13 Days in Ferguson

by Ron Johnson

  “What do you expect?”

  I nod, encouraging her to explain, to continue.

  “Why do you think we have these negative feelings toward the police, especially now, especially during these days?”

  She pauses, allowing her question to sink in, or perhaps to catch her breath. The room is stone silent, except for the rustle of bodies shifting in chairs.

  “I think about those parents,” the young woman says finally, her voice scratchy, barely above a whisper. “I think about how I would feel if I lost my son—a son who was about my age. A young man who could be sitting right here in this room.”

  “Why did he have to die?” a young man says, his tears flowing. “Maybe he did do something wrong. I don’t know. But why did the police have to kill him?” The young man looks up and meets my eyes. “Why, Captain Johnson?”

  “I don’t have the answer,” I say, feeling my eyes tearing up. “But maybe if we all ask each other that question together, we can find the answer together.”

  I look around the room. Several of the kids avoid my eyes. I sigh and then say, “Okay. I’m not asking you to trust us. I’m just asking that you talk to us.”

  “Same for you,” the first young woman says. “Same thing for you.”

  “Talk,” the young man says. “Talk first.”

  After a very full day, a quiet night follows. Considering the intensity of the last thirteen days, it’s an extremely quiet night.

  At 1:05 a.m., about an hour earlier than usual, I convene my end-of-the-day press conference. Around midnight, I asked a couple of officers at the command post to bring out the same table we used several nights ago to display the guns and the Molotov cocktail. Tonight, again, the table is covered with a lumpy plastic tarp.

  I trudge toward the assembled media and pause in front of the flashing cameras and video recorders. My legs feel leaden. I don’t know when I have ever felt so physically tired, and yet tonight I feel emotionally stronger than at any other time during these two weeks in Ferguson. I have a lot to say tonight, and I have written much of it down. I want to make sure I get it right. Tonight, I wear my glasses.

  I wait for the media to settle in. As usual, they spread out before me in a haphazard semicircle, with several people sitting on the ground. I pause before I begin, briefly scanning the strip mall that has housed our command post and makeshift media bullpen. So many of these people have spent as much time as I have here, devoting hours upon hours and enduring sleepless nights, dedicating themselves to getting the story—and in most cases getting the story right. I appreciate their hard work and dedication more than they know. They are a necessary part of what has happened here.

  I lower my head and begin to read my statement. I immediately hear the urgency in my voice, an urgency tinged with excitement. Though I can’t say it out loud, I almost want to shout that I have arrived at my destination.

  “We had to respond to fewer incidents tonight,” I read. “There were no Molotov cocktails tonight. No fires. No shootings. We did not see a single handgun. And again tonight, for the second night in a row, we did not deploy smoke devices . . . no tear gas and no mace. And again tonight”—I enunciate each word precisely—“no police officer fired a single shot.”

  I hear nothing. Not a sound. I look up to make sure the members of the media are following me, that they are listening. I scan the cluster of people in front of me and see only rapt faces. They sense it. They sense the change.

  I look back at the page in my hand and pick up where I left off.

  “Tuesday night, the number of arrests was forty-seven. Last night, the number of arrests was six. And tonight, as of 12:30 a.m., there have been seven arrests.”

  I look up again to make sure everyone is hearing this.

  “Three of the seven were from Detroit. Four were from the St. Louis area. Five were failure to disperse, one was for an existing warrant, and one was for driving through a checkpoint.”

  I fold the paper and look out at the media. I speak now extemporaneously—no notes, nothing planned, not thinking at all about what I am about to say.

  “I mentioned that there were some good things going on in the community today. I’d heard that teachers and volunteers were using the Ferguson Public Library as an education center for children who still aren’t in school because of what’s going on here in this city. Monday was the first day of the program called School for Peace. It was organized by Carrie Pace, a teacher at Walnut Grove School. Monday, there were twelve children in the program. Today that number had grown to more than 160 children. I visited the facility with some other police officers earlier this afternoon. I can tell you it is a beautiful environment.”

