get the teens to open up.

"Is there anything we can do?" he asked.

Silence.

He tried again.

"Somebody told me you are angry, is that true?" he asked.

"Somebody? Right," a student fired back.

"What about the school itself?" Scott asked.

"It's not good," someone shouted out.

Halfway through the ride, the students began to loosen up.

"I don't want to come over here," said a girl who sat with a group in the back of the bus.

"You want to go to Carver?" Scott asked.

"Nobody likes Fenger," she said.

Not everyone agreed with her.

"It is OK. It is working for me," said Curtis Davis, a senior, who kept his hands balled into fists for the entire trip.

Although mostly silent, he responded with a disbelieving shake of his head to some of the things his classmates said.

Basketball and dreams of attending Wake Forest College have kept him out of trouble.

"For them, it's bad. But I don't have a problem," he told me. "I was never around when there was fighting."

Scott, who is serving his second stint as head of the school board, asked how many students wanted to attend Carver.

"I can make it happen for you,"he told them.

Only a few hands went up.

Last week, CPS Chief Ron Huberman said he had reached out to nearly all of the Altgeld families and only six of the 100 Fenger students living in Altgeld Gardens wanted to transfer to Carver Military Academy.

"Unless you guys let me know how I can help you, there's not much I can do," Scott told the students on the bus.

When the Altgeld students arrived at Fenger, they joined others waiting to pass through the metal detectors.

Except for the school employees who were posted outside the school, the streets were empty of adults.

Scott was disappointed.

"We promised to provide children with safe passage," he said. "What I learned today is that not all of the things we have committed to have been done."

Scott's hands-on-approach to the problems at Fenger is a sign that student safety is now a top priority.

Some of you didn't get why the dress code -- which led to six Washington University students being banned from the Original Mother's bar on Rush Street -- sparked an outcry.

To recap, here's what happened:

The black students were told they could not enter the bar because of their baggy pants. After challenging the enforcement of the dress code, the students succeeded in getting the bar's management company to apologize, and to offer diversity training to its staff.

I wrote about it Tuesday, and several readers apparently missed the point.

Rich Taylor wrote:

"I've been denied entrance to bars because I happened to be wearing BOOTS. Nice Boots. Shirts without a collar. I took my money elsewhere."

Then Taylor went on to quote stats from the 2005 homicide report of the Chicago Police Department, detailing the murder rates, age of murder offenders and race of offenders.

I can't figure out what any of this has to do with allegations that Mother's has a discriminatory dress code.

Hopefully, Taylor isn't a police officer, because he seems to think that every black man who wears baggy pants deserves to be treated like a criminal.

As for "taking his money elsewhere," many African Americans stopped going to bars on Rush Street years ago because of this very situation.

But as you can see, the problem hasn't gone away.

Merrie Boyer, in the accounts-payable department at a Stickney company, wrote:

"If you dress like a thug you will be treated as a thug. It does not matter what color you are. When will [you] stop spreading racism by saying that only black men, women and children have it rough?"

Here's the problem with Boyer's logic:

She assumes that the young African-American males who were barred from Mother's were dressed like thugs.

As you can see from the photograph of the two students, the white Washington University student was wearing similar baggy pants. Yet this student didn't have a problem getting into the club.

I doubt if even Boyer can explain the difference.

To be fair, Rush Street bars are not the only establishments that have suspicious dress codes.

Antwon Jennings wrote:

"Lucky Strike on Illinois Street goes way beyond any of those bars. It includes wearing jerseys, colors and baggy jeans. Plenty of times I have been turned around from there because of my jeans. It was so crazy because the sign in the front of the bowling alley really stipulates so many different things from a cultural standpoint. What was so funny that night was it was a Hispanic kid telling me, 'You know how it is.'"

Lucky Strike's dress code states that the following are not permitted:

� Athletic wear, sweats or sports jerseys

� MC colors (motorcycle colors)

� Excessively baggy clothing (tuck-ins are not permitted)

� Sleeveless T-shirts

� Plain white T-shirts (short or long sleeve)

� Construction boots

� Headgear

� Chains

� Ripped or soiled clothing

Chris Logan, a manager at Lucky Strike Lanes & Lounge at 322 E. Illinois, did not answer specific questions about the dress code.

Logan sent this statement by e-mail:

"Lucky Strike Lanes & Lounge is a fun and safe entertainment experience with an evening dress code policy for those 21 and over. It ensures guests are in appropriate attire for our upscale lounge atmosphere. It is applied in a fair, professional and evenhanded manner."

Interestingly enough, if you go to the bowling lane's Web site, the first photograph that pops up is that of a white woman bowling in a low-cut tank top and faded-looking jeans.

Frankly, Lucky Strike might as well have posted a sign saying: Urban African-American males not allowed.

Except for the construction boots, MC colors, and the ripped and soiled clothing, the dress code appears to be targeting this group.

After all, not too many young black men are into straight-legs.

Dress codes may be well-intended, but they can be easily misused.

