Rest in Power

by Sybrina Fulton

“He was seventy to one hundred yards away from the back door trying to get home,” Tracy said.

  Crump added, “Bob, we can’t call this guy a vigilante. Because a vigilante would say that something had been done to him,” he said. “Trayvon did absolutely nothing to this guy! He was just walking home. He was seventy yards from his home with a bag of Skittles and a can of iced tea when this guy confronted him, disregarding the police.

  “This guy did not have the requisite training to try to approach and detain this young man,” Crump continued. “If somebody came up to you in plain clothes as night falls and tells you, ‘I’m going to detain you. You wait here.’ Why would Trayvon not say, ‘Who are you?’ ”

  On the way into the courthouse, a reporter had shown us the killer’s mugshot from his previous arrest. Now, during our press conference, the same reporter showed me the mugshot again on her phone. “I’m going to show you his picture, and I want you to look at the picture because I want you to determine something,” she said. “He’s your son, so you know him best. If he saw this man approach him, do you think your son would be afraid and kind of get a little agitated by the whole thing?”

  “He’s much heavier than him. He’s older than him,” I said of the man in the picture. “He would have been afraid. He would have tried to protect himself.”

  Why hadn’t the police shown Tracy or Crump this picture already? I wondered. Then Crump returned to the matter of the tapes. “Why won’t they release the tape to the public? Why won’t they tell this family the truth? We deserve answers.”

  —

  We left the courthouse and went to a restaurant and then returned to a hotel to wait for the judge’s decision on the tapes. The decision came later that day: the tapes would not be released at this time, but a hearing on the matter was scheduled for more than a week away.

  We ended up going home, driving back to Miami, still with more questions than answers.

  Back home, we went to Antioch, where on the evening of Sunday, March 11, we had a candlelight vigil for Trayvon. It was a small but emotional group of us: family, friends, and members of the church community, all of us gathered outside the church.

  I was sleepwalking through everything, but I could see the church, its outdoor stairs filled with people. Everyone out on the stairs in the drizzle, holding candles. My brother Mark passed some candles to us and we lit them. Watching those candles flickering and sputtering from the rain, I could feel myself falling apart all over again. But I was there, and so were they, this band of supporters, and I had to see them, to greet them, embrace them, and thank them for caring. The crowd began singing the church songs that I loved. But now they all sounded sad, and were painful to hear.

  Just get through this, I told myself.

  Along with our friends and family came the media. A small podium was set up. One of my aunts said an opening prayer, someone else recited a poem to Trayvon. And we began to pray. Just then, as the darkness descended, it began to rain a little more. The wind became gusty and we huddled under the big church’s eaves, to say a few words in memory of Trayvon.

  “Not only did I lose a son; I lost my best friend,” said Tracy.

  I was still too distraught to speak at length. But we were among family and friends in our hometown, so I said a few words. “I think it’s just profiling,” I said. “I think it has something to do with the fact that he was a young black African American kid.”

  “We need answers and we need justice,” said Tracy. “Not only are we looking for an arrest, we’re looking for a conviction.”

  The rain came down harder, and some of the candles flickered and went out. More prayers were said, along with more demands for justice, and then we all went home to prepare for what we knew would be a very busy week ahead.

  Monday, March 12, began with a press conference by Sanford police chief Bill Lee outside the Sanford City Hall. He had been chief for only eleven months. This would be the first time the public and the media would come face-to-face with the police in this case, and it was tense.

  We couldn’t be there, but Ms. Oliver attended and told us all about it. She was among a group of citizens, mostly from the nearby black Goldsboro community, who came to the city hall to hear the chief speak—and to hear if he was going to at last arrest the man who shot my son. “Norton Bonaparte, the black city manager, was with Chief Lee,” Ms. Oliver told us. “And the chief had his whole department, almost, behind him. His sergeants. His lieutenants. All of his officers. He steps up to the podium, and they were in a half moon behind him.”

