by Ron Johnson
I step up to Michael Brown’s parents and I say, simply, “I’m very sorry for your loss.” And then very softly I say, “I’m sorry for the loss of your son.”
They lift their eyes and look at me now, simultaneously, and I feel a kind of fire burning from their eyes into my heart. It’s as if they were staring into me. I have never seen a look like that. Their eyes lacerate me—with pain, with anger, with loss, with accusation, and with deep, unanswerable questions.
Why did this happen?
How could this happen?
How could you let this happen?
How will I go on with my life?
How will I love?
How will I live?
In my mind, I hear the cry of that young man I spoke to with the bandanna masking his face.
We need answers.
I have no answers.
There are no answers.
I realize suddenly, certainly, without a doubt, without question, that faith is all we have.
With my head down and my legs heavy, as if I am sloshing through thick, murky water, I leave Michael Brown’s parents and slowly exit the church. I find the three other officers waiting by the car. One sniffs and nods, acknowledging with a swipe of his cheek, the flicking away of a tear, that my words had moved him. Another officer looks past me, as if I weren’t even there. The third officer glares at me. I read his look clearly: “You took their side. You are one of them.”
We get into the car, and almost immediately my cell phone rings. I glance at the display and once again see the name Bret Johnson.
I place the phone to my ear and say, “Hey.”
“Hey.”
After a long silent beat, Bret begins to speak, his voice thin and trembling.
“I just got a call from the governor’s office about your speech at the church.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re going to continue giving press interviews and doing news conferences.”
“What about our previous conversation?”
“Never happened.”
I look at the three officers riding with me. They want to know what’s going on, but I won’t reveal to them the purpose of the call or the mix of emotions I feel—relief, validation, exoneration, maybe even . . . happiness.
“Okay,” I say.
“Good,” Bret says. “And Ron?”
“Yes?”
“This is the way it should be.”
I feel a shift—an emotional, spiritual shift. My words at Greater Grace Church—impromptu, spontaneous, straight from my soul—are evidence of this shift. My world, as I know it, has changed.
I don’t have to understand why or ask, Why me? Those questions don’t matter. This isn’t about me. All that matters is that I take charge and that I lead from my heart. I must commit to this. I can’t lead by guessing what people want or by accommodating anybody. Though I have many decisions to make—some coming at me by the minute, if not by the second—leading from the heart means I must respond from goodness, and I have to be alive and aware in the moment. I know what’s right. That knowledge is deep in my soul.
I believe this shift has come from God.
Though I have questioned him at various times in my life—have questioned his reasons, his why, I now know clearly, without a doubt, that whatever God intends to be revealed will be revealed. Or not revealed. It doesn’t matter.
Just lead, I tell myself.
And communicate.
Leading is communicating.
As we drive back to the command post in Ferguson, it occurs to me: I have my voice back.
Everyone at the command post has seen my speech on television. When I walk in, I get the same mixture of responses I received from the three officers I rode with. A few officers stare at me, their eyes hot with anger, but then they drift off and avoid me. Many officers come over to shake my hand. Several hug me. Several have tears in their eyes. One officer thanks me for my honesty. Another says that now, for the first time, he believes I’m for the badge as well as for looking out for the people on the street. I can see that he now understands that I’ve been walking down the middle of that precarious road.
I go into my sanctuary—the bathroom—lock the door, grip the sink, and pray. I feel a change. A lightness. I no longer feel as if I’m carrying the burden of being in charge of security at Ferguson. Instead I feel that this charge is an honor. I might even call it a gift. I thank God for giving me this gift.
Back on the streets of Ferguson again, I walk. At first my legs feel weary. My back slumps, and my stride feels slow. But then more people join the group that’s walking with me . . . and then even more. I pick up my pace, straighten my back, and walk with renewed purpose. I shake hands. People on the sidewalk wave, clap, and burst into the crowd just to hug me.
I walk for an hour . . . and then I walk for thirty more minutes. The heat and humidity, even hotter and thicker than yesterday, press down on me. At one point, as I stop to shake hands with several people, a woman reaches into a bag she’s carrying and gives me a hand towel. I hesitate.
“It’s fresh,” she says, laughing. “I pulled it out of the wash this morning.”
I smile, feeling a little embarrassed, but she seems not at all offended. Before I know it, she takes the towel back from my hand and begins to wipe the sweat off my face. As she dabs my forehead, she gently palms my cheek with her other hand—the same gesture a mother would use to dry off her baby’s face.
“Keep it,” the woman says, pressing the towel back into my hand.
“Thank you.”
My phone rings and I step aside to take the call. At first I can’t make out what’s being said on the other end. The line is full of static, and the voice is garbled. But then I hear, or I think I hear, “Please hold for Reverend Sharpton.”
“Hello?” I say into the silence.
The static dissolves and I hear clearly, “Captain Johnson?”
“Yes.”
“This is Al Sharpton.”
I recognize the voice. I’d know it anywhere. I find myself grinning.
“Yes, hello, Reverend Sharpton.”
