The Blue Executions

by George Norris

  She stared up at them hoping to catch any one of their attention so she could express her disapproval. She then refocused on Reverend Mitchell, who was asking all in attendance, to bow their heads and share a peaceful moment of silence.

  *

  The man with the pockmarked face led the small group of twenty men back into the courtyard of the Baisley houses where Darrin Jackson had been murdered by the police officer. In less than a half hour, thousands of people were scheduled to be standing at this very spot for a candle light vigil. He stood motionless, gazing down at the tribute to a man killed by the white devil in the prime of his life. There were pictures of him mounted on poster boards, other poster boards with tributes and remembrances scribbled on by friends and loved ones. Candles by the hundreds were glowing in memory of the man.

  This was not the first time Malik El-Khaleel had attended a project memorial. Sadly, he knew that it would not be his last. All of the men standing with him stood in complete silence. El-Khaleel turned from the memorial, looking at the police officers, they stood less than fifteen feet away watching him. He saw the same blue-eyed devil that had yelled at him earlier. Only seven pigs.

  El-Khaleel raised a hand in the air. Neither the sergeant, nor the other six cops on the scene, recognized this as the signal that it was. El-Khaleel, along with the rest of the protester’s removed their t-shirts to reveal a second one underneath; it was black, with a circular patch over the left breast. The patch was red, yellow and green with a black panther in the center. From his back pocket, he removed a black beret and placed it on his head. He raised a fist defiantly in the air, “Black Power!”

  *

  Captain William Blaine was a fifteen year veteran of the New York City Police Department and had two years in rank as Captain. He was second in command at the 113 precinct but today he was in charge of the detail. Sensing Reverend Mitchell was nearing the end of his rhetoric, Blaine walked into the station make some necessary notifications—to his parent command (Patrol Borough Queens South) and to the Operations Unit at Police Headquarters. He had been given clear instructions to keep both of these units updated every hour; or sooner if any incident arose.

  Blaine had spent the majority of his career in non-enforcement units; the down time afforded him the time to study for promotional exams. To the street cops, he would be considered a house mouse, but to him that didn’t matter, he was the next X.O. in the borough due to get his own command. If everything broke just right for him, he could possibly be a full Inspector by the time he had twenty years on the job.

  Blaine looked around the precinct. There were cops everywhere; their riot gear in black bags in every corner of the precinct. The roll call room was overflowing with cops; just as every office upstairs had been to when he came out of the captain’s locker room shortly before the protest began. Blaine knew that it was overkill, but it was always better to be safe than sorry. He estimated there were close to three hundred cops in the precinct right now, many of whom were here on overtime as it should have been their regular day off. Between the members of the Queens South Task Force and the Queens North Task Force, the 113 precinct was the most heavily armed building in the City of New York at that moment.

  Blaine stepped behind the desk, where the four to twelve platoon commander was quick to abdicate his seat so the captain could sit. Blaine checked the time, noting it was almost exactly an hour since he had last checked in. He made both important phone calls, informing the respective units that there had been no incidents or arrests and that the protest was going exactly as promised; peacefully. He hung up the phone, having totally forgotten about the one and six he had ordered to keep an eye on the splinter group. As he hung up the phone, he heard an emergency radio transmission. There was a great deal of noise in the background and the transmission itself was inaudible.

  *

  Lambert was the first of the seven officers on the scene to realize the seriousness of the situation. As soon as the man with the pockmarked face and corn rows removed his t-shirt, Lambert immediately recognized the symbol of the militant, New Black Panther Party. The radical, anti-white group often resorted to violence against both whites and police officers. The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. “Oh shit!”

  Lambert was furious with himself for not recognizing the trap earlier; at very least, he should have recognized that when the man raised his hand, he was signaling for something to begin. It was too late to worry about that right now. Lambert could see more Black Panthers come from around both sides of the building; with the basketball court behind them, all means of egress had been cut off.

  “Black Power!” yelled the man, his fist raised in the air. The crowd answered back as they also raised their fists. “Black power!” Lambert reached for his radio. He turned his back to the panthers momentarily to broadcast an emergency transmission. He keyed his microphone at the same time that the sergeant and two other cops did, all of whom believed that their message was heard. They were all wrong; their radio transmissions had all crossed over each other rendering them all unreadable. A brick landed just feet from Lambert. He looked up to see a few more men on the roof of the eight story building, hurling bricks down at them. He heard a gunshot to his left and frantically raised the radio to his mouth for a second time to call for assistance.

  *

  Malik El-Khaleel watched as the cops started to realize what was happening. They began to scatter but he knew that they were cornered. His plan had been perfect. As soon as he raised his hand, his brothers on the roof top signaled those hiding in front of the building to come around and corner the pigs. He sought out the blue eyed cop; it was personal. As soon as the cop turned his back on him to speak into his walkie talkie, El-Khaleel charged him. He reached into the small of his back, securing the expandable baton he had taken from the cop on the foot post in Brooklyn last night.

