The Man in the Coffin

"I want to learn more about my brother."

by Mike Newall

Lorenzo Woodson walks into the Greater Philadelphia Film Office wearing a dark suit and flowered tie, his eyes wet, his wife, Cheryl, on his arm. He's come here in the hopes of learning more about his murdered older brother, Roben. Five days earlier Lorenzo identified Roben at the city morgue. Roben was 55 and lived in an unlicensed boarding house in Fairmount. Police say his landlord beat him to death with a bat over a rent dispute, then placed Roben in a coffin he built in the living room. Another tenant saw the coffin and eventually called police; the landlord has admitted to the crime, authorities say, and a preliminary hearing is set for April 1. Lorenzo didn't know Roben well — the two were separated as children. But he's learned that Roben often visited the Film Office, inquiring about casting calls. Members of the Film Office arranged this gathering.

"Has anyone come?" Lorenzo asks. Then he's led into a conference room, where he sits with his wife's hand on his shoulder. There is a box of Dunkin' Donuts on the table. Soon, a dozen of Roben's friends shuffle in. They are a weathered group. Some met Roben 30 years ago when he was performing plays at North Philadelphia's Freedom Theatre; others knew him from Center City Internet cafés, like the ING Direct Café, where Roben spent hours on the free computers.

Lorenzo addresses the room softly.

"The newspaper didn't do much for my brother," he begins.

The Daily News put the story on the front page. "The Rent Was Late — And Now So Is He," screamed the headline. The article told little of Roben. He was an "aspiring actor with a noticeable stutter," was what it said.

"I want to learn more about my brother," says Lorenzo.

Roben's friends begin to speak, and a life emerges. Roben was slightly built, about 5 feet 9 inches, 140 pounds with a small afro, lively brown eyes and long sideburns. Everyone speaks of his smile. He always wore dress pants and a suit jacket, carried a briefcase and a clipboard on which he was constantly doodling numbers. He was a man chasing a dream, they say, landing work as an extra in most major motion pictures filmed here in recent years. He was also an amateur videographer, taping Film Office events at the Prince theater and local jazz performances.

"He wanted his name up in lights," says a friend named Jim.

Sometimes, Roben would get paid for the films he recorded on his handheld Sony recorder. Sometimes, he wouldn't.

His friends remember his eagerness.

"You'd hardly get a hello out of your mouth before he was telling you about some upcoming event or casting call," says another friend, Richard.

Everybody speaks of his humor.

"He was the master of the non sequitur," says a smiling man named Murray. Murray knew Roben from the Borders bookstore café.

Lynn Koenigsburg handles local freelance contracts for the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. She tells of how Roben would compliment her sweater and the photos of her children whenever he came into her office, and always say, "I'm gonna land some days on that," when a new project came to town.

When he got hung up on a word and began to stutter, she says, he would take a breath, apologize and start again.

HALF OFF DEPOT

Why live life at full price?

"I'm sorry," he'd say.

Lorenzo thanks the group and begins to tell of his plans for Roben's ashes. But he weeps.

"We're thinking of spreading some of them at different places along the Avenue of Arts," Cheryl says for her husband.

The gathering over, Roben's friends head out into the afternoon. Johnathan Zellars, a photographer who knew Roben for 30 years and was working on a fashion documentary with him, makes his way to West End coffee. He sits by the window.

He paints a more intimate picture of his friend, of how he enjoyed sipping cherry wine in Rittenhouse Square around sunset, and the company of women when he had a little money to spread around; of how he wore a suit and a smile to distance himself from the filthy boarding houses he lived in; of how, when his frustrations boiled over, when he felt he was being taken advantage of by a friend he had lent a few dollars to, or by someone who falsely promised work, his voice would become high pitched and his stutter would worsen.

"He was tired of coming up on the short end of the stick," says Johnathan. "He was tired of the game ... but he never lost his kindness."

At the ING café, where Roben spent so much time, a manager named Mike steps away from the register and remembers his old customer.

"He was a funny guy," says Mike, "He would always order 'A large coffee and a tall woman.'"

Dispatch is filed from all corners of the city. E-mail mike.newall@citypaper.net.