Lambert looked down at his watch. Since the candle light vigil was set to be held in the courtyard of the projects at nine pm, Lambert figured the march should begin very soon. His eyes scanned the crowd looking for both potential trouble makers and drug dealers he had previously arrested. There were quite a few familiar faces in the crowd, many of them wearing t-shirts which bore the dead man’s image. Some held up signs calling for justice. Others held up signs calling the NYPD murderers, still others, with a picture of Tommy Galvin; the words racist, murderer and wanted underneath—depending on the sign.
*
“NO JUSTICE!”
“NO PEACE!”
The heat didn’t bother Reverend Byron Mitchell as he looked over the crowd; there were probably close to five thousand protesters he estimated. They were a well represented cross section of the community; there were as many senior citizens as there were children; as many women as there were men. Mitchell stood in front of the entrance to 116-80 Guy R. Brewer Boulevard, the very same apartment building that he had lived in, nearly his entire life. Keeping with the rhythm, he pointed to the sky with his left hand and barked into the megaphone. “NO JUSTICE!”
The crowd was passionate, just as Mitchell wanted them to be. They responded, “NO PEACE!”
They fed off his energy and he knew it. The basketball courts overflowed with protesters trying to get a peek at the famous, homegrown reverend who now championed injustices nationwide—not just in South Jamaica. People stood on cars in the adjacent parking lot; others spilled out onto Foch Boulevard all waiting to hear him to speak. “NO JUSTICE!”
He raised both hands above his head and tilted his head to the ground waiting for the response. “NO PEACE!”
Mitchell broke the rhythm, standing in complete silence. He removed his sunglasses handing them off to a man on his left. He loosened and then removed the pale yellow tie he wore, throwing it to the ground. He waited for the crowd to settle down. He stared out over the crowd until a complete silence came over them. He scanned the crowd deliberately, before ripping his white dress shirt open revealing a t-shirt with the picture of Darrin Jackson with the words “murdered by the NYPD” underneath. Mitchell stuck his chest out and opened his arms as far as he reach would permit.
The crowd went from silence into frenzy. Even those too far to see what was going on began to yell and cheer the reverend on. The crowd began to play off each other—one group yelling “No justice!” the other, “No peace!” Reverend Mitchell let this go on undisturbed for about a minute before waving his hands in the air, demanding silence.
*
Mitchell knew that he had come a long way to make something of himself. Growing up, there were many his age that turned to selling marijuana, cocaine, and heroin right here in this very courtyard. As tempting as the drug trade was for its lure of easy money, Mitchell stayed away. He was the oldest of three boys in a fatherless home; his mother working two jobs, just to make ends meet. It was always a financial struggle for the family, but nonetheless, he stayed in school, graduating from Andrew Jackson High School and eventually going to York College where he earned his degree in the social sciences.
It was during the crack epidemic of the mid to late 1980’s when he realized his calling. He had seen many of his friends gunned down in the streets over the drug trade. While he realized that the police were an important part of keeping the neighborhood safe, they were often heavy handed when dealing with the teenagers and young men they arrested. At first, he only went to the precinct when he witnessed inappropriate behavior to make sure the young man was okay, or sometimes to file a civilian complaint against the officers involved. His involvement evolved however; before long, all of the drug dealers had his beeper number and he was the first person they would get in contact with when they got arrested—often instead of their own mothers.
Mitchell could see that he was making a difference as the police officers started to be less aggressive when they saw him around. He also knew that this wasn’t enough. It wasn’t just the cops that these kids had to worry about; it was the streets that were ultimately claiming so many of them. He took it upon himself to coach a basketball team and eventually start his own league at the local community center across the street. There was no way to know how many lives he had saved over the years, but he was confident that there were quite a few.
By the time the turn of the century came and the crack wars were over, he had lost both of his brothers to the crack trade; the youngest to a stray bullet and the other to a twenty year sentence courtesy of New York’s Rockefeller drug laws. It was during these crucial years for him, that he began to branch out, protesting police brutality cases throughout the city. He had led and orchestrated more rallies than he could remember.