  I pause and swallow. I clear my throat. I don’t want to lose it—not yet.

  “I want to show you something.”

  The media members in front of me rustle; a few start jockeying gently for position, edging forward to get a better view.

  “Remember the other night when some of you doubted that agitators had fired handguns and thrown Molotov cocktails at police? To prove it I showed you the guns and a Molotov cocktail.”

  I hear a few murmurs in response.

  “I want to show you now that things have changed. I want to show you that we have come to a new place.”

  I nod at the police officer to my left. He removes the tarp.

  On the table are the sock puppet, the coloring book, and the box of crayons.

  With a catch in my throat, I say, “It’s time for our community to go back to work. It’s time for our kids to go back to school.”

  I hear sounds now that I can’t quite place. I remove my glasses, wipe my eyes, and look out at the members of the media. I identify the sounds now. Several reporters are sobbing. I nod and tilt my head at the sock puppet on the table.

  “We may never come to an end. We have to try, and keep trying, but that end may be a very long way off. We may not get there. I know that. But we have to try. So tonight I say, ‘Enough.’ Tomorrow we start a new beginning.”

  AFTER FERGUSON

  * * *

  The story of Ferguson remains the story of America.

  WESLEY LOWERY

  THEY CAN’T KILL US ALL

  AFTER THOSE THIRTEEN DAYS, calm comes to Ferguson in fits and starts. The crowds on West Florissant thin, hour by hour, day by day, and finally the protests fizzle out.

  I continue to walk, but I start spending more days speaking to community organizations and driving to businesses that are rebuilding. Governor Nixon never officially relieves me of my duty as head of security. There is no formal handoff, but local police take over daily law enforcement. At the same time, the Department of Justice commissions what they promise will be a thorough and comprehensive study of systemic racism within the Ferguson Police Department. St. Louis County Police Chief Jon Belmar still works next to me with complete commitment. We don’t always agree, but if, God forbid, I ever find myself facing another “Ferguson,” I would want Jon right by my side. A day or two after the protests diminish, I have a meeting with Jon, and I simply tell him, “Thank you.” We clasp hands and hug.

  On Monday, August 25, I leave to attend Michael Brown’s funeral, held at Friendly Temple Missionary Baptist Church in St. Louis, not far from the house I lived in when I was in early elementary school. More than twenty-five hundred people pack the sanctuary, and another two thousand spill outside onto the church grounds. I drive to the service with another officer, and we park up the street from the church. As I approach the building, people start to recognize me and point me out, and soon camera crews from local news stations rush over to me. I hold up my hand and say quietly, “I’m sorry, but out of respect to the family, I won’t be doing any interviews or talking to the media today.”

  I wend my way toward the front doors of the church, peer inside, take a couple of steps in, and suddenly freeze. I feel it then, a kind of wind rising and floating from the depths of the sanctuary near Michael Brown’s coffin—a wind of
raw pain. This pain has its own life, its own breath. This pain—this wrenching, stabbing pain—comes when you grieve over an unexpected death, a death that has come too soon. I lived that pain when my brother died.

  This day, in this sanctuary, I live it again. The pain blows toward me and staggers me. My hands start to tremble and my heart races. I feel myself backing away and out the door. Before I realize what I’m doing or where I’m going, my legs have carried me off the church grounds, and I’m walking up the street, back to the car. I get into the backseat, my heart pounding, my head lowered. I stay transfixed in that position for the rest of the funeral. I tell myself that I’ve come back to the car because I don’t want to be a distraction—partly true—but mostly I feel devastated by the sheer pain, a pain so raw, so real, and so potent that I feel it here, sitting in the car, a block away from the funeral.

