13 Days in Ferguson

by Ron Johnson

  “Is the report true?”

  “It is true,” I admit.

  “Why didn’t you mention it at the press conference?”

  “Because there were no major injuries. The officers were not seriously hurt. And the protesters did have a good night. I wasn’t going to allow a few people to impact all the good that happened with the majority of the people. I wasn’t trying to hide anything.”

  “But their rep said—”

  “I know. I understand where you’re coming from. But try to understand what I’m saying too.”

  I’m not sure they do.

  Sometime later, I give my daily briefing to law enforcement, and I get hammered again.

  “You didn’t give all the facts,” someone shouts. “Our guys got hit.”

  “It’s a bigger picture,” I say. “I’m not trying to go tit for tat.”

  The anger around my decision to keep silent about the officers who were hit by rocks, which has been bleeding into the moments of my day, feels as if it has begun to hemorrhage. Then I second-guess myself. I start to regret not mentioning those four officers. The regret stays with me, etched like a scar.

  I regret that decision to this day.

  I walk.

  I walk alone.

  Some police officers see me and turn away.

  I draw myself up and keep walking.

  The crowd builds. People walk with me. They encircle me. They shake my hand. They pat my back. I see some of the same people from last night. I look for the articulate young man who’d been wearing the hoodie and the bandanna mask. I don’t see him, but I sense that he’s here somewhere.

  More people approach me. They talk to me.

  “This here—being out here—gives me a reason,” someone says.

  “I hear you,” I say, and I do. I truly do. Walking with me and with each other gives people a reason to stand. It gives them purpose. For some it may be the only purpose they have.

  I see these people. I look at their faces and into their eyes, and I hear their voices. I know right then that nobody hears them. Nobody even tries.

  I try to imagine how they feel—screaming for help and nobody hearing them. Their screams fading out into emptiness. Their pleas dying on their lips.

  “I need you,” they say. “Please hear me.”

  Their faces determined, their eyes expectant, their stride purposeful, they walk with me, hoping that maybe for the first time somebody will hear them, somebody will listen.

  I listen. I hear them.

  I have to. We all have to.

  They see the change.

  I feel it too.

  A woman comes out of the crowd and races over to me, waving her cell phone.

  “Captain Johnson, I want you to take a picture with my daughter. Please. I want her to know this moment and what we’re doing.”

  I pose with her daughter, a little girl who looks about three years old. Her mother holds her up, and the little girl kisses me on the cheek. The mom takes the photo.

  People thank me. They thank me for being here, for walking down the street with them, for telling them the truth about the video. They say they see my heart.

  A woman around my age grabs my arm.

  “Captain Johnson, please,” she says, and then she starts to cry. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she grips my arm tighter. “Save our sons,” she says.

  I lead several officers into Ferguson Market & Liquor, the convenience store where the videotape came from. The tape shows Michael Brown in the store and the owner confronting him. I know that seeing Michael Brown alive—even in grainy security-camera footage—will enrage the community. I saw what looters did to the QuikTrip gas station. They torched it, burned it to a hollow shell. Now that the video has been released, I believe that looters will burn down this store as well. I have already started getting calls from people expressing their anger and warning me. I hear conversations on the street. The rage is coming. It’s coming here. Releasing the video has put a bull’s-eye on this store.

  I stand with the owner and watch as people come and go. At one point, four young men walk in. I make eye contact with each of them. They meet my eyes and lock in. I see defiance and pure rage. One guy, perhaps the leader, breaks away from the group, goes to the counter, and buys a bottle of cognac. The store owner takes his cash and places the bottle into a brown paper bag. The young man pushes off from the counter and walks toward me. He takes the cognac out of the paper bag, pulls a red towel out of his pocket, and ties it around the neck of the bottle.

  He stares at me.

  “You know what that means?”

  I do. He’s showing me that he is going to make a Molotov cocktail.

  He fixes a blazing stare on me for what seems like ten seconds, and then he brushes by me and leaves the store, the other guys trailing behind him.

  I have received his message—his warning—but I can’t do anything about it. He hasn’t committed a crime. He’s essentially told me that he’s going to burn down the store, but I have to let him walk. I can’t arrest him for buying a bottle of cognac.

  I pull the store owner aside and explain what just happened.

  “They’re going to torch your store,” I say. “They just told me as much. I want you to know what you will have to face. I can’t say if it will be tonight or tomorrow or Sunday. It could be three, four o’clock in the morning. I don’t know when they’re going to come. But I know they are going to come.”

  “What about the cops?” the store owner asks. “What are you going to do?”

  He tilts his head, mirroring the defiant look the young man who bought the cognac gave me.

  “We are going to do what we can,” I say, and then I gesture at his shelves. “But you need to take this stuff out of your store.”

  The store owner shrugs.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I don’t have any help.”

  “I’ll get you help.”

  I charge out of the store and round up a few officers. I ask them to wait outside while I go back into the store.