“I know you’re a busy man, but I just wanted to tell you that I’ve been watching you—everybody’s watching you—and even if you feel down, or disappointed, just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“I will,” I say.
“You’re doing it right.”
“Thank you.”
Static.
Silence.
I walk at dusk. I feel free. I no longer care how people view me. I no longer worry whether people judge me as a success or a failure. I turn all my focus to bringing about peace.
As I walk, I can tell that people are looking at me differently. Now even more people bring me towels to wipe off the sweat. More people bring me water bottles to quench my thirst. But most of all, more people want to talk.
Really talk.
I see myself now as the type of policeman I have always wanted to be.
I see myself as a father figure.
When I was a kid, I always thought of a policeman as another father, as a hero. As I walk now, I picture my dad, my hero. That’s who I want to be: my dad. I want to fill those shoes. I want to wear the shoes I wore when we played “Family.”
I feel my life has come full circle. Everything I have ever done—every experience I’ve ever had—has in some way prepared me for this moment. Being a crossing guard, deciding to become a trooper, the years I spent as a trooper, my time on SWAT, leading with empathy first, experiencing the pain of my father’s and my brother’s deaths—all of it—has gotten me ready. I am ready.
People say they will pray for me. I see some people praying for me now, forming a prayer circle, holding hands, their eyes closed, their bodies dipping and swaying. As I watch them, my tears begin to flow.
Some people come up to me and repeat words and phrases from my speech. I can barely remember what I said. The speech remains a blur, the words channeled from some reservoi
r within me, but people keep bringing me back to it. They shout, “This is my neighborhood, Captain Johnson” and “I stand tall with you” and, again and again, “I am you.”
I decide to dispatch teams of six or seven officers, white and black, to walk among the people. I send a few groups out now—late Sunday afternoon. At first the officers stand in a line and barely speak with the protesters. Then, gradually, I see the wall of resistance teeter and come down. The officers begin to have conversations with people. I see a few policemen and protesters laughing. I don’t sense a real connection yet, but I see the effort—and I’ll take it.
Inches, I tell myself. This will happen slowly . . . by inches.
But this will happen.
Then night falls.
On Sunday night, we experience our worst night of clashes, of chaos. Violence explodes. Fires light up the night. Criminals come from outside Ferguson and infiltrate the protesters. They turn a peaceful assembly into a dangerous mob. Hell takes over the city and holds the streets for hours. Finally, our officers gain control.
At 1:25 a.m. Monday morning, I hold a press conference. I feel drained, upset, and bitterly disappointed. Worst of all, I see no end to the conflict. I jot down my observations and thoughts, and as I begin to read my statement, my hands are surprisingly steady even though my entire being trembles with anguish.
“Good morning. I want to start out by thanking the men and women of the Highway Patrol, St. Louis County, St. Louis City, and all the municipal police departments. They did a fine job tonight protecting the citizens of Ferguson. Tonight—”
Suddenly my head is pounding. I squint at what I have written, look up at the assembled members of the media, sigh, and continue with my prepared statement.
“Tonight—a Sunday that started with prayers and messages of unity, peace, and justice, took a very different turn after dark.”
I pause, suddenly feeling incredibly, deeply sad.
“Molotov cocktails were thrown. There were shootings, looting, vandalism, and other acts of violence that clearly appear to not have been spontaneous, but premeditated criminal acts designed to damage property, hurt people, and provoke a response. This was not civil disobedience, but preplanned agitation and aggression.”
I look up again from my notes and tell myself, Stop reading. Speak from your heart.
I close my eyes, slow my breathing, and allow the words to come—from somewhere inside me.
“When I was first assigned to restore order in Ferguson, our basic principles were to protect people’s ability to make their voices heard. While keeping this community safe, we needed to protect the good people of Ferguson, their businesses, and their property.”
I shake my head.
“That’s why, earlier tonight, we were walking with and listening to the peaceful protesters voicing their frustration in a way that doesn’t put others in personal danger.”
I start to raise my voice.
“That’s also why when we saw violent acts, including shootings, the throwing of Molotov cocktails, and the destruction of businesses, we had to act to protect lives and property.”
By “we” I mean me. Everyone knows it.
I look back down at my notes and read the account of the night—incident by incident—as if I were reading a police report.
“The situation first started to deteriorate with the shooting of a civilian on West Florissant and Ferguson Avenues at approximately 8:25 p.m. We quickly responded with additional officers to reach the victim and got him to a safe position. That was followed by shots being fired on officers, a number of Molotov cocktails being hurled, and then the looting or vandalism of businesses that included a Domino’s Pizza, O’Reilly Auto Parts, a Family Dollar store, and a self-storage business, all on West Florissant.”
It’s getting worse. Nine days in and it’s getting worse. Pain and frustration saturate my voice as I continue to read.