In more recent years, his crusade had gone national. He had been a central figure in protests in New Jersey, Florida, and Texas; in each case a young black man was both unarmed and gunned down by a white officer. He was a frequent panel member on a variety of news programs discussing racial injustice, police brutality and similar topics—his most recent appearance was last night discussing the murder of Darrin Jackson.
*
George Lambert, along with another uniformed officer, got a little closer to see what was going on. They watched as Reverend Mitchell called for silence before speaking. He looked over the crowd and held the megaphone to his mouth. “My brothers and sisters, we have lost yet another young man, cut down way too early in his life. The sun has set on him, not because of a car accident, or a stray bullet, or even because he was the victim of a crime.”
He paused for effect and slowly shook his index finger back and forth at the crowd. “No, my brothers and sisters, he was murdered by those who are supposed to protect us from violence. He was murdered by those who are supposed to uphold the law. He was murdered by the New York City Police Department.”
The crowd grew angry, yelling their support back to Mitchell. “And why did they kill him? Because he ran; of course he ran! He’d seen too many brothers beaten down by these very same po-lice that are supposed to be here to serve and protect…I’d run too!”
“Do the cops in Little Neck kill white boys for running?”
The crowd responded in harmony. ”No!”
“Do the cops on Long Island kill white boys that run?”
“No!”
“But a black man in the ghetto who runs gets a death sentence!” He raised his hand above his head, looking up towards the heavens. “We are not going to take this anymore! We demand a special prosecutor investigate the murderer—Detective Galvin—and the entire New York City Police Department.”
George Lambert had heard about all that he cared to hear. He looked at his Anti-Crime partner, Dave Stargell, who was also working the detail in uniform with him. “What an asshole this guy is. He can sure wax poetic.”
Stargell, who had only transferred into the precinct a couple of years ago, “I’d like to take a peek at his sheet. I bet he’s no angel himself.”
“That’s where you’d be surprised Dave. He doesn’t have a rap sheet. He’s never been locked up for anything other than planned arrests at protests. Trust me, I’ve ran his name through the computer myself…more than once.”
The crowd once again grew quiet; Lambert and Stargell turned their attention back to Mitchell who was no longer speaking. Mitchell held his hand out to a middle aged woman wearing a black dress. There was a large photo—nearly the size of a Frisbee—of Darrin Jackson pinned to her chest. She handed off a sign which she had been holding, declaring the NYPD to be both murderers and racists, to Reverend Mitchell. She took the megaphone, preparing to speak. Neither Lambert nor Stargell were detectives, but they didn’t have to be to figure out that the woman was Darrin Jackson’s mother.
*
Reverend Mitchell, just like everyone else listened attentively as Cheryl Jackson finished speaking about her son. Mitchell had accomplished exactly what he had wanted to. He fired up the crowd, stirring
their emotions when he spoke, but then calmed them down to a more sedated level when Ms. Jackson spoke. Mitchell didn’t want them riled up during the march. He didn’t want violence; he didn’t believe in it. There had never been any violence at any protest or demonstration that he’d organized and he was proud of that fact. In fact, he’d given his word there would be no violence today.
Mitchell, who for years was told that he couldn’t speak to a ranking officer when he went in to the precinct to complain, now had the Police Commissioner’s ear. It was less than a week ago when the rally was in its planning stages, that he had a meeting with the Police Commissioner, Chief of Department Courtney and Chief of Patrol Heider. It was at that meeting, in the Commissioner’s office, that Mitchell gave his word, unequivocally, that there would be no violence—and he would keep his word. Mitchell knew that as long as he kept his word, he had an open door to the police department. The irony was not lost on him that for years he was escorted out of the precinct without ever being able to see the Commanding Officer, yet now they had a black Commanding Officer and Executive Officer at his behest.
