by Gwen Carr
Emery was gone.
Chapter 3
My Son Can’t Breathe
Hate is too great a burden to bear. It injures the hater more than it injures the hated.
—Coretta Scott King
BY THE SPRING OF 1997, I began to gradually emerge from my grief coma. With the support of my family, I got back to work, and it felt good to be in a routine again. I functioned much better with that structure because it gave purpose to a life that had been in freefall. Another good thing that happened was that Mr. Benjamin Carr came back into my life. I had met him in 1979 when he was working on the windows of our apartment in the projects.
He told me, “If you fix me lunch, I’ll make sure your windows get put in tomorrow.”
I knew he was flirting, but Lord knows I needed those drafty windows fixed. I said, “You can’t do that. We have to wait our turn.”
“I can do it,” he promised. “And I will.”
The next day, I fixed lunch for him, his brother, and a couple of other guys. My husband had been gone for a while, so it was nice to have some attention like that. Ben and I got along well and talked all through lunch. After they left, I didn’t think I’d hear from him any time soon.
He came back a couple of days later and said, “I talked to the boss and he said we can put your windows in now.”
I was surprised because I figured he was just doing that talk men do sometimes. “What do you mean?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. It’s all taken care of,” he assured me.
I found out years later that he had told his boss some crazy story about me being out of town and they needed to take care of my windows so they wouldn’t be behind schedule. Apparently it took some convincing, but finally his boss gave in and told them to go ahead. I wasn’t interested in dating at the time because the kids were still at home and I was working, so I already had a full life.
I ran into Ben every once in a while, or heard about him since we knew the same people. In 1997, I went to North Carolina to attend a funeral, and while I was there I ran into Ben. I found out he was living down there to take care of his mother. His sister knew I was in town and encouraged us to get together. I’m not sure whether it was because he reminded me of those simple times back in the projects, but I got a good feeling when I was around him. We connected as if no time had passed, although lots of things had changed for both of us. It felt nice enjoying the company of a good man like Ben. It was the first time since Emery passed that I felt maybe there was hope. Life does go on.
Dating wasn’t a priority for me, but all of the children had their own lives, including Eric and Ellisha, and after the horrendous previous year I guess I was ready to let love in. The depression gradually receded into the crevices of my mind. It wasn’t gone—there were still difficult moments where I would feel paralyzed by the truth of my reality—but things had improved. I had lost my father and my son, but I had so many other loving family members that I also started to get my appetite back and almost felt like a normal person again.
Ben was a welcome addition to my life and someone I could trust. He seemed to understand right away that I was broken, but mending, and he was patient. It felt good to have a new love in my life, a new feeling of excitement. I had butterflies, something I hadn’t expected to feel again. Plus I knew that Ben liked my children, and they respected him, so it felt like a very natural transition.
Even today, a lot of people think he’s Eric and Ellisha’s father because he fit so naturally into the family, and he has always been very protective of them. He and Eric would occasionally get into disagreements, but they would always work it out and move on, like most families. I was grateful for the smooth transition since I didn’t need any more disruptions in my family.
Ellisha had moved to Staten Island. She worked hard and did her best since leaving school to have her daughter. She had her son Mikey in 2006, ten years after Emery passed away. She moved back to Brooklyn and got married. I was proud of the way she had turned her life around. She took Mikey to daycare and ended up working there. The daycare director told her about free classes for food handlers, so she took classes, learned some skills, and worked in the kitchen for more than ten years. She said her motivation was her children, and she never forgot when Emery told her about getting her life on track.
In fact, Ellisha was so motivated that she surprised her daughter by getting her GED just before her daughter graduated from high school. She hadn’t even realized that her momma hadn’t graduated. Ellisha didn’t stop there. While working as head cook at the daycare, she went to college and took up criminal justice, and just before graduation, the MTA contacted her about a job driving a bus. Without telling anyone, she took the driver’s training class every morning in the Bronx, then went to school and work. She juggled her classes and graduated with a degree, and she got a job driving a bus. Some folks didn’t understand why she was doing that instead of getting an office job, but the truth was she enjoyed it. I liked that she was with the MTA because that stability was good for her, just like it was for me.
After dating for a while after meeting up again in North Carolina, Ben and I had gotten married and were now living together, which felt nice since the children had moved out. Because we had known each other for a long time, things seemed to fall right in place. My children got along with him very well, and Ellisha called him Big Ben. He was very understanding when I would have my grandchildren over. I took care of Eric’s children from day one and loved every minute of it. I was glad that Ben took it all in stride.
Eric had been living with his wife and four children over on Mother Gaston Boulevard in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, not too far from me and Ben. Eric would bring the kids over to see us, and I’d go over there. I was always a surrogate mother for lots of children, so it felt very natural for me to have young kids around the house. I enjoyed being a grandmother to his kids and Ellisha’s. At one point, Eric moved out of his home and stayed with me and Ben while he and his wife worked things out.