“These were some of the shootings tonight, in addition to the shooting at 8:25 p.m.: One minute later, at 8:26, shots were fired to the north on Canfield. At 8:27, there was a report of a subject down. At 8:28, there was a report of eight people with guns. Tactical teams were dispatched. At 8:56, hundreds of protesters marched toward the Northeast Shopping Center, where we stand at this moment, the site of this command post. As the crowd approached the shopping center, multiple Molotov cocktails were thrown at police. At that time, police deployed tear gas in an attempt to disperse the crowd and stop the violent action. We called in additional support from area police agencies. At 9:15, there was a call for a large crowd gathering at the McDonald’s on West Florissant. At 9:20, it was reported that McDonald’s was being overrun and employees had locked themselves in the storage room.”
I drop my voice, feeling worn out and wasted.
“There were multiple additional reports of Molotov cocktails being thrown. Police were shot at. Makeshift barricades were set up to block police. Bottles and rocks were thrown at police.”
I sigh.
“Based on these conditions, I had no alternative but to elevate the level of our response. But to those who would claim that the curfew led to tonight’s violence, I will remind you—these incidents began before 8:30, three and a half hours before the curfew was to have started last night.”
I then talk about a conversation I had earlier with Chief Jon Belmar of the St. Louis County police department, who has returned to assist me, and Chief Sam Dotson of the St. Louis City police department. I report that we are planning additional steps to quiet the violence.
“We are all determined to restore peace and safety to the people of Ferguson. And I believe the continued resolve of the good people of this community will ultimately triumph over the few people bent on violence and destruction.”
My eyes burning with fatigue, I look up at the members of the media gathered around me. “I have time to take a few questions.”
The reporters begin to machine-gun questions at me. I answer the first one I can decipher: “How many people have been injured?”
“We had a couple shooting victims. I think two or three people have been injured,” I say, my voice beginning to drone. “We were responding to those shootings. Those shootings that occurred out in the field had nothing to do with law enforcement. They were between people who were actually out on the scene there. They were people who were out on Florissant. There were no officers injured.”
Now the questions come so rapid-fire that I can’t focus on any of them. The reporters pummel me for information.
How many arrests?
Are you going to bring in the National Guard?
Will you still bring in tanks and shoot tear gas?
By now, I just feel numb. After tonight—after this draining, defeating night of violence, looting, and chaos—I don’t see how I can offer any answers or deliver any message that will be informative or helpful. I hear myself giving rote, generic answers. No one benefits from that. I need to go home, regroup, and recharge. I need to put an end to this long, long day. I make the decision to leave the questions unanswered—for now.
“Thank you,” I murmur.[7]
Without realizing how fast I’ve started to move and feeling as if I’m being pulled by a powerful, unseen force, I turn and quickly walk away, reflexively ducking my head as if negotiating a low doorway.
[6] “Captain Ron Johnson addresses Michael Brown rally at Greater Grace Church,” YouTube video, posted by Egberto Willies, August 17, 2014, www.youtube.com/watch?v=4-wkpbFU_d4.
[7] “Capt. Johnson: ‘We had to act,’” MSNBC video of press conference aired August 18, 2014, http://www.msnbc.com/the-cycle/watch/capt.-johnson-we-had-to-act-319015492000.
A BULLET HAS NO NAME
* * *
God, if you need to take a life—if that will change everything and stop this—then take mine.
RON JOHNSON
SO MUCH HAPPENS IN A DAY. And when each day stretches into the early hours of the next, time becomes a blur. I’m starting
to lose track of what a day is.
This past week and a half feels like one long, twenty-four-hour cycle—beginning each morning with hope and faith and promise. But then the dark comes and blots out the light, and the night bursts into flame and fury.
By the time Monday—mercifully—comes to an end, my eyes are glazed over and my vision is cloudy. When I left Ferguson after the nightly news conference, my phone read 3:15 a.m. It must be close to four by now as I drag myself into bed and force my eyes shut. But sleep eludes me again.
Earlier on Monday, a reporter asked me, “Do you see any light at the end of the tunnel?”
“Maybe . . . ,” I said, shaking my head. “But as Charles Barkley said, sometimes that light at the end of the tunnel is a train.”
Not finding sleep, I lie awake and compose another letter to Lori in my mind. The curve of her back rises in sleep next to me, brushing my arm.
What can I say to you?
How can I explain myself to you?
I stretch my neck, lifting my forehead toward the ceiling, and I begin to pray as the tears well up and start flowing down my face.
I was trying to find the easy way out, wasn’t I? I was trying to cover both sides of the road. I can’t be everywhere at once. I cannot be on both sides. I can only be on my side.
With my chest heaving and sobs wracking my body, I say, “Maybe it’s too much.”
And then I whisper, “God, I feel like I’m falling off a cliff.”
My head throbs as I review the events of the day—starting at the end . . .
2:40 a.m.: After another night of violence on the streets of Ferguson, I face the media at my nightly (early morning) news conference. My gait is heavy, and my knees feel rubbery as I walk into a crescent of reporters. They swarm around me, with red lights from the television cameras winking at their backs and cell phones extended toward me at arm’s length. A few hard-core veterans of the press corps are still doing it old school, scribbling in their notebooks.