13 Days in Ferguson

by Ron Johnson

  I walk.

  A woman approaches and walks with me stride for stride.

  “I was at Greater Grace Church, Captain Johnson,” she says. “I heard your speech. I heard you say that Michael Brown’s life would make things better for your son, for all our sons. Do you still believe that?”

  “Yes,” I say after a while, thrown by the bluntness of her question. “I do. I do think it will get better.” I pause and hold her gaze. “It has to.”

  Tonight, it doesn’t get better.

  It gets worse.

  With the National Guard massed behind us, a military presence looming just down the road—not mobilized but on alert, an indelible visual of how the night overruns the day—we arrest forty-seven people, bringing our two-day, Monday/Tuesday total to seventy-eight arrests.

  At 2:49 a.m., I walk to the area outside the command post to deliver my nightly news conference. Well, my early-Wednesday-morning news conference.

  With six officers fanned out behind me, I face the press corps. I haven’t jotted down notes or written a statement. I look at the cluster of media reps jockeying for position in front of me, and I feel that tonight I should just answer their questions. I mutter quietly, “Good evening. I should say, ‘Good morning.’ Because you’ve all been privy to tonight’s events, I will dispense with a statement and just take your questions.”

  The questions come at me high and hard, like fastballs. The first question I hear is about our decision to use tear gas and pepper spray. I lower my voice, speaking as patiently as I can.

  “We have a shooting victim who is in critical condition, who may lose her life. We had a subject standing in the middle of the road waving a handgun. We had a police car shot at tonight. Yes, I think that was the proper response to maintain officer safety—and public safety—so we didn’t have more victims, whether they were law enforcement or some of our citizens.”

  As the questions come at me from all sides and every angle, I start to feel like a hockey goalie, crouching with my glove up and my stick at the ready, trying to protect the net from one vicious shot after another.

  From the right: “Do you have any more information on the victim?”

  “We know the victim is in critical condition, and the victim is a male.”

  From the left: “Do you have any idea where the gunshots came from?”

  “We do not. We were responding to the person who was shot, providing assistance. The shooting was on West Florissant.”

  From point-blank range: “Any information on the shooter?”

  “No. I’ve given you all the information I have on the shooting at this time. St. Louis County is in the process of an investigation—”

  Right side: “Was the shooting victim transported to the hospital in a protester’s car? That’s what we heard.”

  “Yes. By the time we responded down there, some other protesters had loaded the victim into their car. They did call us. Our command post officers were in contact with them, and they told us where they were going to take the victim.”

  Left side: “What were the charges?”

  “Failure to disperse.”

  Up the middle, in the back: “Did you apprehend the man who had the gun?”

  “No, we didn’t. We did observe him running off as we approached.”

  Left side, back: “Your response was to—?”

  “Our response was to what was happening at Red’s Barbecue. That’s what our response was.”

  Back right: “Were you responding to a 9-1-1 call?”

  “I don’t know how the call came in. We were in contact with the parties who were there with the victim.”

  Right side: “Was there any looting tonight?”

  “Not that we know of. We had officers all along West Florissant, and we did not observe any broken glass or any damage to buildings, and we didn’t receive any alarm calls.”

  Directly in front: “Did the tear gas come before or after the shots were fired?”

  “The tear gas came as we approached Red’s Barbecue and we encountered the subject who had the weapon, and then he ran off.”

  Same reporter, directly in front: “The operation began before he—”

  I interrupt to clarify: “We got intelligence that subjects had entered Red’s Barbecue and that they were armed. When we got there, several subjects ran as we approached.”

  Left side: “Were there any other reports of shots fired? We heard that.”

  “Yes. I was out there and I did hear several gunshots fired in the air while we were standing out front.”

  After this question, I feel myself sag, my patience fray. I’ve hit the wall. I can’t answer another question. I’m afraid I will speak gibberish. Colonel Ron Replogle, flanking me on the left, sees my eyes glazing over. He steps forward.

  “I have to get my captain to bed tonight, so let’s take two more questions, and then I’m getting him out of here.”

  Two more questions.

  Just two more . . .

  A woman on the left side, shouting to be heard, asks about reports of a fire down on West Florissant near Canfield. “Was there a fire?”

  “There was not,” I say.

  And then I hear a rather kind male voice, low, on the right side: “It’s almost three in the morning. What can we expect the rest of the night and into daybreak?”

  Maybe it’s because I know this is the last question of the night, or maybe it’s the reporter’s gentle voice, but his question lifts me up. I locate him on the right-hand side and look into his eyes.

  “I expect that we will still patrol the area. We will have officers patrolling the area throughout the night to make sure our citizens are safe and our businesses remain healthy. Our businesses have to remain healthy. I talked to many citizens out there today who say that they have nowhere to go to get the things they need. So the businesses have to remain healthy.”

