Rest in Power

by Sybrina Fulton

  Around this same time, the state attorney, Norman Wolfinger, announced that he was going to convene a grand jury, which sounded to me like a good thing. Crump told us otherwise: “If you take it to a grand jury, that’s where cases go to die,” he said. “If the case goes to a grand jury, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance that they’re not going to indict.”

  He took a breath.

  “Lawyers like to say, ‘A prosecutor can get an indictment on a ham sandwich if they want to,’ ” he said. “Because ninety-nine percent of the time the grand jury is going to do what the state attorney or the district attorney wants them to do.” But if the prosecutor didn’t want an indictment, the case would go away.

  So our strategy became to keep our case out of the grand jury and in the public eye. We had to make the pressure to arrest so high in the public that doing anything but making an arrest would seem like an injustice. So on the evening of March 20, we flew to New York for our largest media blitz yet, one television show after another. Sybrina, Crump, and I crisscrossed the city in a black SUV. It was mid-March but still bitter cold. And Sybrina was starting to get run-down physically. She was still a mother in mourning for her child, of course, which would knock anyone out. But she was also now constantly on the move in high-pressure, public situations that were completely new to her. And now she had the flu. She must have gone through three boxes of Kleenex that day. Her body ached, her head hurt, her nose ran, and her heart was broken. But we remained grounded in our faith.

  We kept telling our story, with a singular refrain: Why hasn’t the man who shot our son been arrested?

  Our last stop on Wednesday, March 21, was with the Reverend Al Sharpton’s show, Politics Nation, in his studio at MSNBC.

  Before the show, we met “the Rev,” as we would soon call him, in his New York office, a small room with a desk and two chairs, the walls lined with plaques and pictures of him with famous faces and families.

  He turned to Crump and said, “I’d like to speak with Sybrina and Tracy alone for a moment.”

  After Crump left, we sat down with Reverend Sharpton, who looked regal in his elegant suit and tie, gray hair, and mustache. He was smaller than I expected, but as he spoke he seemed to grow to match the power of his words.

  “I have children and I sympathize with your loss,” he said. “Whatever you want me to do, I’m going to do. I’ll help you in any way I can and support you. I’m not going to be here now and then I’m gone tomorrow. I’m going to be a longtime supporter.”

  Reverend Sharpton was as good as his word. He is still fighting with us every day.

  He led us into the MSNBC television studio. Sybrina, Crump, and I sat across from the reverend’s chair.

  The cameras rolled, and Reverend Sharpton stood and started to speak in his big, booming voice, pointing his finger at the camera, demanding justice for the killing of our son. We were all run-down by then, but the interview energized us.

  Reverend Sharpton asked Sybrina if she was “determined to hang in there no matter what until this is over.”

  “Until the day I die,” she said. “I’m a mother. And I want justice for my son, and I won’t stop until I receive that.”

  —

  It was getting dark and cold when we left the television studio. Reverend Al walked us outside, and before we climbed back into the SUV, he told us that our day wasn’t done. A rally had been planned in Trayvon’s honor, the reverend said.

  “It would be great if you guys could drive straight over to Union Square, so they can see the parents of Trayvon Martin and you can thank them for their support,” he said. “There’s going to be a lot of people there. They’re calling it the Million Hoodie March.”

  He added, “Prepare yourself to be amazed.”

  Once again, strangers descended on our cause like angels. This time, it was Daniel Maree, a clean-cut young black writer, speaker, filmmaker, and activist. After graduating magna cum laude from American University in 2008 he worked as a digital strategist at Interpublic Group, an advertising and communications agency, in New York. Maree had grown up in Johannesburg, South Africa, but had lived in Gainesville, Florida, for three years when he was Trayvon’s age. He’d had experiences of being stopped by police as he walked through gated communities, “for no reason other than being a young African American,” he said. He saw our story and thought, That could’ve been me.

