* * *
As Tami hurried to catch her plane to the Dominican, the phone rang. It was the State Department again. Now we were told that all five kids were on their way to Orlando, Florida, four on a transport plane and one on a cargo plane.
Another switch in plans. Cancel Tami’s flight to the DR. Pack, rush, move, get this thing done before there’s another riot, coup, or sudden change of policy.
Soon both of us were on a red-eye to Orlando. In the early morning hours of January 26, 2010, we went through Homeland Security clearance. The vetting process was tight, due to constant rumors of human traffickers rushing Haitian refugees out of the country under the cover of confusion.
We were with Homeland Security for six hours. When we were released we found ourselves in a customs office with a hundred other people.
We kept looking over the crowd for a familiar face.
The room was loud, chaotic, filled with refugees, a din of French, Creole, English, crowded with disheveled adults, crying children, heaps of dirty makeshift luggage.
“Dad!” someone yelled. “Dad!” Then some pushing and jostling.
And then I was swarmed. One tried to jump on my back, two little ones hung on my legs. “Get down, get down,” one said. On my knees now, five pairs of arms and legs pummeled me. I was drowning in a sea of children.
I couldn’t stop crying.
They mauled me. They mauled Tami. It was heavenly.
After we finally peeled them off, we walked out of the hangar, Tami in the lead, with the five kids trailing behind like ducklings. I pulled up the rear, proud as could be. Every few seconds I conducted a head count—one, two, three, four, five.
All here, in the United States, for good.
By the grace of God the ways of fate had changed.
42
THIRTY YEARS AFTER
“DAD, WE’RE HOME,” Clifton said, looking at me, as the plane landed in California.
None of them could get over the flight on a commercial airline. How could it be—a toilet on an airplane? They’d open the door, look inside, then look at us. There must be some mistake.
In their first night in an American hotel it took hours for them to shower. We couldn’t get them out from under the hot water.
When they first set foot in their new home, they could not stop asking in disbelief, “Is this really ours?”
Full cupboards? And the refrigerator, stocked with food? They kept opening and shutting the door, as if the next time they did so, the food would somehow be gone. This couldn’t be real.
Next cause of astonishment: the beds. They were amazed. They would actually get to sleep on a mattress. And each one gets their own bed? They would poke the bed, jump on it, pretend to sleep, then peek from a squinted eye, look at the others, grin, and begin to laugh. It was as if somehow a great joke were at play.
None of them could stop exploring their new home. Endlessly opening and shutting closet doors, going to the front door, ringing the doorbell, having others let them in, then doing it all again. “Hi,” the kid outside the door would say. “I’m home.” Then gales of laughter.
And the swimming pool—beyond belief. They would peer in, dip their feet, skim their hands across the water, and then one, two, three, everyone was in, kicking, splashing, squealing. If we thought it was hard to get them out of the shower . . . “No, come on Dad,” they’d say, “just five more minutes.” Hours later we’d pull them out, fingers wrinkled like prunes.
It is one of the magical memories of my life. Tami and I would just follow them around the house, the yard, trying to see all that we took for granted, through their eyes.
As we settled into our new lives in Riverside, the kids gradually let us into more of life in Haiti and the impact of the earthquake.
After the quake they slept outside, terrified of the violent aftershocks. They went two weeks without a bath or shower.
Jameson and Zachary were shooting baskets outside when it hit, confused as to why the court rippled like the sea. Semfia ate a bowl of rice, flustered as she couldn’t get the spoon to her mouth. Manoucheka, working in the nursery, ran outside carrying infants in her arms.
Once in the States for several months, their nutrition and health quickly improved, and so did their height. Within a couple of months it seemed all of them had grown several inches. We have the markings, now dozens of them on our kitchen doorway. And while everyone continues to shoot up, the initial year was the most amazing.
With improved health, they all became obsessed with sports: soccer for Semfia, volleyball for Manoucheka, basketball for Jameson and Clifton, football for Zachary.
And if we thought it was hard getting them out of the pool, getting the kids off the dirt basketball court out back was next to impossible. “Time to come in,” we’d say, which was met with a chorus of “No.” When we finally corralled them, it was as if some great hardship had been imposed.
* * *
Every morning I rise by dawn. I fall to my knees and thank the Lord, and thank Madee. Her presence is strong, her voice loud. She led me to this outcome. She was right all along: little steps produce big results.
Once I healed, I could finally tell this story. Once again, I enjoy motivational speaking. I want everyone to know how important they are, that every day, life has meaning, that they can do something to make a difference. But it is a long process, a struggle. Nothing comes easy. No one should expect it to.
I speak of the benefits of sports, of my efforts with the NFL Players Association to make the game of football safer and more fair for the players. I talk of the need to get into the depths of our cities and continue to fight for their future, to make sure they do not slip back into their dark ages. I urge kids to stay in school, grow their minds, and stay out of gangs. I tell of my ordeal and pray we prevent the next Tiequon Cox, get him young, really young, before he has a chance to become a killer, before we as society pay the price. I detail our work in Haiti, of improved energy and infrastructure. There is no reason Haiti cannot follow in the footsteps of South Korea or recently Rwanda, war-torn countries that quickly Built Back Better.