I loved having my son back home, despite the circumstances. Ben enjoyed having Eric around as well since he had recently retired from working construction. Eric wasn’t working steadily at the time and did odd jobs or sold “loosies,” usually on Bay Street in Staten Island. Selling individual cigarettes was not legal, but a lot of people (and even some stores) regularly did it as a way to make a few dollars. Plus, with the price of cigarettes, a lot of people couldn’t afford to buy an entire pack.
Ben would occasionally go down to Bay Street and meet up with Eric and others who were regulars there. There are stores lined up on one side of the street and a small park on the other side. Most of the time, Ben, Eric, and the others would meet up in the park and play chess or checkers. Or they would walk along the street talking to store owners, employees, and customers whom they knew.
When Ben came home, he would tell me stories about the people over there and the things that happened. I was not surprised to find out that everyone loved it when Eric came around. He was a big teddy bear of a guy who always had a smile to share. Some were intimidated by him at first because of his size; he was 6 feet 3 inches and had grown to more than 350 pounds due to his medical issues and prescription drugs. But once he flashed that big smile, it broke the spell, and Eric would make a new friend.
Ramsey Orta was one of the guys who hung around the intersection of Victory Boulevard and Bay Street. He met Eric in the summer of 2009 when he was walking his dog, and they started hanging out the next year. I heard the story of how Ramsey’s dog gave birth and Eric helped take care of the puppies so Ramsey could eventually sell them. Taisha Allen also lived in that area and was often shopping or hanging out. She became good friends with Eric and Ramsey, along with some of the other regulars. Taisha said that Eric was so friendly with everyone and always talking about his love for his family.
In New York, most people can’t afford a large place to live, so they spend a lot of time outside. They find places they
like and people they can relate to, and that’s where they spend their days. From the sound of it, the people on Bay Street were like a family, and it reminded me of my neighborhood growing up. You had young men getting their hustle on, trying to make a few dollars; there were shop owners, clerks, even homeless folks down on their luck who hung out in the park. I heard plenty of stories about how when the ice cream truck lumbered down the street playing a tinny version of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” Eric would flag the truck down and buy as much ice cream as he could afford and give it to the kids who gathered after school. They also occasionally had impromptu cookouts over at the park, and Eric would made sure all the homeless folks in the area were able to get some food in their bellies.
Stories like that didn’t surprise me because I had seen that from Eric his entire life. I’m not saying he was perfect, but he always looked out for others, especially the underdogs. Any time he saw someone suffering or being mistreated, he just couldn’t stand it. He had to help. To me, that was one of the most loveable qualities about him. Caring about other people and showing compassion can’t be taught; it’s part of your spirit. Booker T. Washington said that the best way to lift up oneself is to help someone else.
That was always Eric’s mantra. The reason he was so kind to others and so protective of the weak was because it made him feel good to help. He didn’t have a lot of money, but when he did have some he would not hesitate to share it. Even without money, he would give of himself. He would take the time to listen to someone and try to help solve a problem.
Over there on Bay Street they all looked out for each other, with Eric the caretaker, guys like Ramsey walking their dog or hanging out with their kids in the park, young women like Taisha visiting the convenience store or buying products at the discount beauty store, and retirees like Ben playing board games and talking about the good old days. They really enjoyed spending their days together, talking crazy and getting through the day. But there was a dark side.
Naturally, the Bay Street crowd felt protective of their turf and didn’t like people coming around causing trouble or messing with their friends, no matter who they were. Everyone over there said that it was a regular occurrence for the police to show up and give folks a hard time. Whether it was breaking up a group of young Black men or questioning the homeless in the park, the police often made their presence known. Stories like that made me really nervous because I always thought back to Mr. King and those riots. I always told Eric to be careful, and Ben had done the same, especially since Eric had his share of police harassment.
The cops liked to use their knowledge of the locals to their advantage. If they knew something about someone’s past, it would be used against them. There were no second chances. Since Eric had been in trouble for selling loosies, that was the go-to any time they wanted to stop him: “We know you are selling those cigarettes out here.” It didn’t matter if he was or he wasn’t. If he denied it, if it wasn’t true, they didn’t care. They would use that as a form of control and intimidation. It frustrated Eric and the others because even if they were minding their own business, the police would come by and flex their authoritative muscle.
I certainly understood the need for police officers when it was warranted. If an actual crime was taking place or real trouble, that made sense to me. But we all got tired of dealing with the harassment and posturing on a daily basis. When you don’t have as much as others, you are much easier to intimidate and control, and everyone knows that.
Eric got arrested one time, and he happened to have a bit of cash in his pocket. Ben went over to get him in downtown Brooklyn, but they had taken him to Riker’s Island instead. Ben couldn’t believe they had moved him so quickly, but he bonded Eric out and went with him to get his property. Eric realized that some of his money was missing and asked the attending officer where it was. He was told, “You’re lucky you got that much back.” Eric filed a police report about the missing money, even though I told him to just let it go. We all knew the police did not like that.