  Outraged, Maree founded what he called Million Hoodies Movement for Justice, and began posting on Twitter with the hashtag #millionhoodies and made a YouTube video, asking people to post pictures of themselves in hoodies and sign the petition on Change.org, whose numbers were still growing at a record rate.

  Along with the Twitter posts and the YouTube video, Maree asked supporters to march on Union Square on Wednesday, March 21. In two days’ time, Maree, his friends, and his ad agency colleagues had not only organized the rally but had also created a poster, which looked like a poster for a professional boxing match, with a picture of Trayvon in his hoodie and the words:

  1,000,000

  HOODIE MARCH

  FOR

  TRAYVON MARTIN

  MARCH 21, NYC

  6 P.M. TILL 9 P.M., UNION SQUARE

  We had been up since before dawn. It had been a long and exhausting day, and we were beat. All of our energy had been spent on the television shows. But we pulled it together and rode over to Union Square in the SUV.

  We had always been big believers in the NAACP, the Urban League, and other organizations, and proud of the deeper history of the civil rights movement. But we were private people, far from activists, busy raising a family and keeping food on the table. We didn’t know what it meant to be on the front lines of a protest; we didn’t even know what a protest looked like before, to be honest, and only had a vague idea of what they were for or how they accomplished anything. Now the logic of protest became clear. It’s about numbers.

  What we saw as we got closer to Union Square took our breath away: a sea of hoodies stretched across the historic public park. Too many hoodies to count. As far as I knew there could have really been a million hoodies in Union Square that night, representing a million Trayvons, a million young kids at risk of falling dead to gunfire, a million lives already lost and unmourned by the world but still calling out for justice.

  The crowd was black and white and everything else, men and women, young and old. There were too many signs, banners, and flags to count. I tried to pick out individuals in the crowd—I saw one young kid, no more than twelve, wearing a red hoodie and holding a sign: “Am I Next?”

  I looked over at Sybrina, who I imagined was exhausted and wrung out from the day, from the weeks. I tried to find the words that would help—and I knew that if anything motivated Sybrina, it was a chance to direct her energy toward helping someone else. “We have to stay strong for all of the people who are supporting us,” I said.

  We got out of the car and were engulfed in that sea of people, all of them trying to get close to us. The New York City police were literally pushing them back until, suddenly, a path cleared. We held onto each other and pushed our way through the thick, cheering crowd.

  Sybrina was still sick, but I could feel her strength growing along with mine. Here we were, thousands of miles from home, and so many people beside us. Our spirits were energized.

  We were led up to a makeshift stage, a small opening in the crowd, with people still pressing all around us. Daniel Maree was also onstage, looking studious in his black-framed eyeglasses but also wearing a dark hoodie. The hoodies began to cheer and shout.

  “We are one! We are one!” they said.

  Crump handed me a microphone, and I tried to find more words. I just pulled them from my heart. “Trayvon Martin did matter,” I said. “I just want New York to know that we’re not going to stop until we get justice for Trayvon.”

  The hoodies cheered.

  “Trayvon was your typical teenager. Trayvon did typical teenage things,” I continued. “
Trayvon was, I repeat, Trayvon was not a bad person. George Zimmerman took Trayvon’s life for nothing. George Zimmerman took Trayvon’s life, profiling him. Our son did not deserve to die. There’s nothing that we can say that will bring him back. But I’m here today to ensure that justice is served and that no other parent has to go through this again.”

  “We want justice!” I could hear chants surging out from the crowd. “We want peace.”

  I handed the mic back to Crump.

  “Now we will hear from Sybrina Fulton, Trayvon’s mother,” said Crump.

  Sybrina had spoken in public before. But nothing like this. I could feel the emotion rising in her, but had no idea what she’d say.

  “My heart is in pain,” Sybrina began, her voice shaking. “But to see the support of all of you really makes a difference.”

  “We love you!” screamed someone in the audience.

  She seemed to gain strength from the support of that enthusiastic crowd.