Mitchell took Cheryl Jackson by the hand, leading her down the walkway towards Foch Boulevard. The crowd made way to the left and right, clearing a pathway. Mitchell made his way onto the street, turning towards Guy Brewer Boulevard. He, along with Cheryl Jackson, would lead the march to the steps of the 113 precinct where they would demonstrate against police brutality for about an hour before returning to the courtyard for the candle light vigil. Once they were at the head of the crowd, he paused, turning around to see the crowd file in behind him. They poured out from the basketball court and the parking lot, falling into a loose formation.
Satisfied, Mitchell turned back around and looked at Ms. Jackson. He could feel her pain. “Are you ready my dear?”
She was…and so they began their march. Mitchell and Ms. Jackson turned south onto Guy R. Brewer Boulevard with the crowd following dutifully behind. He looked at two officers whom he recognized standing under the awning of the corner store. They were usually plain clothes officers. Mitchell had more than one encounter with the white officer over the years; the encounters weren’t always good, but Mitchell felt the two men had an understanding of each other. He nodded to the officer. “Good evening Officer Lambert.”
*
Lambert tilted his head slightly in recognition. “Mr. Mitchell.” His response was cordial but he was in no way happy with Reverend Mitchell.
Standing out in the sun in near one hundred degree heat, in uniform, to police a demonstration against a good friend of his was the last thing in the world Lambert wanted to be doing. In fact, he was denied the day off and was missing his only sister’s engagement party because of the demonstration. In his own estimation, it was already one of the worst days of Lambert’s career.
Lambert and Stargell, along with a dozen other officers were assigned to bring up the rear of the march. Once the marchers reached the precinct they would be assigned to either side of Baisley Boulevard, making sure none of the protesters were blocking the sidewalk. Lambert knew that would be the easiest part of the day as the metal police barriers would do the job for them.
“What a waste of time.” Dave Stargell was just as unhappy about having to be at the detail as Lambert was. “I wanted to collar up tonight so I can get an R.D.O. court tomorrow to draw up the affidavit.”
Lambert and Stargell were a very active team that tried to make a felony arrest every Saturday night—as Sunday was their regular day off, they would be paid overtime to process the arrest and draw up the court affidavit. Lambert looked at Stargell, who was about four inches shorter than him but had to outweigh him by thirty pounds. There were beads of sweat clearly visible against his dark brown complexion. “Maybe next Saturday Dave.”
Stargell watched as the precinct’s Executive Officer walked along side of Reverend Mitchell and Ms. Jackson at the head of the procession. He could see members of the media filming every step. Officers from the precinct flanked the marchers on either side, keeping them penned in along Brewer Boulevard.
Stargell shook his head. “This is such bullshit. They have Captain Blaine and all of our cops standing out here marching with these knuckleheads, but the entire Task Force—who by the way—is trained in civil disobedience, is sitting on their assess in our precinct.”
Lambert agreed. “This job always does things ass backwards. Why aren’t they the ones out here in the heat while we hide in the precinct on standby?” He looked at Stargell, who took a towel from his back pocket dabbing away the beads of sweat. “You know what else pissed me off…Captain Blain telling us at roll call, ‘no hats and bats’.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Are they trying to get us killed?”
Stargell placed the towel back in his back pocket. “I know. How dare they tell us we can’t carry our batons or wear our riot helmets? I’m glad the delegates are going to file a grievance with the union on Monday. Honestly, it’s so goddamn hot I wouldn’t have worn it anyway, but it’s just the point.”