  In late September, some people construct a memorial to Michael Brown on Canfield Drive, where he lived and died. One morning, residents find the memorial destroyed, trampled, burned to the ground. A group gathers at the site and rebuilds the memorial. That evening, protesters gather outside the Ferguson police station, calling for Chief Tom Jackson to resign. After a while Chief Jackson appears, buffered by fifty police officers, and tries to explain that changes will be made in the Ferguson Police Department. This vague response only agitates the protesters. People throw bottles and rocks. The police sweep into the crowd and arrest eight people.

  A few nights later, protesters and clergy once again convene outside the police station. The police announce through bullhorns that people will be arrested if they don’t clear the street. Ignoring this warning, several clergy members begin praying in the police parking lot. The police make another announcement—that they will round people up if they don’t stop chanting and praying by 11:00 p.m.

  I get a call to come down to the police station, my first call to Ferguson in a month. I arrive to find protesters and police facing off in the parking lot. The sight feels eerily familiar and chokingly sad. The police announce that they have invoked the “five-second rule,” meaning protesters have five seconds to disperse before police will arrest them. At that point, we hear gunshots, and both police and protesters retreat. Sensing that a storm of violence is approaching again, I grab a bullhorn. I tell the crowd that we will not enforce the five-second rule as long as they protest peacefully. The crowd cheers, but I hear some police officers behind me groaning, complaining, cursing. I no longer care what they think. I only care about doing what I think is right.

  We came to an end, I tell myself in an effort to keep my spirits up, but things have not stopped.

  We slog our way through an unseasonably warm October, with people protesting sporadically and without violence. I still make it a point when I can to walk the streets, talk to residents, and continue community outreach, speaking at schools and at local civic and youth groups. At the same time, I’m aware that the city of Ferguson has begun a nervous waiting game anticipating the grand jury’s decision on Darren Wilson, the officer who shot Michael Brown.

  In late November, three and a half months after Michael Brown’s death and those thirteen days of protest, a crowd of a few hundred people gathers at the Ferguson police station, awaiting news of the grand jury’s verdict. As the minutes pass, the people grow angrier and more restless. People shout and begin chanting, “We want a timetable for justice!”

  Across town, on West Florissant, business owners have boarded up their stores with sheets of plywood, gearing up for a possible resurgence of violence and looting. Many have scrawled “We’re Open” in red and black marker across the face of the wood. As the community awaits the decision, their anger simmers with each passing minute.

  When the announcement comes that the grand jury has decided not to indict Darren Wilson, the crowd in front of the police station goes insane. They pelt the building with whatever objects they have at hand. On West Florissant, groups of people descend on the businesses near Canfield Drive—and with camera crews following and filming every move, they attack the McDonald’s. When they discover that the windows are impenetrable, impossible to smash, they swarm next door to Ferguson Market & Liquor, where Michael Brown had swiped the cigarillos. Someone smashes the front window with a baseball bat, and a stream of people rush inside. Minutes later, the looters begin torching every business they can. The police response is uncertain, delayed. The rioters have their way.

  “See, the police don’t care,” someone shouts in the middle of the mayhem. “They just stand there. They don’t care if we burn black businesses.”

  The next day, Chief Jon Belmar shockingly admits in an interview, “We didn’t expect a response of this magnitude. We really didn’t.”

  In fact, the immediate reaction after the grand jury verdict is more intense than most nights after Michael Brown’s death. Governor Jay Nixon declares a state of emergency and sends in the National Guard. As protesters and rioters once again take to the streets of Ferguson, protests break out in more than one hundred cities across America.

  I don’t know exactly what to expect, or to what magnitude, but I’m not at all surprised by the visceral and violent reaction. We have experienced a few months of relative calm, but as I walk through the neighborhood and talk to the people, I know we have a long way to go. The grand jury’s decision leaves a rancid taste in people’s mouths.

  After a couple of days of protests, tensions cool down. Calm is once again restored to Ferguson, and the year ends quietly.

  To my surprise, in February 2015 I receive an award from a local church. Ever since the events in Ferguson, I have embraced my faith more strongly than ever before. I feel immensely humbled and grateful to receive this honor.