  “You probably don’t understand how much you guys mean to us,” she continued. “But it’s the support that we need. We need this kind of support. Our son was not committing any crime.”

  More cheering.

  Then the words arrived, the right words, and I was staggered, like everyone else, by what Sybrina said.

  “Our son is your son,” she said, and I could see her tremble and shake, but her voice gained power.

  “We’re going to stand up for justice, and stand up for what’s right,” she said. “This is not a black and white thing. This is about a right and wrong thing.”

  The hoodies erupted.

  “I am Trayvon Martin!” people chanted. “I am Trayvon Martin!”

  “Justice for Trayvon! Justice for Trayvon!”

  The rally closed with a prayer. “Pray that this happens to no other child,” Daniel Maree told the crowd before they left Union Square, thousands strong, and marched through the streets of New York, waving flags and carrying posters that read “Justice 4 Trayvon” and “A Million Hoodies for Trayvon.”

  On the day that I found out my son died, I was alone in Sanford, feeling a pain I never before imagined, and a helplessness I’d never known. The pain lingered. But the helplessness was gone.

  Because now it wasn’t just Sybrina and me fighting for answers and justice.

  Now it was a nation.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sybrina

  March 22, 2012–March 26, 2012

  “Hi, Sweet Candy,” attorney Crump began on the phone, which is what he—and everyone else who is close to me—has called me since my grandmother, whom we all called “Nana,” gave me the nickname.

  “I want to apologize,” Crump continued. “I told you that you were going to be free for the next couple of days, but there’s this rally…”

  If he said it once, he said it a million times. There’s this rally. There’s this press conference. There’s this media appearance.

  In the beginning, I would say, “Crump, you’re working me too hard.” Because I was still grieving and just wanted to withdraw from the world that killed my son, instead of confronting it.

  “Sweet Candy,” Crump would say in his most persuasive drawl, “the most important people in defending the legacy of your child are you and Tracy. People have to hear from you.”

  And since it was for Trayvon, Tracy and I never hesitated. We always did as Crump and his partner, Parks, asked us.

  —

  In the days following the Million Hoodie March, rallies supporting Trayvon began popping up across the country. From Sanford to Seattle, San Francisco to New York, thousands upon thousands of Trayvon Martin supporters gathered and gave their prayers, their time, their energy, their anger, and their voices to demanding an immediate arrest and criminal prosecution.

  What began as a family tragedy had turned into a national movement. We had a goal, a platform, and supporters from coast to coast all clamoring for justice for Trayvon.

  We were constantly on the road, traveling from one media appearance, rally, or event to another, from congressional hearings in Washington, D.C., to town hall events back in Sanford. We could feel the momentum growing everywhere we went.

  We kept our bags packed. I had all of my personal things—lotion, toothbrush, and carry-on toiletries—stored in my suitcase; I never took them out. When we did finally come home, it was never for long, just enough time to switch whatever clothes were in the suitcase for a fresh set I kept ready in my closet, and then we were off again, always going. If we couldn’t get a flight on time, we drove wherever we needed to.

  Soon, I had to buy extra business clothes and suits. The sales people at Dillard’s, New York & Company, and Macy’s in the Pembroke Lakes Mall near Fort Lauderdale began recognizing me, and, bless them, they sympathized with my loss and treated me with extra care. Before my son’s death, I had a few business suits, but not nearly enough to keep up with our nonstop appearances.

  Then there were the mirrors. They were everywhere: on planes, in hotel rooms, and in television studios. Sometimes, I would stare into those mirrors and look at myself. My smile had disappeared. I had also lost a lot of weight, which would soon add up to nearly forty pounds and four dress sizes. I chalked it up to grief and depression. Because whenever I wasn’t on the road, I just lay around the house.

  My mom noticed a strange swelling on one side of my neck, which I ignored at first: Justice for Trayvon; worry about your health later, I told myself. Everything was just moving so fast. At night, both at home and in a never-ending series of hotel rooms, I would lie in bed trying to sleep, but my heart was racing like I had run a marathon. Let me sleep, please let me go to sleep, I would tell myself. But I couldn’t relax. Some nights, my heart pounded so fast I thought I might have a heart attack.