The fact that allegations of blatant discrimination are still surfacing so long after the passage of laws that targeted discrimination shows that the battle for equality has not yet been won.

What happened at Mother's is not an isolated case.

In Chicago, it is the norm.

It's been decades since I've partied on Rush Street, but I'm not surprised that the bars are still discriminating against black men.

While on a trip to Chicago from St. Louis a couple of weeks ago, six Washington University students were barred from a Rush Street bar because they were wearing "baggy pants."

"We couldn't believe what happened," said Fernando Cutz, a Washington U. student who was at the Original Mother's tavern that night.

"It was not something that we expected in Chicago in 2009."

There was no way for these visitors to know that the Rush Street bars operate like they have a quota when it comes to the number of black men that can be in their establishments.

Unless the men play for the Bears or the Bulls, six young black men hanging out together aren't likely to have an easy time getting into a bar like Mother's.

To keep them out, bouncers routinely tell black male patrons that they are wearing the wrong hat, or the wrong shirt or the wrong pants.

What they're really being told is that they are the wrong color.

What happened to the Washington University students happened to my own nephew at a different Rush Street bar.

When his female cousins insisted that they go to Rush Street to party, the women schooled him on what he could and could not wear -- no caps, and no clothing with insignia that might be interpreted as a gang sign.

Unfortunately, they didn't know about the baggy pants.

After the group waited in line to enter the trendy Rush Street club, my nephew was told he could not come in because of his baggy pants.

Because my nephew had to stand outside the bar, he saw other non-black males wearing the same kind of baggy jeans he was wearing, and they were allowed in the club.

But how do you argue that point with a beefy bouncer?

After the Washington U. students were told their clothes violated the "baggy pants" code, one of the black students exchanged pants with a white student. That white student, who was thinner, got into the club wearing pants that were even baggier.

Even so, the Washington U. students didn't win the argument.

But they were quick thinkers, and had each other's backs.

The students turned to the media and to social networks to get the word out. They also recruited students at Chicago colleges to join their cause.

It was absolutely brilliant. In no time, the story became national news.

Lonnie Nasatir, regional director of the Anti-Defamation League heard about the incident in a roundabout way.

"One of the students that goes to Wash U. is from Houston, Texas. Their father is on the board at ADL," Nasatir said.

"Dad you've got to hear this story," the student told the father.'"

The organization ended up sending Mother's a strongly worded letter, which was also signed by the Chicago Urban League:

"If these allegations are true, they suggest that Mother's is using its dress code as a pretext for discriminating against patrons on the basis of race," the civil rights organizations said.

Under the threat of a lawsuit, the management company for Mother's has agreed to put its managers through diversity and sensitivity training.

The Washington U. student body also is planning a "massive demonstration against discrimination," Cutz told me.

"Mother's management will be present and will speak at the rally. In addition, they will be issuing private apologizes to the six students and a public apology to the senior class," Cutz said.

Mothers' has agreed to host four fund-raisers. Proceeds will benefit a "social justice or diversity fund" of the students' choice.

It is disappointing that Mayor Daley hasn't blown a gasket about this.

After all, as a city that tried to host the 2016 Olympics, we look like jerks.

Washington University Chancellor, Mark S. Wrighton, even challenged the mayor to "take the steps necessary to ensure that similar incidents do not occur to future visitors."

For now, at least one Rush Street bar has gotten the message that the discrimination will no longer be tolerated.

Hopefully, the others will follow.

Quite often, the first thing out of our mouths when a teenager is accused of a heinous crime is: "It starts in the home."

And, in many cases, that's true.

Some children are growing up with parents who act as though their kids are a burden.

Some of these parents were too young to become parents. And others have failed to instill moral values in their children by leading by example.

But what is happening when these stereotypes don't fit?

Last week, Hammond police charged Gregory Brooks Jr., 18, and Reo Thompson, 17, with first-degree murder in connection with the heinous slaying of Milton and Ruby McClendon.

The teens already faced charges of robbery, burglary, confinement and auto theft in the case.

They could face a sentence of as much as 130 years if convicted on all charges.

When something like this happens, most people assume the teens involved came from fatherless, dysfunctional homes.

In this case, at least one of the teens appears to have had the kind of parents who were actually parenting.

"We're not monsters. We didn't raise no monster. And my child . . . I believe my child didn't do this. I believe my child was in it, yes, some kind of way. He was involved in it. He got hung up into this by being with this child, this other kid. But I don't believe my child pulled no trigger," Gregory Brooks Sr., father of one of the two teen suspects, said before TV cameras.

"We'd like to relay to the McClendon family that we are God-fearing people, working people," said Veretta Brooks, the suspect's mother. "I have elderly parents, and my heart goes out to them. I have not been able to work, function properly since. And I feel for them."

As a mother, I can imagine the hell this mother is living through.

Yet, if what she says is true, how did her son get snared by the wrong crowd?

If he was "in it," as his father suggested, then he is as guilty as the person who pulled the trigger.