  “We don’t have anything to dispute his claim of self-defense at this point with the evidence,” the chief said as to why they hadn’t arrested the killer, adding that the police had told him not to confront Trayvon or take any action and to wait for the police to arrive. He later elaborated in a memo posted on the city’s website: “By Florida Statute, law enforcement was PROHIBITED from making an arrest based on the facts and circumstances they had at the time. Additionally, when any police officer makes an arrest for any reason, the officer MUST swear and affirm that he/she is making the arrest in good faith and with probable cause. If the arrest is done maliciously and in bad faith, the officer and the City may be held liable.”

  He said that the police were turning over the case to prosecutors in the state attorney’s office, which meant that their investigation was coming to a close, apparently without an arrest.

  The reporter spoke up. “When someone shoots and kills someone they get arrested,” she said. “Why are you passing the buck in this case and putting it on prosecutors to make a determination on whether he should be arrested?”

  “Because it is the proper thing to do,” Chief Bill Lee responded. “By statute if someone makes a statement of self-defense, unless we have probable cause to dispute that, we cannot make an arrest.”

  Ms. Oliver watched as the confrontation grew, well, if not heated, at least tense.

  “Hang in there, Chief, hang in there,” Ms. Oliver said she told Bill Lee after he completed his press conference.

  “Thank you, Ms. Oliver,” she said he replied.

  —

  On Wednesday, March 14, the protest moved to Sanford’s Allen Chapel, the old NAACP-affiliated church in the Goldsboro community. An overflow crowd of four hundred–plus citizens and members of the media packed the pews, rafters, even the “Amen Corner,” where the deacons and other dignitaries usually sit.

  Jamal Bryant, the young and eloquent pastor in Baltimore’s mega-church called the Empowerment Temple, was the first of many national black leaders to make the pilgrimage to Sanford, and he was picked to speak at the rally. He began promoting his visit long before his arrival.

  “Headed to Orlando Florida to help mobilize community for #trayvon justice,” he alerted his 745,000 followers on Facebook and 225,000 on Twitter. “Meet at Allen Church in Sanford at 12:30.Come!…Don’t meet me there, beat me there!”

  People started arriving at the church early that Wednesday evening. Outside, there were protesters with signs—“No Rest Until Arrest!”—men wearing symbolic hoodies, vendors selling unauthorized Trayvon T-shirts, and a steady stream of supporters.

  “We come together today in the name of justice,” Pastor Valerie Henry told the congregation at the outset. “We stand as his voice,” meaning Trayvon’s voice.

  “I will stand, even if I stand alone,” said Ms. Velma Williams, the city commissioner, who told the crowd she’d asked Police Chief Bill Lee to step aside.

  Then Jamal Bryant, in his dark suit, colorful tie, and big, black glasses—looking more like a stylish professor than a pastor—walked onto the pulpit and up to the podium.

  “We call for an immediate arrest,” he said. “We want him behind bars. This is a wake-up call for the state of Florida!”

  Four hundred voices thundered in agreement throughout the church.

  “We are going to shut Florida down until justice weighs down!” he said. He then asked everyone to take out a pe
n and paper, and he gave them the phone number of the Seminole County state attorney’s office. “Call the number and demand criminal charges and an arrest,” he said.

  Four hundred hands wrote down the number.

  “No justice,” said Jamal Bryant.

  “No peace,” responded the congregation.

  He would say more later that evening, and even more at other rallies, among which were some of the fieriest benedictions on the case, including what he said before the church rally on the Michael Baisden Show:

  I feel like I’m in a time zone. Just three weeks ago, we were in the march from Selma to Montgomery, and it feels like we are back to Selma all over again…

  If you’ve got Skittles, everybody better eat Snickers because it’s really a wake-up call that racism is still alive and our children have to be educated about the process….

  Thinking about justice and mercy and grace, Frederick Douglass said, “I prayed for twenty years. Nothing happened until I got off my knees and started marching with my feet.” And that’s the role of the church. We already prayed about it. Now let’s take action on it.

