No Justice

by Robbie Tolan

  “Come on, Robbie,” my dad said quietly, grasping my arm. The rest of the courtroom began to empty, with Cotton being congratulated by his defense team. People around me were standing up to leave, but just like when I’d been shot, my brain couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Surely this wasn’t the real verdict, right? This had to be a bad dream that I couldn’t wake myself up from, but if someone pinched me, I’d wake from this nightmare, right?

  I stood up and looked around to find almost everyone staring back at me. I mustered just enough strength to get my weak legs to start walking toward the door. Every step was painful, affirming my nightmare. I felt like there was a bottle of champagne inside me that had been shaken profusely and was ready to explode. I was able to keep my composure during the short walk across the hall to the empty courtroom.

  Cameras and reporters were everywhere, but I didn’t give a damn. Greenwood and Morris held the courtroom door open for me and my family to enter, and I walked past Greenwood, barely seeing him. I started to unbutton my jacket as I walked past Morris, and without even realizing what I was doing, I slid the jacket off my shoulders, then down my back and arms, and then slammed the jacket onto the ground.

  “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!” I screamed at the top of my lungs.

  “Robbie, no!” Morris said, running over to me, but also looking back at the open door to the witness room where the reporters and photographers were still shooting pictures. He didn’t want to give the media any ammunition, but at that point, if you can please excuse my French, I didn’t give a fuck. Yeah, looking back, perhaps I should have reacted differently, but at the time, I didn’t care what the media said about me. That champagne bottle of emotions had been opened and was exploding everywhere. I thought then, and I still think now, that I was justified in being upset because it was the wrong verdict.

  Greenwood and Morris hurried the rest of the family into the room, as they tried to do damage control, but it was too late. That night, and for the next several nights, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me!” was plastered on every television and every newspaper.

  “Robbie, you can’t do that,” Greenwood said. “You can’t go off like that, even though we lost.”

  “This is his life,” Morris said in my defense. “You’ve gotta understand that.”

  I didn’t hear anyone as I collapsed to the ground, clutching myself as I curled into a ball. “I cannot believe this,” I cried out. “He was even eligible for fucking probation and he got nothing? Absolutely nothing? You’re kidding me, right?”

  Not only had Cotton been acquitted of aggravated assault, but also of the lesser charges of assault, deadly conduct, and reckless endangerment. They didn’t convict him of anything.

  Meanwhile, Paul Aman was outside talking with reporters, completely triumphant.

  “We are very happy with the verdict,” said the defense lawyer, Paul Aman. “We believe we presented a good case, and Jeff was never guilty of these charges.”

  Sergeant Cotton said, “I’m glad it’s over. I just want to go back to work.”

  My body went limp. Several family members surrounded me and tried their best to console me, but I was completely and utterly devastated. My loud cries became near silent guttural moans. I could hear everyone expressing their disgust and disbelief, and I was drowning in the prayers of two long-time family friends, who were on each side of me, hugging me and whispering prayers into my ears. I’d never been so stricken with grief in my life, and in some ways, it was like being shot in the chest all over again, but instead of an elephant being on my chest, the weight of the universe was on my shoulders.

  “When he fell, it was like he’d been assaulted again,” Marian remembered. “It was a deep, deep pain. We didn’t even know how we were going to get him out of the building.”

  Greenwood and Morris apologized profusely for the verdict, as they’d truly been convinced that they would win. They had tried hundreds of cases against police officers, and Greenwood thought this was one of his best cases in terms of clear-cut evidence, but then, nothing. My family didn’t think they had anything to be sorry about. To a person, my family and I thought that they’d done a fantastic job, but it was the jury who didn’t do their job. And I needed answers about why they didn’t do it.

  “Guys, I’ll be right back,” Greenwood said, as he excused himself. “I want to see if I can speak to the jury.”

  It is the right of the prosecutor, and reporters for that matter, to see if jury members can give them a little insight into the deliberations. Because it only took a few hours for my jury to come to a not guilty verdict, I didn’t think that they’d really given the evidence the consideration that it required. But as Greenwood went off, I got up and sat in a chair, limp and lifeless. I felt like my heart was going to implode.

  “Is there any way that we can get out of here without the reporters seeing us?” my mom asked Morris. “I need to take my baby out of this courthouse.”

  “Absolutely,” Morris said. “Just give me a bit of time.”

  After about thirty minutes, my family had calmed me down enough so that I could stand up on my own. I held the wall up for the next several minutes trying to think about anything other than what had just happened. I knew I would have to leave at some point so I straightened myself up and put my jacket back on in an attempt to get myself together. By that time, Greenwood had re-entered the room.

  “Well, not only did they not want to speak to me,” Greenwood said in disbelief, “but they asked to be escorted out of the building.”

  That was enough for me. I needed to get the fuck out of that courthouse. Greenwood and Morris led us out of the witness room and through the empty courtroom to a door that led to a long white hallway. We were told that the reporters were still hanging by the elevators, so we had to take a back way to our cars in the parking garage. When we got to our cars, I said goodbye to as many of my family members as I could because I really did appreciate their support. They’d proven how much they loved me. Others made plans to meet us in Missouri City at my Aunt Carolyn’s house, just so we wouldn’t be alone through this.

  On the way home to my Aunt Carolyn’s, I don’t think I spoke a single word. Not one single word. And no one bothered to talk to me either. My mom and aunts were hysterically replaying all of the inconsistencies within the trial—where the defense hadn’t proven their point, where Cotton had lied, where Edwards had lied—and they were in utter disbelief at the outcome. It had rocked their world as much as mine. Meanwhile, I sat in the car numb. I could feel my phone vibrating from all of the calls, text messages, and Facebook and Twitter posts from people expressing their anger and sadness at the verdict, but I couldn’t look at them yet. All I wanted to do was get into the house and be alone.