And if he was brought up in the church, as his mother claims, then he knows that the crimes that were committed against this elderly couple were pure evil.

If convicted, their son's life is over.

As parents, we can never underestimate the lure of the streets, and the negative impact our culture of materialism and celebrity worship has on teens.

Every day, the most vulnerable youth are bombarded with images of wealthy lifestyles while they walk among abandoned buildings with empty pockets.

Some are inspired to get out of the poverty. Too many others are sucked in by it.

Because there is a vacuum of credible leadership, the "streets" have become surrogate parents to these disillusioned youth.

Under these dire circumstances, it takes old-fashioned parenting to keep teens away from the criminal element.

After all, not long ago, it wasn't that unusual for a parent to come up to school with belt in hand to discipline a persistently disruptive child.

If that happened today, the beleaguered teacher would be mandated to contact the Illinois Department of Children and Family Services, and the parent would most likely be charged with child abuse.

Meanwhile, the streets are swallowing up a generation of ill-bred young black men.

Obviously, parents in violence-plagued communities must do a much better job raising their children.

But, as a society, we have to do a better job helping at-risk families get a handle on their children before they grow into predators.

I'd argue that, rather than needing the National Guard, we need an army of life coaches.

Diane Latiker, founder of the "Kids Off The Block" program in Roseland, raised an interesting observation recently in the wake of the beating death of Fenger High School student Derrion Albert.

"We have to find out why our kids are so angry," Latiker said. "They are angry about their environment, the lack of jobs and lack of support from those who are closest to them."

As parents, we have to stop making excuses for our shortcomings.

The teens accused of murdering the McClendons were in trouble long before this horrible crime.

After hearing from an angry parent, I reached out to "Queen Sister," a colorful activist who has been at the forefront of rallies to stop the violence near Fenger High School.

It's not surprising that Queen Sister's mailbox is full.

Last time I saw her, she was outside Fenger yelling through a bullhorn.

Since the fatal beating of Derrion Albert -- a tragedy that was captured on video -- activists like Queen Sister have been in great demand.

And since U.S. Education Secretary Arne Duncan promised millions of dollars to quell the unrest around this South Side high school, community activists have popped up all over Roseland.

Queen Sister, a passionate woman who often attends school board meetings, has been at the microphone for a long time.

She is founder of It Takes a Village, a community organization that is supposed to put young people to work guarding the streets in Roseland -- although that effort has not stopped teens from killing each other.

At this point, it is unclear whether Queen Sister is working with Chicago Public Schools or against it.

On Monday, the mother of one of the teens who took part in a summer program Queen Sister ran last summer called to complain that her son had not been paid.

"None of the kids have been paid," Ida Johnson told me.

"They worked the whole summer for nothing," she said.

Johnson said when she talked to Queen Sister, the activist blamed CPS Chief Ron Huberman and Michael Scott, president of the Chicago Board of Education, for holding up funding.

"I called down to CPS and was told that the Board of Education did not have anything to do with Queen Sister's organization," Johnson said.

My attempts to reach a spokesman for the Board of Education about this matter were unsuccessful.

But Queen Sister does, in fact, blame Huberman and Scott for her inability to pay the teens.

"I reached for the heart of the 'hood --the 19- to 24-year-olds. We put them to work this past summer, and when that program ended, we solicited for help to keep this program going," the activist said.

She claims school officials promised to fund her program, but reneged when she publicly criticized Mayor Daley after Derrion Albert's death.

"Ron Huberman has refused to release the money, and he has held up our program," Queen Sister said.

"What he did was go into a room with CeaseFire and put CeaseFire over the Vanguards."

Huberman did not return phone calls about this issue.

CeaseFire is a nationally known anti-violence program that was curtailed after drastic cuts to the state budget.

Vanguards is a group that Queen Sister organized in Roseland to combat the street violence.

About 80 teens in Roseland have worked with the Vanguards.

"They have worked for six weeks and never got paid. They worked four to eight hours a day," said Chester Wilson, chief of staff for Ald. Carrie Austin (34th).

Apparently a group of teens went to the alderman's office expecting to pick up their checks.

"Queen Sister has been telling them that they are going to get paid this day or that day and they never got paid," Wilson said.

People who know Queen Sister claim that she has a big heart and sincerely cares about her community.

I'm not suggesting otherwise.

Still, how can she justify not giving these teenagers what is owed them?

She should know there is a big difference between volunteer work and a summer job, and that when you work and don't get paid, it's called a scam.

If teenagers in Roseland can't trust the people who are claiming to be activists, then whom can they trust?

And if the teens were being paid to protest public officials, then that could be a problem as well.

Apparently, Huberman has refused to answer Queen Sister's calls.

"I'm upset, but the kids should not have to suffer," she said.

But what is the real relationship between Queen Sister and CPS anyway?

That's a question no one seems willing to answer.

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Correction: in Monday's column, I dropped the "p" in Lt. Mike Rompa's name. I regret the error.