  You’ve come to worship! Now, leave to serve. It’s not just about shouting….But what are you doing after the benediction?…We’re asking everybody who can’t make it to Sanford…to send a bag of Skittles to the sheriff’s department, and we’re going to keep inundating them until he understands that this is something that is not sweet to us.

  Four hundred voices screamed “Amen!” People were crying, shouting, ready for action, eager for justice. A congregation of individuals had become one.

  Sanford’s mayor, Jeff Triplett, had come to the rally, too. He soon stood, saying that his two young sons attended school not far from the church.

  “Today, when I drove over here, I thought to myself, What if…?” He promised a thorough investigation—even if he had to pay for it himself. Local NAACP president Turner Clayton called for a US Justice Department investigation.

  People left that church knowing that this was just the beginning.

  —

  “It’s important and essential that we get the release of the 911 tapes,” Congresswoman Corrine Brown told my sister and me as we sat in a restaurant in Sanford after she had met with the mayor, the city manager, and the police chief of Sanford. The nine-term African American congresswoman was as bold as her look: big hair, big glasses, colorful business suits—often red—and a voice that booms. But she also gave off a powerful aura of compassion. She reminded us of a fiery and undeniable aunt who was looking out for us—a fighter, but fighting for us. We were lucky to have her on our side. If anyone could convince them to release the tapes, I felt, Corrine Brown could. “I’m going to do whatever I need to do to try to help you and make sure you get those tapes,” she said. “It’s not something they should be trying to conceal.”

  —

  The media coverage multiplied, and direct-action protests followed. On March 15, the computer servers at State Attorney Norman Wolfinger’s offices were overwhelmed by a hundred thousand emails from citizens demanding the arrest and prosecution of the killer, and there was no telling how many bags of Skittles rained down on the police station and sheriff’s office in Sanford after Pastor Jamal Bryant asked supporters to mail them in as a sign of protest. And Corrine Brown and other officials joined our chorus, hammering away on our demand for the tapes.

  That same day, the killer’s father delivered a one-page letter to the Orlando Sentinel, in which he claimed that the media’s portrayal of his son had been “false and extremely misleading,” accused “some individuals and organizations” of using “this tragedy to further their own causes,” and insisted “at no time did George follow or confront Mr. Martin.”

  That last statement, at least the part about following our son, could be tested only once we had the tapes. The killer was starting to build his own story about what happened, which he could do only because the key piece of evidence that would clarify exactly what happened was being kept from the public. We needed those tapes.

  I was working now, every day, pushing hard, and sometimes I’d take a moment to wonder at the events swirling around us—in those moments, I felt Trayvon’s presence, guiding us and giving us the strength to fight. But inside I was still numb. My body was in motion, but my soul felt stunned into stillness and broken into a thousand pieces.

  On the morning of March 16, nineteen days after our son’s death, we held another press conference on the front porch of Attorney Natalie Jackson’s Orlando office. The day was cloudy, and our faith in getting answers from the Sanford Police Department was gone. It was one of those days that despair threatened to swallow me, but once again I was saved by the compassion of strangers. I remember the hugs I received that day from these strangers—and the voices of two young women, witnesses from that awful night. And with those women came a glimmer of hope that the true story might finally be told.

  Each of these women told a far different story than the official versions or anything we’d heard before. They were both single mothers who lived together at the Retreat at Twin Lakes, Mary Cutcher and Selma Mora Lamilla, and they’d come to that press conference to offer their testimony.

  Crump spoke first, introducing the two young women, who stood with us in front of attorney Jackson’s office. “We are here with these individuals who bravely came forward after making several attempts to contact the Sanford Police Department to tell them what they saw on the night that Trayvon Martin was killed,” he said.

  He looked over at Tracy and me.

  “Trayvon’s mother and father thought it was important to drive to Central Florida to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with these courageous women, especially in light of the attempt yesterday to intimidate them and discredit them by the Sanford Police Department,” Crump said.