But as I learned, one can’t just talk, one must act. Each moment is a powerful, elusive, unpredictable opportunity. And as in football, you have to have a plan, be prepared ahead of time, see it coming, and then seize it. In a moment you can change or ruin lives, lead and inspire, or fire fatal shots.
* * *
On July 22, 2010, the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals denied Tiequon Cox’s claims of ineffective assistance of counsel, finding Cook’s decisions tactical given the overwhelming evidence of guilt. On October 3, 2011, the United States Supreme Court denied Cox’s certiorari petition, declining to review his case. Cox was SCOTUS cleared, all of his appeals exhausted.
Two years later, on May 2, 2012, Los Angeles County District Attorney Steve Cooley filed a motion with the Los Angeles Superior Court to order the execution of Tiequon Cox.
Cooley said it was time Cox paid for his crimes, and that the state must “hold these killers responsible for the innocent lives they took so many years ago.” In the motion, the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office, represented by Deputy District Attorney Michele Hanisee, pled that the executions be ordered using a single-drug method now used in Washington State, Ohio, and Texas. “This is about getting our system back on track,” Cooley stated. “It’s time the state carry out the death sentences that have been returned by juries, imposed by trial judges, and affirmed by our appellate court system.”
As the election neared, Tiequon Cox became the face of California’s death penalty wars.
Since his release from the Adjustment Center in 2010, Cox “programmed.” He was now housed on the fifth tier of East Block, Condemned. He took his yard time and otherwise stayed in his “house,” a four-by-nine cell. He got phone time. An old push-button model attached to a sandwich board on wheels was brought to his cell. He talked to his “little homies” back in Hyde Park.
On the streets, he remained a legend. He didn’t snitch. Even on death row, he didn’t bow down. He was “reputable.” As Donald Bakeer noted, back in the neighborhood children were named after him, and the “Fee” progeny extended into the “baby,” “tiny,” and “infant” generations.
On the streets, in hushed tones, the kids said, “They going to kill big homey.”
In his cell, Cox kept a TV tucked under his bed. During the summer of 2012 he pulled it out to watch the London Olympic Games.
Prison staff described him as respectful, but hypersensitive to any signs of disrespect. He never complained. He requested nothing. Unlike most inmates, he refused medications, never taking so much as an aspirin.
While staff preferred his new attitude, they remained on guard, lest he lull them into a sense of false security, just waiting for that moment when they “slip,” providing the opportunity to “get loose.”
Throughout the fall of 2012, the polls showed continued support for capital punishment. In the weeks leading up to the election, I addressed the California Assembly in Sacramento, and later took the stage with former governors George Deukmejian, Pete Wilson, and Gray Davis to oppose the proposition seeking to abolish the death penalty.
As the election neared, and prosecutors sought Cox’s execution, his lawyers maneuvered to save his life.
I received phone calls from Jesse Jackson and actor-activist Mike Farrell, who working with Cox’s attorneys sought my support for clemency. I was curious what they would say and whether Cox would finally apologize. But efforts at scheduling a meeting became frustrating, and neither Jackson nor Farrell seemed to know anything about the case. In fact, Farrell, a champion of Tookie Williams, whom he termed a “dear friend,” was unaware that Cox had stabbed Williams in prison. Furthermore, the Cox defense team sought total control of the meeting. When we agreed to speak with them at a friend’s house in Santa Ana, they canceled. We haven’t heard from them since.
On November 6, 2012, Proposition 34, the “Savings, Accountability, and Full Enforcement for California Act,” or SAFE, was defeated, voters choosing to retain the death penalty in California.
In declaring victory, “No on 34” stated: “Now that the people have re-affirmed their support for the death penalty, we are committed to coming back to the voters with a reform proposition to streamline and expedite the death penalty in California.”
When Jerry Brown ran for governor in 2010, he promised to uphold the law if elected.
Now Cox’s name has been called, only the hour and date are unknown.
I’ve spent endless hours trying to understand him. I get anger. I get rage. But I don’t get the callous slaughter of innocents. I don’t get the lack of remorse.
Were there any doubt, it would be so different. The last thing I could take is the execution of an innocent. I don’t need any more guilt.
I’ve been told he committed the crime to “prove himself,” that he took PCP before the act, to pump himself up. For Cox it was nothing personal, just easy victims and sure success, business as usual, the deaths collateral damage. He killed for reputation. A young man filled with potential chose not to make his name through hard work on the field, instead seeking instant stardom on the streets.
All who cross Cox’s path acknowledge his presence. He is talented, strong, intense. But he is ultimately tragic. Instead of channeling his influence for good, he uses it only to destroy. As Judge Boren reflected upon the case, he quoted the movie A Bronx Tale: “There’s nothing worse than wasted talent.”
I must forgive internally, as a means of survival, a way of dulling my rage so that I may go on, channel my energy, try to do some good. For me to obsess over him is to sentence myself to life. I will always have regrets, I will always ask “what if” about Tiequon Cox. But it is not just about me, and he did not victimize only my family. The crime was against the neighborhood, the community of South Central, the city of Los Angeles, this country and its values, against humanity.