  “I got a team of guys to help you,” I tell the store owner. “Now let’s move everything out. This could go down tonight.”

  The store owner sniffs. “I don’t have a truck.”

  I bite my lip lightly and murmur, “I’ll get a truck.”

  I make a call, and in less than fifteen minutes, an officer arrives with a truck. I go back inside the convenience store and tell the owner, “I got the truck. Now let’s start moving everything out.”

  “No,” he says. He leans back and another man steps forward. I had noticed this man before, but in the frantic past half hour of trying to round up guys and locate a truck, I didn’t pay much attention to him. But now the store owner nods at the man.

  “And you are?” I ask.

  “My attorney,” the store owner says.

  “I see.”

  “I’m not moving anything out,” the store owner says with a glance at his attorney. “I’ve got good insurance. I’m leaving everything here. Everything stays.”

  I can’t believe this.

  “Your call,” I say.

  In the parking lot, I gather the team of officers I’ve assembled. I ask one of them to return the truck. I ask the others to stay outside the store and wait. I hope they don’t have to engage any rioters, but I know in my gut that tonight, tomorrow night, or early one morning, someone’s coming to burn this place down.

  The calm before the storm.

  That’s what I feel.

  An eerie stillness. And then a soft, warm breeze.

  It feels so good against your face.

  Makes you forget about the vicious storm blowing right behind it.

  I keep walking down the street. I keep interacting with protesters. I hear complaints about the video, but fewer than I expected, and no real outrage. Overall, I’d say we’re having another good night. I return to the command post around eleven, feeling fairly positive about how the day
has ended.

  At eleven thirty, I get into my car and drive home from Ferguson. I get to bed just after midnight, feeling amped up and energized, murmuring a final thank-you to God for this very good day as I drift off to sleep.

  Ten minutes later, an urgent call from the night commander jerks me awake. I kick off the covers, cup the phone so I don’t wake Lori, and sprint into the bathroom.

  The commander tells me that an angry mob had congregated outside the convenience store—their numbers quickly swelling, emotions burning hot. As the crowd began to rampage through the parking lot, the officers on duty called for more help. The night commander—seemingly not understanding what was happening—ordered the officers to leave. But they couldn’t. A mob had cornered them—three or four officers, I’m not clear on the number—while looters attacked the store. The mob may have had guns, but they certainly had numbers. The night commander sent in two armored vehicles to break up the mob and allow the officers to escape the parking lot.

  “Anybody hurt?” I say, reaching for my pants and my belt.

  “No. I deployed tear gas.”

  I moan. “How many cans?”

  “Just one.”

  “Do not deploy any more. No more tear gas. I’m on my way.”

  Back in Ferguson now, I stand in front of an army. The commander has called for further assistance. Hundreds of officers—including four SWAT teams—assemble at the crest of the hill overlooking the stores on West Florissant. Down the street, looters have overrun the convenience store, and others have broken into the nearby Family Dollar store, smashing windows, carrying off merchandise, and destroying the building.

  Then gunshots.

  Snap . . . pop . . . crack . . .

  I see rioters waving handguns and shooting them in the air.

  I see rioters lighting rags on fire.

  I see the night ablaze.

  Behind me, two hundred police officers react as one. Without turning to face them, I can feel them stirring, psyching themselves up, preparing to engage.

  They’re ready to take it to the rioters. Ready to end this. Ready to disperse the crowd, round up the rioters, and arrest the looters.

  Earlier today, I marched with the people.

  Now the force behind me wants to march on them.

  “What are we going to do?” a voice behind me shouts after a long few seconds.

  “We need to go,” another voice shouts. “We need to go.”

  I pivot slowly and take in all these officers gathered behind me. These troops, massed and ready. I can almost feel a collective ocean of adrenaline surging through them. And then I hear comments directed to me and about me—thrown at me—shards of doubt, anger, and mistrust. And maybe it’s my imagination, but again I hear the word.

  I give no signal.

  My mind flits to the conversation I had after the news conference earlier today with the officer who called me out for not telling the media about the police who were hit with rocks. He challenged my honesty. He questioned my authority. He questioned my allegiance. I think of the officers out on West Florissant who turned their backs on me. Again I hear comments that now puncture the air behind me. I hear the word. This time I’m sure of it. It reverberates. It slices me.

  I realize I have an opportunity to change all that. I can make things right. I can regain the officers’ trust, renew their confidence in me. I can make a statement as a leader: I am not just with you; I am one of you.

  I can gain their approval.

  I want that—I admit it.

  I want their trust.

  I make a decision.

  I decide to go.

  I locate the SWAT leader.

  “Can you go down there and take back that store?” I ask him.

  He looks at me, and I detect the trace of a smile.

  I can read the answer in his face: This is more like it.

  “Can you stop what’s going on?” I ask him, doubling down on my decision, perhaps wanting extra reassurance, searching for any doubt or reservation.

  “Yes,” he says. “Absolutely.”

  “Well, have all the SWAT guys gear up.”

