The Blue Executions (24 page)

There were probably less than a thousand protesters figured Lambert.  They met and organized outside the projects where Darrin Jackson had lost his life…and dealt crack since he was a teenager.  Vehicular traffic was diverted off of Foch Boulevard for two blocks in either direction.  Guy R. Brewer Boulevard was closed two blocks to the north, to the south it was closed two blocks past Baisley Boulevard, allowing for an unimpeded path for the protesters to march.  The leader of the protest was familiar to Lambert—and any other cop that had worked in the 113 precinct for any length of time over the last few decades.

The Reverend Byron Mitchell had grown up in the Baisley Houses.  He was once a self proclaimed community activist who was always the first to show up at the precinct to complain when any sort of police related incident
had happened.  He was also never short on words to criticize the police at the monthly precinct community council meetings.  Lambert had to concede, the man did have a certain charisma to him though.  He never raised his voice or became outwardly emotional but his comments were often inflammatory—and almost always negative toward the police.  Lambert, like most of the cops in the 113 precinct, didn’t particularly care for Mitchell.

Lambert studied the man.  He hadn’t seen him in a while.
It was probably over a year since he went from being Mr. Mitchell, the community activist, to the Reverend Byron Mitchell a national spokesman on racial equality.  He was a very light skinned black man in his mid fifties.  His long dreadlocks were now mostly gray as opposed to the brownish-orange color they were years ago when Lambert had first encountered Mitchell.  They were tied in a knot, hanging a quarter of the way down his back.  His eyes hid behind dark sunglasses but Lambert knew them to be a light green.  Lambert, as did many of the active cops in the 113, had crossed paths with Reverend Mitchell on numerous occasions.

Lambert stepped inside the bodega, grabbing a bottle of water.  He walked to the counter where a man of Middle-Eastern descent was stationed behind the inch thick bullet proof glass.  Lambert noticed the bullet hole towards the top of the glass; apparently someone in the neighborhood decided to test the glass out and it had been equal to the challenge.  As Lambert reached into his pocket, the male behind the counter waved his hand at Lambert; indicating he didn’t have to pay for the water.  Lambert dropped a dollar bill in the window of the glass and walked out noting the extensive amount of news cameras recording the protest. 
You’d have to be out of your friggin mind to take anything without paying for on a day like today.
   

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 Sta
rgell 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.”