  This was a reference to a press release from the police department the previous day, saying the women had made statements on local television that were “inconsistent” with their previous statements to police, which to Crump meant the police were calling these witnesses liars.

  “The attack of the character of these witnesses by the Sanford Police Department is further evidence of the conspiracy to cover up the killing of Trayvon Martin by only releasing parts of their investigation that are beneficial to George Zimmerman,” he said. “The Sanford Police Department can’t have it both ways.”

  As he continued, Crump began waving his hands and shouting in disbelief. “They ran a background check on Trayvon Martin! The young man who was dead on the ground. But did not run a background check on George Michael Zimmerman, the man who had just shot this teenager in cold blood. What kind of police work is that?…Next, a drug and alcohol analysis on Trayvon Martin. But no drug and alcohol analysis on George Michael Zimmerman?”

  He stood back and stared at the media in shock. “So you’re gonna do a drug and blood alcohol analysis on the dead kid. But not on the shooter?”

  He looked over at the two women who were ready to speak about what they saw and heard on the night Trayvon was shot. “We now have two witnesses who have come forward to say that it was Trayvon Martin who was the one who was [yelling] for help” on the 911 tape as Zimmerman pursued him.

  Before introducing the witnesses, Crump turned to Tracy and then me. Tracy offered some heartfelt words about how we missed our son and felt betrayed by the authorities. I always appreciated his direct demeanor—he was a truck driver, and as gregarious as he was, he was never a big public speaker. But he didn’t hesitate to lay open his heart to the public for the sake of our son. I wanted to do the same, but it was so hard.

  I stepped forward.

  I had a lot going on inside me at that moment. Crump was right about everything he’d just said. It was clear that people in Sanford were trying to intimidate these women into silence. The police and others hadn’t hidden their unhappiness about them coming forward. From the outside looking in, it certainly seemed like the killer was receiving favors from the Sanf
ord Police Department, like they were on his side. Everyone who stood up for Trayvon was setting themselves against these powerful people—and against the police force. I felt a surge of gratitude that anyone would even try.

  “I stand before you today to publicly thank these ladies…” I said, and even as I tried to steady myself inside, I could feel myself breaking down. “…for helping in this investigation,” I went on, and then my voice caught in my throat. Crump put his hand on my shoulder for support. “And just to know that regardless of what happens, there are still good people in this world.” I was sobbing again. “I’m so very hurt by this whole situation. It’s a nightmare. And I don’t understand why this man has not been arrested. At least charged. And let a judge and jury decide if he’s guilty. Thank you.”

  I stepped back. Jahvaris hugged me. Crump came back to the microphone and introduced Mary Cutcher and Selma Mora Lamilla. I composed myself and watched them step up to the lectern.

  Mary Cutcher was a single mother and full-time student whose child had been playing near the crime scene only a short time before the shooting. Mary and her roommate, Selma, were making coffee that Sunday evening when they heard the screams, then a gunshot, followed by silence. They looked outside to see the killer crouching over Trayvon’s body.

  They told police what they’d experienced: a quiet Sunday night torn apart by the loud “whining” of a kid’s voice, then the single gunshot. They looked outside. Trayvon was “facedown in the grass and not moving.” The killer was “pacing,” “thinking,” Mary said at the press conference. Three times they asked him if everything was okay, before he finally, “nonchalantly,” said, “Call the police.”

  “Common sense would tell you immediately he’s going to be arrested,” Mary Cutcher said to the assembled reporters. “And the following day is when we found out he was released without being arrested. That evening I took the flyer from the door they had passed out [in which police alerted residents of the Retreat about the shooting] and called the number on the bottom. Four times I called him [the police], repeatedly telling him, ‘You guys have let him go. We verbally spoke with the shooter; he’s seen our faces; he knows where we live. We’re worried. For our safety. We know it’s not self-defense.’ ”