  El-Khaleel snapped the baton in the air; expanding it to its capacity. He was only a few feet away from the blue eyed devil, yet the man was totally unaware. The cop was staring at the roof when El-Khaleel brought the baton down across the cop’s skull with all of the force that he could muster. The gunshot had momentarily startled him but he looked over to see that things were under control. The pig with the stripes that had fired the shot was being dealt with accordingly.

  El-Khaleel looked down at the blue eyed cop; his blond hair now turning red. He was rolling over on his side and trying to grab his gun. El-Khaleel kicked him squarely in the face and then once again rained the baton down across his head.

  *

  The force of the blow knocked Lambert to the ground; his knees buckled and he momentarily saw brightness before hitting the ground. As he collapsed, he saw his lifeline—his portable radio—falling to the ground in slow motion. He hoped another brick would not hit him as he tried to locate the radio. He was more frightened than he had ever been. He knew that he was in a potential fight for his life. He also had no idea who fired the single gunshot that he had heard. Please Lord, let us get out of this alive.

  As his eyes tried to refocus to find the radio, he was conscious to the fact that he did not hear any sirens in the distance. His head throbbed and he could feel the blood running down his face, but this was no time to lick his wounds. He looked up to check if any more bricks were being thrown at him when he first saw the Black Panther in front of him, holding another cop’s baton. Just then he realized that he had not been struck by a brick after all. Lambert rolled on his side and went for his gun when he was met with a boot across his face. He barely had time to react when he was struck over the head a second time by the baton. Then there was blackness. He never even felt El-Khaleel removing his gun from its holster.

  *

  “Is there a unit out there with an emergency transmission?” The four to twelve radio supervisor immediately recognized that there may be a cop in trouble.

  There was no response. He began calling each sector car in the division one by one asking if they were oka
y. One by one the sector cars all responded that they were accounted for.

  *

  Captain Blaine rushed out of the front door to make sure that there were no problems with the protesters. He was relieved to see that there were none. He listened attentively to his portable radio, just as every other cop in the division did. There was a rumbling from inside the station house as hundreds of cops came running from upstairs and down in both precinct staircases with great concern for any officer who may be calling for help.

  All of the sudden, Blaine could feel his face go flush. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Oh shit, the one and six.”

  Before he could do or say anything else, a loud beeping came from the portable radios. It was only used for officer needs assistance calls.

  “Be advised we are getting numerous signal 10-13s, Police Officer down, at 116-80 Guy Brewer Boulevard in the courtyard,” the supervisor at Central Dispatch reported. “I’m also getting numerous reports coming in of shots fired and numerous officers down at the location. Do I have units to respond?”

  “113 Adam’s going.”

  “113 King’s going central.”

  “113 Nora from the other side.”

  103 Boy.”

  “Central, have the first unit on the scene advise the condition,” Captain Blaine directed.

  *

  Dave Stargell was helpless to assist his partner and brother officer. He was being held against the fence of the basketball court by three men, one of whom had a stolen cop’s gun under his chin. He tasted blood in his mouth and could barely see out of his severely swollen left eye, courtesy of the men holding him down. He watched in horror as the leader beat Lambert unconscious. With a gun under his chin and three men pinning him against the fence there was not much he could do. Where the hell is the back up? Where are the sirens? Stargell knew that he had broadcast a signal 10-13, officer needs assistance call, but nobody was responding.

  Stargell saw the man bend down over his partner’s lifeless body and remove his service weapon. His body tensed as he prepared for the worst. But the man did not shoot him; instead he walked over to Stargell. Stargell realized that he was the last of the seven officers not to be incapacitated. He didn’t know any of their conditions but at least there had been only one gunshot.

  El-Khaleel calmly walked up to him. “You’re the worse kind of pig. Do you know that?”

  Stargell didn’t respond. The Panther who held him at gunpoint removed the gun from under Stargell’s chin and put it in his waistband; a second man removed Stargell’s weapon from its holster and fired it into the air. The men released their grip on him but he was still badly outnumbered. He doubled over trying to catch his breath.

  “You’re an oreo pig!” El-Khaleel spit at Stargell’s feet. “You’re a race traitor. You’re black on the outside but white on the inside.”

  A panther on each side of Stargell grabbed an arm and held him upright. El-Khaleel jabbed the baton into the cop’s midsection; a thud was heard as it struck his bullet proof vest. It hadn’t physically hurt Stargell, but he doubled over just the same. El-Khaleel then struck the officer in the head with the baton as the others both pistol whipped him and stomped him. The last thing Stargell remembered before passing out was the urine splashing off the shield pinned to his chest.

  *

  Scores of uniformed officers raced down the ramp, leading from the 113 precinct station house to the parking lot. They piled into the dozens of marked vans which were combat parked in the lot. Cops always combat parked their cruisers because backing into a parking spot made for quicker exits in an emergency situation such as this. The first van that was ready to go was driven by a twenty-two year veteran of the department named Mark Jones. He threw on the van’s lights and sirens and raced toward the driveway.