Lambert nodded in agreement, glancing up at the sun. “The job could care less about our safety. It’s all about public perception. They want us to be a kinder, friendlier police department. If a few cops get hurt or killed along the way, so be it.” Lambert shook his head in disgust. “I can’t believe the Police Commissioner actually met with Mitchell. What kind of precedent does that set? You can’t give guys like Mitchell access to the department.” He let out a laugh. “I remember when the last P.C. would always refuse to take meetings with the likes of Reverend Mitchell, calling them nitwits in the process. People respected the police a little more back then. People aren’t afraid of cops anymore. There’s no respect at all. Take those cop killings for example. They have to be related; no way they aren’t. Yet the job refuses to acknowledge that they are. There’s some psycho out there killing cops and the powers that be could care less.”
Stargell agreed. The lack of respect for the police was getting out of hand. “Did you see a rookie cop on a foot post got jumped in the seven-five last night? They beat him with his own baton, leaving him unconscious on Linden Boulevard. They took his gun too.”
Lambert shook his head. “Unbelievable! It’s a bad time to be a cop.”
The last of the crowd was finally reaching Brewer Boulevard, so it was time for Lambert and Stargell to join the march at the rear of the crowd. They noticed close to twenty young men all wearing the same t-shirt with Jackson’s picture on it. They were clearly together. One of them met Lambert’s eye; he was a dark skinned black man with a pocked marked face and a scar across his left cheek. He had corn rows and dark eyes which were now fixed on George Lambert.
Lambert didn’t like the looks of the man, he was not very big; average height and weight but he looked like there was a lot of rage built up in his eyes. Lambert, noting that the media was at the front of the march stepped a bit closer to the male. “Why are you eye-fucking me? Keep marching.” The man’s nostrils flared but he did not say a word. He released Lambert’s eyes with his own and continued marching toward the 113 Precinct.
The march continued as planned with no further interaction between the man and Lambert but Lambert was keeping an eye on him. As the crowd reached Baisley Boulevard, they turned east; the stationhouse could be seen in the distance. They marched in silence in a tribute to the dead man; many holding candles or pictures of him in memoriam. They would allow the Reverend Mitchell to speak for them once they reached their destination.
The tail end of the marchers, led by the man with the pocked marked face had slowed their pace as they walked up Guy R. Brewer Boulevard; allowing for a slight separation from the main crowd . When the group reached 122 Avenue, one block before Baisley Boulevard, they turned right onto a residential street, making another right, heading north on Long Street.
“What the hell are these guys up to?” Lambert remarked as he removed his radio from its holder on his belt. Neither Lambert, Stargell, nor any of the other cops
at the rear of the march took particular note that the group was almost entirely made up of young men ranging from their late teens to their mid thirties.
“113 detail portable to central,” said Lambert into the radio.
“Go detail portable.”
“Be advised we have a small group of about twenty who splintered from the main group heading north on Long Street.”
Captain Blain was quick to address the situation. “113 X.O. central, have that unit follow the group and have one and four respond from zone two.
Lambert put his radio back in its holder knowing a Sergeant and four additional police officers would be joining them shortly.
*
Doris Williams stood along with over thirty other reporters in the press pen set up just east of the precinct on Baisley Boulevard. She watched as Reverend Byron Mitchell and Cheryl Jackson stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the precinct—the precinct where the officer that had taken her son from her was still assigned. She listened to every word that the heartbroken mother had to say; after all, Doris Williams was also a mother. She looked at the crowd which stood ten deep for almost two blocks to the west, they stretched across the precinct’s driveway to the entrance to the Rochdale Village Mall.
When the boy’s mother had finished speaking, Reverend Mitchell began. Doris liked him. He was well spoken, charismatic and always made his point without turning to violence. He stuck to the issues at hand. If she had not been working, she more than likely would have been here as part of the protest. A shadow caught her eye; she glanced up to the roof of the two story police precinct—Snipers? For real? Are these cops kidding me?
Doris found the presence of the Emergency Service Unit sharpshooters, stationed on the roof top to be offensive. She was sure to make a note of it in her column. They wonder why there is such a distrust of the police in this neighborhood. Reverend Mitchell didn’t deserve such distrust. He was a man of God.
The Blue Executions Page 18