During the week of July 7, 2014, police officers made one of their surprise visits to Bay Street to make their presence known. When they saw Eric, one of them told him that if he would spend a week in jail, they would give him the rest of his money. Ben said that Eric told them he would do it if that’s what it took to get his money back. Then, the next week, all hell broke loose.
The summer of 2014 was actually milder than usual. However, when you’re in the city, the heat is magnified by the concrete sidewalks and dark asphalt. Even when the temperature isn’t real high, it is still as hot and sticky as the thickest molasses. That relentless heat can drive folks crazy. It was during weather like that when I was glad that I worked underground most of the time.
On the morning of Thursday, July 17, I did a few chores and then reminded Ben to give my brother a ride to the hospital on Coney Island for his checkup. Before I got ready for work, I decided to call Eric because I hadn’t heard from him in a couple of days. We always talked at least every other day, if not every day. I thought it was strange that recently when I had called it would go straight to voicemail. Finally, he answered at around 10:00 a.m.
“Eric, where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for the last couple of days.”
He said, “Oh, remember, Ma, I told you I was going to Baltimore to my wife’s family reunion? For those two days we cut our phones off so we wouldn’t have interruptions, but I thought it was OK since you knew where we were. We are home now.”
“I totally forgot that you were going to Baltimore.” We talked for a few minutes. Then I said, “Don’t forget on Saturday it’s our family reunion in Prospect Park.”
He said, “I didn’t forget. What do you need me to bring?”
“Just bring soda and water. We got the rest.”
“OK, bye, Ma. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I never dreamed that would be our last conversation, but instead of a family reunion on that Saturday, I was at a march in Staten Island led by Reverend Al Sharpton to raise awareness about the murder of my son Eric.
I went on to work since I had to be there at 1:30 for my shift starting at 2:00 p.m. While I was driving one of the subway trains, a violent storm was brewing over on Bay Street. Eric was there reconnecting with his friends since he had been out of town for a few days. He met up with Ramsey, and they saw Taisha going into Bay Beauty Supply. As Eric and Ramsey were talking, they saw a fight break out, and naturally Eric went over to break it up. Because of his size, he usually just had to intervene, and they would immediately disperse.
Before that could happen, police officers pulled up, responding to a call by one of the local shopkeepers. They knew Eric, specifically because of the police report he had recently filed. They immediately went to him as the instigator and circled him in front of the beauty store like a caged animal. Ramsey pulled out his phone and began filming, despite being warned several times to stop.
Taisha did the same thing. She was inside the store and came out to explain what was going on. She told them Eric wasn’t fighting; he was trying to break it up. She said they told her to mind her own business, but she’s a tough woman. She said, “No, he’s my friend and he was just breaking up the fight!” Realizing that they weren’t going to stop, Taisha was going to call Internal Affairs to report the incident, but once she saw them push Eric to the ground, she knew there wasn’t time for that.
She said she saw his eyes rolling back in his head as he gasped for breath as the chokehold tightened around his throat. She yelled, “You’re choking him!” Once again, they told her to mind her own business. They often think people like Taisha can just be dismissed and written off, but that’s not always the case. Sometimes folks can’t take it anymore. Taisha had seen this scenario play out too many times, so she followed Ramsey’s lead and used the only weapon she had—her cell phone.
Outside on the sidewalk, Ramsey was dealing with the same threats from the police as they told h
im to stop filming and to move along. Like Taisha, he refused, telling them he had a right to be there since he was not interfering. After all, if they were not doing anything wrong, why would they care that they were being filmed? What was the issue? In fact, they should have welcomed it, unless they had something else in mind.
After the horror of it all, after they wheeled my son to the ambulance, Taisha stayed and looked through the glass, watching as they sat for maybe twenty minutes without performing any kind of resuscitation. They finally drove off, returning later to string up yellow police tape since it was now a homicide investigation.
Ramsey, Taisha, and the other folks who had been in the beauty store and those watching on the sidewalk couldn’t believe what had just happened in front of their eyes. Eric, their friend, had been harassed, then pinned on the ground until the life was choked out of him. Even as he yelled “I can’t breathe!” they continued. How does that happen? Taisha even has the video of one of the officers smiling and waving at her as they left the scene. Next, the place was swarming with more police, news crews, and reporters. Ramsey and Taisha were interviewed on the news, and Ramsey shared his video with the Daily News.
Cynthia Davis, president of the Staten Island Office of the National Action Network (NAN), was in the neighborhood on another case when one of the witnesses ran up to her and told her what had just happened. She was reluctant to go investigate because she was headed to a different meeting, but the witnesses were insistent that she was needed. The police commander was in the taped-off section and raised the tape for her. They were acquainted because of the work she does to help families in need.
The commander explained to her that, as he understood it, a man was selling loose cigarettes on the street and resisted arrest. Since he was a large man, he must have had a heart attack during the arrest. When Cynthia spoke with the witnesses, however, they all presented basically the same story: No loosies. Breaking up a fight. Telling the police that he couldn’t breathe. Still they persisted.