  A swirl of movement. The clack of equipment. The rustle of gear snapping on. A hum of excitement. I feel a shift. A sudden wave of respect and relief rolls toward me. I hear no more negative comments. This moment—this decision—has elevated me.

  I make eye contact with the SWAT leader. He nods. We’re ready to go.

  And then something happens.

  The earth shakes beneath my feet.

  My body—my entire being—trembles.

  My ego, so pumped up a moment ago, deflates like a popped balloon.

  I suddenly feel completely selfish.

  It hits me. Hard. I have become so focused on how these police officers see me, how they feel about me, that I have allowed my pride to sway my leadership, to overwhelm my thinking.

  Yes, I want their approval. But I have to lead from my heart.

  I turn to the group gearing up closest to me and see two young female officers. I look into their eyes. I study their faces. I focus on one, her features obscured by the night shadows. I know it seems impossible, but her face becomes my daughter’s face. As I look at this officer geared up and ready to go, I see my daughter looking back at me.

  Then I look down the street at the young men hauling merchandise out of the smashed store windows, and I see boys . . . young boys . . . and I picture my own son.

  Standing at the crest of the hill, I ask myself, Am I willing to send these young men and women into a fight—into a battle—that may cost them their lives? Would I send my daughter down there? Should I send my fellow police officers down there to shoot my son?

  Please, God, don’t let there be blood on my hands.

  These thoughts are a blip, flashing through my mind in less than a second.

  And in that span of time, I change my mind.

  I won’t do it. I won’t send these troops down there.

  “Stand down!” I say.

  I rush over to the SWAT leader. “Tell everyone to stand down. We’re not going.”

  He blinks in confusion.

  “We’re not going down there,” I say emphatically, making sure he comprehends my words.

  I don’t know if I’m right, but I’m sure.

  That’s not true.

  I know I’m right.

  The police officers behind me lose it.

  I hear the violence of their comments snarling at my back.

  Distrust. Disbelief. Hatred. Thundering at me now.

  I don’t dare turn around.

  Images flood my mind: A clenched fist. Fiery, furious eyes.

  I hear the sound of men crying—actually crying—in anger.

  And I hear words hurled like knives:

  Traitor.

  Coward.

  Gutless.

  You’re with them.

  And then . . . again . . . the word.

  Two hundred-plus SWAT and police officers geared up for confrontation stand at the crest of the hill and watch a band of looters ransack the stores of Ferguson.

  I stand in front of this assembled army and stare down the street. I hear the words. I see the images—behind me, directed at me. I keep looking forward. I don’t look back.

  But I keep picturing my daughter and my son, and I say to myself, “I don’t have the right.”

  And then I whisper, the words ringing in my head, “I don’t have the right.”

  Around two o’clock in the morning, after the streets have cleared, I return to the command post. Muscling my way through the chaos and anger that still envelop me, I walk into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, and slowly make my way over to the sink.

  My chest heaves. My shoulders sag. I grip the corners of the sink to keep myself from collapsing. With a sigh, I raise my head and force myself to look in the mirror. My reflection howls. I look into my eyes—my bloodshot and tortured eyes—and I start to cry. I lower my head and stare int
o the sink as my sobs overtake me.

  “God,” I say. “This hurts so bad.”

  I choke down a sob, wipe my nose with my sleeve, and say, “I know I’m strong enough, I know I am, but it . . . hurts . . . so . . . bad.”

  I bow my head and say, “God, I feel so alone.”

  And then—very distinctly—I feel my head lifting. I open my eyes and look at myself in the mirror again.

  I see a man.

  I see a black man.

  I see a father. A son.

  “They don’t see me,” I say. “Nobody sees me.”

  I realize I’m feeling the same way the protesters feel.

  Nobody sees them.

  They might as well be invisible.

  But I see them.

  I see them because I am them.

  We share the same heart, the same soul, the same pain.

  “I am you,” I hear myself say.

  Then my heart turns to prayer.

  “Thank you, God, for taking me through this turmoil. Thank you for allowing me to see—to see these hurting people and to see what they see. But it hurts. Change hurts. Change hurts so bad.”

  And then I whisper, “Please, God, let me be seen.”

  I have been to church many times in my life, and I have said many prayers, but I believe this is the first time I have ever truly prayed.

  Standing in this bathroom, staring at my smudged reflection in the mirror, my shoulders shaking . . . sobbing over the sink, tears streaming down my face—yes, this is the first time I have ever really prayed.

  [3] “Ferguson police release the name of officer involved in Michael Brown shooting,” YouTube video of press conference aired August 15, 2014, posted by PBS NewsHour, August 15, 2014, www.youtube.com/watch?v=6XJ1Kh1CTB8.

  [4] Captain Ronald Johnson, “Ferguson, Missouri, Police Shooting and Protests,” C-SPAN video of press conference aired August 15, 2014, https://www.c-span.org/video/?321034-1/news-conference-ferguson-missouri-shooting.