  I feel my pulse racing. I pause to catch my breath. I count silently to three and then say, “I can tell you that prior to tonight’s violence—about nine or ten o’clock—I was down there and several people came up to me and said they would stand in front of those businesses and protect those businesses. If those citizens are prepared to protect those businesses, then the police are willing to stand there too. Thank you very much.”

  I turn away from the podium and practically sprint to my car.

  It is well past 3:00 a.m.

  The endless day continues.

  “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?”

  * * *

  Fall in your ways, so you can sleep at night;

  Fall in your ways, so you can wake up and rise.

  SOLANGE KNOWLES

  “RISE”

  AS I PULL INTO OUR DRIVEWAY, my heart sinks. Lori has turned on every light in the house. I panic.

  Why would she leave every light on?

  Something must have happened.

  Has someone come to my house?

  Did someone try to break in?

  I bolt out of the car and fling open the front door.

  Lori stands in the doorway of the living room. She’s wearing her robe tight around her nightclothes and her arms are folded. She does not look happy. She looks the opposite of happy. She looks angry.

  “You’re up,” I say. That was about as lame an opening line as anyone could possibly utter, until I follow it with “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, there is something wrong.”

  Enunciating every word. Not a good sign.

  “Okay . . .”

  “You know I watch the coverage.”

  She unfolds her arms, slams her fists onto her hips, and cocks her head slightly.

  Yep. Angry. Really angry.

  Good police work, Ron.

  I stumble as I try to speak. “So, what . . . ah . . . what’s—”

  “What’s wrong? People are shooting at police—shooting up police cars—and you’re out there on the front lines walking without your vest?”

  “Well, all right, see�
��”

  “Do not tell me you forgot it.”

  “No. I didn’t forget it.”

  Pause.

  I’m about to lose big-time here.

  “I didn’t have it.”

  Lori bites her lip. I’m not sure whether she’s about to laugh, scream, or cry.

  I take a tentative step forward. “Things happened so quickly, the dynamics out there changed so fast that I didn’t have time to get it.”

  She starts to speak and shakes her head. I take another step forward and gently touch her shoulder. She lets me leave my hand there. She’s softening. I’m wearing her down. Plus, it’s 3:30 in the morning.

  “I’ve been a wreck,” she says.

  “I’ll keep it with me from now on. I’ll keep it close by. I promise.”

  “You better,” she says.

  “I will. I’m sorry.”

  She nods and a tear trickles down her cheek. I reach over and dab it away with my thumb.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say again. “I know you’re angry.”

  “I am angry,” she says. “And I’m scared.”

  We grab each other, hug, and hold on, clinging as if we hadn’t seen each other in weeks, which is what it feels like.

  “You must be exhausted,” Lori whispers.

  “No,” I say, my eyes closing heavily. “I’m way past exhausted.”

  Before I get into bed, I stop to pray. I go into the bathroom and close the door. Lowering my head and placing my hands over my eyes, I thank God for giving me the strength to go on. I thank him for my resolve. I thank him for keeping me together as I walk down the middle of that road of pain and strife—with the police condemning me on one side and protesters clamoring at me on the other. I thank God for letting me walk with my head held high and my heart open. I don’t ask for anything, except for the strength to continue.

  Wednesday morning, I wake up before the alarm. As I lie in bed for a few seconds, adjusting to the darkness in the room, I suddenly feel . . . different. Everything around me—every object in the room—is unchanged, familiar, comforting. But there’s a different energy. The atmosphere seems more peaceful somehow, as if a long, stormy night has given way to the first fleeting rays of sunlight. I ease out of bed, careful not to wake Lori, and pad into the bathroom. Before I wash up, I drop my head into my hands and say out loud, “Something’s happening. Something different. I can feel it.” And then I whisper to God, “Thank you.”

  At the breakfast table, I sip orange juice and watch the local television coverage, switching between stations. I think about the people sitting at home every day who watch the events in Ferguson, the violence and chaos unfolding on their TV screens. I think about the families of police officers who watch and worry about their sons and daughters and brothers and sisters reporting to duty and danger in the midst of the unrest and chaos. I think about my wife and my kids. I can feel their concern hanging on me, almost like an extra layer of skin as I leave the house for Ferguson every morning.

  And I think about the parents whose sons and daughters leave home each morning to join the protests—and how they must watch the coverage in fear, petrified by what they see happening on the streets of their community, where they shop, where they eat, where they live.

  I realize that I must speak to them and for them. I have been given the privilege to touch their lives. I am their voice. I have been allowed to have an impact on them. I am revealing these days to them. I am revealing myself to them. I believe that I am delivering a positive message from my heart—hoping and praying that my message touches their hearts.

  This is our moment, I tell myself. Then I remember what a store owner said to me the other day: “This is not a moment. This is a movement.”

  It would be a disservice for me not to at least try to connect to those people at home, as well as to the people on the street. As the conflict continues to rage, I keep hearing these words: “We need to see a difference. We need to try to create a partnership and an understanding. This is our time.”