  Hundreds of peaceful protesters were inadvertently blocking the driveway, taking part in the demonstration as the vans rolled towards them. In many other precincts in the city, the crowd may not have been a problem as many precincts have two entrances to their driveway; the 113th precinct does not. There’s only one entrance; the one facing Baisley Boulevard where hundreds of protesters rendered it totally impassable.

  Officer Jones leaned on the siren, yelling out of the window for people to get out of the way. In his years of experience, he knew that this could be a matter of life and death for the officers at the Baisley Houses and he had to get there without delay.

  His heart was racing. He inched forward into the crowd. Some moved; others shot a defiant glance and stood their ground. This wasn’t the time for their bullshit, he thought. Cops lives are in danger. C’mon people, move!

  Officers that had not yet gotten into their marked vans and cars rushed to help clear the crowd from the driveway. They held their batons in front of their chest; one hand on each end. They started at the center of the driveway and pushed people to either side with their batons. Once enough room was cleared the police vehicles filed out of the precinct parking lot—lights and sirens blaring—to assist their brother officers.

  *

  Doris Williams thought that she had heard a gunshot in the distance; a few minutes later several more. She would not let that distract her as she jotted down a quote from the Reverend Mitchell in which he demanded the United States Department of Justice look into the case. The unmistakable sound of police sirens was next. She looked up and could see the flashes of blue and red lights coming from the parking lot. There was a huge commotion at the driveway leading to the precinct parking lot and instinctually she knew that the story was now there and no longer the reverend.

  She was horrified to see a marked blue and white police van deliberately inch forward into a crowd that was made up of women, children and the elderly among them. People were doing their best to scatter when dozens of officers in full riot gear attacked the crowd. Many, wearing riot helmets and all were brandishing batons; pushing anyone in their way with. Countless people were knocked to the ground by the advancing officers.

  Although she didn’t have to, she instructed her photographer to take as many pictures as possible. She removed her IPhone from its case and held it above her head; filming the onslaught as best she could. Once people were thrown out of the way, the van recklessly floored it, peeling out of the parking lot. Its side view mirror clipped an older woman in the shoulder, knocking her to the ground on the sidewalk. The second van to exit the parking lot narrowly missed running the woman over. Many of the protesters raced over to the woman; dragging her to safety.

  Williams felt sick to her stomach. She had never experienced such a horrible event in her life. This was an all out brutal attack on a peaceful protest. It reminded her of the stories which her father had told her about, that happened more than fifty years ago in the deep south. She felt a tear rolling down her check as she became overcome with emotion.

  *

  Malik El-Khaleel first heard the sirens in the distance well after they had concluded their assault on the officers. He surveyed the scene in the courtyard before leaving. Seven unconscious pigs. He approved. They hadn’t killed any—at least he didn’t think they did. Unfortunately one of his brother panthers had been shot by the pig with the stripes on his arm. He would be the first casualty of the war.

  El-Khaleel looked up at the windows of the housing development; people in almost every window. He looked up at them and once again raised his fist into the air. “Black power!” Some of them raised a fist in return; the majority was horrified at what they had just witnessed.

  The building’s doors flew open and the Black Panthers, who had been stationed on the roof, exited the building and joined their brothers fleeing through the courtyard. They exited on 157 Street where numerous vans were awaiting their arrival. They piled into the vans, all of which had no rear passenger windows and drove away from the scene in different directions.

  El-Khaleel was seated in the front passenger seat of the black Ford van. As there was a window in the front he though
t it would be best to remove his hat to avoid recognition. He looked over his shoulder to the six men seated in the back seats; giving them an approving nod. Kareem Muhammad, the oldest of the Black Panthers with him today, patted El-Khaleel on the back; “Job well done my brother.”

  El-Khaleel made Officer Stargell’s radio louder; listening to where the cops were—and monitoring where they would be going. Having a stolen police radio was a big advantage.

  *

  Muhammad hated the police as much or more than most of the black panthers did. He had been in and out of prison for most of his adult life and at age thirty-eight, if he were to go back it would be for something he strongly believed in. Muhammad had enjoyed today more than any other day in his life—beating the cops into unconsciousness had made up for all the beatings he had taken at their hands over the years. Pissing on the race traitor was beyond satisfying.

  Muhammad reached under the second row of seats taking hold of the AK-47 assault rifle that lay there. He passed it up to El-Khaleel after chambering the first round. Now, every one of his brothers was armed and ready for any type of confrontation. “As-salamu alaykum.”

  *

  El-Khaleel accepted the weapon, inspecting it closely before laying on his lap. “Peace be upon you too my brother.” He turned to the rest of the men in the van. We have announced our presence my brothers. We spared the pigs lives this time. We want them to go back to their people and tell them of our power.” He raised his voice. “Let them bear witness to what we can do at will.” He looked each of his men in the eyes one by one. With his right hand, he raised the AK-47 over his head. His voice grew louder still. “We are soldiers; the next pigs that cross our paths will know that they are in a war. “As-salamu alaykum, my brothers; As-salamu alaykum.”