  As I stand on the stage in the church sanctuary, I face a standing room–only crowd. The chairwoman of the committee that chose me for the award begins to speak.

  “First of all, I want to thank God for sending us this great man, Captain Johnson, at a time when we really needed him most.” She looks at me, her lip trembling, and says, “Thank you very much.”

  After she reads the inscription on the plaque, she hands the microphone to a young pastor who is standing at my side. He nods at me, turns to the congregants, and says, “You know the Bible says greater love is nothing less than this—that he or she is willing to lay down his or her life . . . for friends. And when you stand up in the midst of a turbulent situation like the one the captain stood up in, you don’t know what’s going to happen. But it takes the courage that only God can give, and it takes an anointing on your life to say, ‘I want to be an instrument in the hands of God.’”

  With his eyes welling up, the pastor looks at me and then focuses again on the congregation.

  “This brother has given us an example of how to live our lives. Martin Luther King said that those who have not found something worth dying for are not fit to live. This brother has found a cause worth dying for. Let’s get behind him and lift him up with prayer power, knowing that God can do exceedingly, abundantly, and above what we can ask or imagine. God bless you, my brother, and keep up the mighty work that you do through God.”

  I thank him, take the microphone, and look out into the congregation. Since the events of Ferguson, everything in my life has gone through intense change. Some of these changes I’m aware of, and some I can only sense. I have questioned God, especially after the deaths of my grandfather Sherman and my brother, and after my father’s accident and his later death from Alzheimer’s. But during those days in Ferguson, I embraced my faith, relied on my faith, and really found my faith. My faith has brought me power. My faith has brought me peace. And now, standing here, the acknowledgment of my faith gushes from me: “To my Lord, God, my Savior, I give thanks. To this pastor, I appreciate you very much.”

  I pause, briefly close my eyes, and allow the words to come—a message I have not prepared, but that I know will flow. At times like these, I rely on my faith for the words to come. I definitely feel that
I am an instrument in the hands of God.

  I open my eyes, blink, and say, “I can tell you that in the midst of the storm, you can’t see your way. And that’s where I was in Ferguson. I got down on my knees and asked God, ‘What can I do? What should I do?’ When I got up, the prayers came in. I would walk the streets of Ferguson and see people just like you, and they would say, ‘Can we pray for you?’ They would touch me. They would touch my arms, and my shoulders, and my head, and they would pray for me. That’s where my courage came from.”

  The congregation starts to applaud.

  “It’s not that I’m a better man than anyone else. It’s faith. And trust in him who will lead us. I know we’ll be better. We have to be. We’re going to move forward. And I’m going to be here.”

  I look over at the pastor and smile. “There’s that song where the mother gets into the closet—”

  The congregation applauds again, and several people shout. One voice breaks above the rest, hollering, “Go ahead, Captain, tell it!”

  I wait for the congregation to settle, and then I say, “In that command post in Ferguson, there was a little bathroom. That became my closet. I would go in there, and sometimes I would cry and I would pray. I would pray and I would cry. When I came out”—I drop my voice. I feel the tears pouring down my cheeks—“I had the strength of God with me.”

  The applause thunders around me. I sniff, pull myself together, and say, “This community is going to be better. We just have to all lift our heads up. Thank you once again for this honor.”

  On March 4, 2015, the Department of Justice concludes an extensive six-month investigation that, according to the New York Times, finds the Ferguson Police Department “was routinely violating the constitutional rights of its black residents.”[12] According to the Times, the report “describes a city where the police used force almost exclusively on blacks and regularly stopped people without probable cause. Racial bias is so ingrained . . . that Ferguson officials circulated racist jokes on their government email accounts.”[13] The article goes on to say that “those findings reinforce what the city’s black residents have been saying publicly since the shooting in August, that the criminal justice system in Ferguson works differently for blacks and whites.”