  Thank goodness for my family, my friends, and my church community, people I had known since I was a kid. My sister handled the physical logistics: meetings, traveling, getting me where I needed to go. And my best friend, who I’ve known since grade school, handled the technical details: keeping watch over the Internet and alerting me whenever Trayvon’s name or case was mentioned, and handling my Twitter, Facebook, and email accounts.

  This enabled Tracy and me to keep going. Our job was to turn these protests into a real movement—one that would lead to an arrest and a prosecution, although it was starting to get even bigger than that. Through our advocacy for Trayvon, we were also shining light on the issues that brought us to this point—profiling, gun violence, and a broken criminal justice system—which helped us engage more and more people in our mission. While we stood in front of the cameras, our attorneys were working behind the scenes—and often right alongside us in front of the media—supporting us and our cause, and trying to get traction on the case.

  Of course, along with the incredible outpouring of support came the inevitable backlash of opposition. Hate mail was flooding in, all kinds of hate mail: bundles of letters to Crump’s offices and uncountable emails and Web postings expressing hatred toward us and our dead son, making threats. I found it interesting that some of these people threatened to kill Tracy and Crump and used the N-word against them. But with me, and our women attorneys, Natalie Jackson and Jasmine Rand, the threats were sexual in nature: threats of rape and other sexual violence. We did our best to brush it off, but the sheer volume of hateful and violent messages was getting hard to ignore.

  We found strength in the endless letters and emails of support from people of different races and from all over the country, including mothers and fathers who identified with us as parents who had lost a child. Donations began to come in to help us pursue the case. Along with the letters and emails came postings on social media—Trayvon was now almost always trending at or near the top of every social media site, driven by the nonstop media coverage, rallies, and protests nationwide.

  —

  On March 22, another rally was scheduled in Sanford in Fort Mellon Park. A press conference was scheduled for five P.M., two h
ours before the seven P.M. rally, which we would attend with our family, friends, Martin Luther King III, and Reverend Sharpton.

  Less than an hour before the rally was to begin, we were at our hotel in Lake Mary, a town a comfortable distance away from Sanford. We felt somewhat safe there, away from the media and the city where emotions were running high. People were literally pouring into Sanford for the rally, along with media, both local and national.

  Just as we were preparing to leave our hotel, Crump’s phone rang. He answered it and came back with what we thought was incredible news: the governor wanted to see us. Finally, we thought, someone with the power to launch a thorough investigation is paying attention.

  We knew that Florida governor Rick Scott had publicly taken an interest in our case. On March 20, he held a press conference, saying, “I’m confident that with FDLE [Florida Department of Law Enforcement], the local law enforcement and the FBI, that we will find out what happened.” Still, we had become skeptical that anyone in Florida government would come to our aid. But now, with media heat intensifying, the governor seemed ready to do something more than give lip service to the case.

  We all piled into Attorney Parks’s Toyota rental car—me, Tracy, Crump, Parks, and Natalie Jackson—and drove from our hotel to a small city-government building near the park where the rally would be held in Sanford.

  On the short ride over, Crump talked a blue streak. “We’ll tell the governor why we are so passionate and certain that this is bigger than a Sanford, Florida, issue,” he said. “That it’s certainly a national issue, and that the government of Florida needs to do something because this case is shameful.”

  We got out of the car, entered the building, and walked into an office. And there he was, the tall, thin, bald governor, surrounded by his support staff and at least ten uniformed Florida Department of Law Enforcement officers.

  “I’m so sorry for the loss of your child,” the governor began. He told us that he was a father and that he couldn’t imagine our grief, and would do his best to make sure we got some relief. I don’t remember him saying that we would get justice, but he did say that he wanted to put all of the resources of his office to make sure that everyone knew that he took our case seriously.