  I believe what I said at Greater Grace Church on Sunday about Michael Brown’s death making a difference. That hope has become a prayer that I repeat on my knees at home and while clutching the sink in the command post bathroom: Please don’t let Michael Brown’s death be in vain. Please don’t let us have a tragedy without a purpose.

  I’m standing on the street, across from Don Lemon—on national television, midinterview. He grins at me. I don’t like that grin. I sense a good-natured trap. I smile at Don, bracing for the question I know he’s about to ask.

  “So,” he says, “are you still married?”

  I glance down at my hands, steeple my fingers, and crack a smile. I told Don earlier, off the air, about my conversation with Lori last night. He asked if he could talk about it during our interview, and I told him it was all right.

  “Yes,” I tell the world on camera. “I’m still married.”

  Don flashes that grin again.

  “Because we understand that your wife was not happy with you,” he says.

  “She was not happy with me last night,” I reply before briefly recounting the story. I end by saying, “I promised her I would have the vest close by from now on. So tonight she can get some sleep, and she won’t have to yell at me when I get home.”

  Don laughs and then quickly shifts his tone, turning serious, almost grim. “Do you have a message to the people who are out here?”

  I silently count to three before answering—to gather my thoughts and measure my tone.

  “Yes. My message to the people who are out here: We will get through this. And to the agitators: You will not defeat us.”

  There was a time, before Ferguson, when I kept the media at arm’s length. I considered them somewhere between my enemy and a distant relative. That’s changed. I now take every opportunity to talk to reporters because I know we need the media’s help. They can show scenes of hope and understanding and partnership. It’s easy to show the looting and fires and tear gas and the National Guard lined up with their military vehicles. It’s easy to broadcast images of crowds of people shrouded in clouds of tear gas. Rule number one of broadcast news: If it bleeds, it leads. I get that. It’s what draws an audience.

  People may be more drawn to footage of cops descending on a criminal who is clawing at his eyes after being pepper-sprayed than footage of a cop and a protester hugging. But both images are real.

  People need to see both.

  Today, like every day for the past week, I walk.

  That is my plan. My strategy.

  I walk. I talk. I listen.

  What happened last night doesn’t matter. Today is a new day, a new beginning. I have to erase last night’s chaos and start fresh. I walk twice a day, at least. I want the people to see that I am here no matter what. I am here. I am here for them. I will not abandon them. I will protect their freedom to be on the street and to protest. I want them to protest without fear. I don’t want them to be afraid of the police. I don’t want them to be afraid of me. I want them to know me and trust me.

  Eventually.

  For now, I’ll settle for having them know that I’m here.

  Today as I walk, I experience the same feeling I had when I woke up: Something’s different. I can’t put my finger on it. I can’t quantify it. I don’t really notice anything out of the ordinary . . . and then . . . I start to see small things. People who haven’t talked to me before nod. People acknowledge that I’ve come back and that I keep coming back, every day, as I promised I would when I spoke at the church.

  “I’ll see you out there,” I said.

  “You’re out here.”

  I hear that phrase couched in surprise, appreciation—even gratitude.

  I want to send a clear message . . . and I want to hammer it home.

  We’re going to get through this together. And I’m not going anywhere.

  So I walk.

  I start to see a difference, and I start to hear things change.


  The first time I walked, some people shouted, “You don’t want to hear what I have to say! Get away! You don’t want to hear me!”

  Now when I walk, everyone wants to talk to me—really talk.

  I stop and I listen.

  They tell me about their struggles; they list their complaints; they express their anger and their frustration, some of it pent up for years. And I listen. When they finish, I respond to what they’ve said. And they listen.

  We have begun a conversation.

  Police and the people, talking on the street.

  That’s all it is.

  But it’s a change.

  As police officers, we can’t be satisfied with just engaging with the community. We have to become part of the community. We have to be the community.

  “I am here” and “I am you” must merge into “I am here for you.”

  I walk in the August heat, my uniform shirt soaked in sweat. I’ve started bringing a second shirt and hanging it in the command post so that I can change shirts after my first walk of the day. As I walk, more and more people hand me towels to dry my face. The same woman comes out every day and pats my forehead and neck with her towel. The towel looks a little unsanitary, but the gesture is beautiful, and that overrides everything else. I feel I’m sharing in her sweat and in her tears.

  People continue to hand me bottles of water. One woman, holding a sign that suggests something rather crude be done to the police, sees me and shouts, “Hey, you need to make sure you stay hydrated! Get him some water. Get the captain a cold bottle of water!”

  Conversations form the beginnings of relationships. A woman comes up to me and says, “Do you remember me?”

  “Of course I do,” I say. “I’ve seen you every day.”

  She looks at me, stunned. I don’t think she believes me. Maybe she’s never had a friendly exchange with a police officer before.