True forgiveness does not come easy. It must be earned, created. It comes from reflection, long spells of guilt and suffering, followed by atonement through acts.
For thirty years my family has endured. Neal and Ivan have never recovered. We still await an apology.
* * *
As to the other two defendants, Horace Burns continues to serve his sentence of life without parole, shuttled from one maximum-security prison to another. Sometimes he is housed in the general population, at others placed in protective custody as a snitch. To this day, Burns insists he was not an active participant, and that being along for the ride should not have sent him to prison for the rest of his life.
Darren Charles Williams, with his death sentence commuted, serves a term of one hundred years. Like Burns, he has been moved from institution to institution. Williams has a website, freedarren.com, where he contends he was improperly sentenced, that his confession was coerced, and that his behavior at the time was dictated by his addiction to crack cocaine. On the site, one can view Williams’s accomplishments, including his work with children, schools, and animals. Williams appears on the site wearing a short-sleeved shirt in front of a tropical island backdrop, and crouching in front of a virtual Bentley.
* * *
As to Ossie “Diamond Jack” Jackson, rumors floated throughout the neighborhood. The prosecutor’s office said that without CW’s cooperation they simply were never able to gather enough evidence to prosecute Jackson. When I searched for him, years ago, I was told all types of tales, and for a time believed that he had disappeared somewhere in the Caribbean. Today, a man in his eighties with the name of Ossie Jackson still resides in South Central Los Angeles. There is no statute of limitations on murder, and he isn’t talking.
* * *
The club itself, where it all started, is gone. On Vermont and Gage one now finds a row of small businesses, a nail salon, a corner store.
* * *
Valarie Taylor still lives in the neighborhood, not far from the old site of the club. She remains in a wheelchair, still traumatized by the events of thirty years before.
“Oh no, honey, we’ve put that behind us,” her mother says, expressing Valarie’s unwillingness to revisit the events. “She’s not talking about that.” Her mother adds that familiar spots from long ago still trigger breakdowns and panic attacks. Valarie, her mother reminds us, was at the center, the paralyzed victim of the tavern shooting, and the intended victim of the home invasion. From what we have been told, after the shooting the lawsuit was dropped.
* * *
Back on the streets of Los Angeles, crime continues an unprecedented twenty-year drop.
Many Angelenos credit the work of Chief of Police William Bratton, who brought to Los Angeles the successful techniques of the “New York Miracle,” where murder rates fell by nearly 90 percent in just twenty years. Under his successor in L.A., Charlie Beck, crime further declined. Beck has enhanced police-community efforts, and since 2007, gang murders have dropped again by 50 percent. Such programs include “Summer Night Lights,” held in Lou Costello Park, a onetime gang hotbed. They are held from the Fourth of July through Labor Day, a period once referred to as “the killing season.” The police message has gone from military to service, from occupying army to partners. The message to the community is “how can we help you.” We are here to intervene, to halt retaliation, to put a lid on dangerous and violence-inducing gossip.
At Mayor Bradley’s request, I served as an advisor to the Christopher Commission, which in the wake of the Rodney King incident sought to improve police conduct and community relations. Above all we stressed the need for increased accountability of both citizens and cops. The results are encouraging.
One of the best examples is in my old home, Watts, which has the greatest concentration of public housing in the West. In Watts, a program known as Community Safety Partnership has been implemented. More officers have been assigned, and community residents known as the Watts Gang Task Force have teamed up wit
h the LAPD. Since the program’s implementation, violent crime in Watts’s public housing has fallen by more than 60 percent, and drive-bys have become almost a thing of the past. Key is that the police now have an aura of legitimacy in the community, a major goal of our Christopher Commission.
Recent polling shows that more than 80 percent of L.A. residents say the department is doing a good job, and majorities of every ethnicity report the department treats them with respect.
Gang violence and street crime in general will rise to the level of community tolerance: The more it is excused and the more that citizens turn the other way, the greater its contagion. The more you allow, the more you get. It is the duty of society to place restraints on its residents’ worst tendencies. Such intolerance for wrongdoing provides the best opportunities for citizens to thrive. The approach of the LAPD today also fosters more community trust and encourages the kind of informal guidance and social control so influential during the time of my childhood and central to Madee’s vision of a neighborhood.
Today, the tragedy of August 31, 1984, stands as a kind of period piece, a dark reminder of a bygone era. The crime was random. It could have been anyone. But it was a sign of the times, when emboldened gangsters felt confident they could dope up, invade a home, kill its residents, and walk away free. Sad, but Horace Burns spoke for these times when he dismissed the death of sleeping children as “just something that happened.” Thankfully, a cultural change has occurred, with that way of thinking ever more distant.
Each year we hold the Alexander family picnic somewhere in the old neighborhood. Each year the community Madee fought to save feels a little bit better. Each year more people choose to return to the city. Now, people aren’t just trying to flee the old hood, they’re trying to fix it. Things are different. The dream is within reach.
The Valley of the Shadow of Death Page 31