  As soon as we arrived home, I leapt out of the car, opened the door to the house, and fled to the solace of my bedroom. The only thing I did was take off my shoes before sitting up straight on my bed with my legs crossed, damn near the same position I was in during those days right after my release from the hospital when I was dealing with nightmares and night sweats. I sat there in the dark, lights off, and let everyone else congregate in the living room while I was alone with my thoughts. I could hear them talk about the trial, but I didn’t listen to what they were saying. I didn’t care. I just stared at my feet in complete darkness, alone in a depression that was trying to consume me, and I wasn’t resisting.

  If you’re reading this and thinking I’m being overly dramatic, do me a favor and imagine someone in your family being nearly murdered because of a mistake. Take the police officer out of the equation, and just imagine another human being deciding that they were going to shoot your mother, your father, your aunt, uncle, son, or daughter in the chest, and as a result, your neighbors were going to have to make a judgment about whether or not that was right, and they came back saying, “Yeah, even though it was a preventable mistake that caused all of this, you still deserved that bullet.” You’d be
beyond pissed to the point of going to a dark place as a result of your lack of belief in humanity. That’s where I was. I had a bullet in my body, and the police officer who’d put it there said that he couldn’t wait to get back to work.

  I needed something to snap me out of this. Something to show me that staying in this darkness—and I’m not just talking about the darkness of my bedroom—was not good for me. I needed light, and I needed hope. I couldn’t change what happened in the criminal case, but I needed something to make me want to wake up in the morning. As I sat in that bed, I felt like I was going to die. I could really see myself committing suicide. Why? Because society had said that my life wasn’t worth shit. Just as with hundreds of other black people who’d been shot and sometimes killed by the police, juries around the country had simply shrugged at our plight. So why the hell would I want to walk this earth that unprotected? But then I remembered that I did have something to live for.

  Baseball.

  And I needed that little game of balls, bases, and bats more than ever.

  CHAPTER 7

  A BLACK LIFE NOT MATTERING

  John Crawford III, 22, Beavercreek, Ohio—August 5, 2014

  John Crawford, a twenty-two-year-old man, was purchasing a toy BB rifle inside a Walmart when a white shopper, Ronald Ritchie, called 911 and claimed that Crawford was waving the gun and pointing it at customers. Store video would later show that Crawford wasn’t pointing the gun but, instead, was on the phone with the toy in his hand. Within seconds of arriving, the police shot and killed Crawford after claiming that he didn’t comply with their orders to lie on the ground. Being that Ohio is an open carry state, Crawford would have had the right to carry a real rifle in public, which prompted an argument over whether blacks are afforded the same rights as whites when it comes to carrying weapons in public. A grand jury declined to indict the officers who killed Crawford.

  My eyes began adjusting to the darkness, and as they did, I began to see things around my room. The closet. The wall. The pictures on the wall. It was like my brain was trying to force light into me, despite my despair. And as such, I began thinking, not about the jury’s verdict, but about the light at the end of the very dark tunnel. I started thinking about baseball, and it was just then that my Aunt Carolyn and mom entered my room and asked if I wanted to leave for Detroit. I’d forgotten. Detroit was where spring training was happening, and I’d already missed a week.

  “I don’t care about baseball,” I told them, but that wasn’t true. I did care about it. I didn’t care about hitting a baseball or making the major leagues, but I did care about baseball as an escape. I’d previously told Dmitri that I’d fly out to spring training the day after the verdict, and when I checked my phone, I saw that I’d received calls and text messages from him asking about the verdict and what time I’d be arriving.

  “Not guilty,” I texted him back. “I’ll let you know when I head out to Detroit later.”

  Luckily, I wasn’t alone in this decision. Remember when I said my mom was a fighter? She wasn’t going to let me wallow in my darkness; she was going to get my behind into action. While I was in my room and my extended relatives were gradually leaving, she found and booked a flight to Detroit for me. I was going to leave the next morning, and it was for my own good.

  Just before my parents left, I started to pack. They promised to come back in the morning to take me to the airport. I texted Dmitri to let him know that I was on my way, and he texted me back to say that he personally would pick me up from the airport. A little later, Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Charles went to bed, and again, I was alone with my thoughts. But now, I didn’t want to hide from the world. I needed to express what I was feeling to the world. Where were all of those reporters and photographers now? Who wanted to hear my unfiltered voice, and who would be brave enough to publish it?

  I rushed over to my bag, pulled out a small black notebook, and began to write furiously. I hadn’t fully processed my thoughts, but that didn’t matter. I didn’t care about making sense; I just wanted to vomit out the emotions from my brain to the pen and paper. This is what I wrote:

  I am extremely disappointed in the citizens of Harris County, Texas. Out of sixty-four potential jurors for the case, twelve were selected that were supposed to be the best representation of the people within the county. Twelve jurors were selected that were supposed to be unbiased, untainted, and undecided. These twelve purportedly competent people chose to side with injustice.

  I cannot imagine that the members of the jury who had children felt this was the right verdict. None of these men and women remotely made an attempt to put themselves in the shoes of the people who were involved. In Texas, a notoriously prejudiced state, I believe people will always have a problem convicting a white police officer for shooting a black man, always; no matter what the circumstances. White people hate when we play the race card; granted, it’s not something I like to do, or even make a habit of doing, but wrong is wrong.

  I have never been one to attribute my successes and failures to race having been a factor. After the verdict was read, my family and I were forced to keep our poker faces as instructed by the judge. I looked over at twelve people who seemed to have their minds made up from the opening arguments of the trial. I looked at twelve people who looked at dozens of pictures of bullet holes in my parents’ roof and in my chest, staples in my stomach, and bruises on my mother’s arm, police logs with lines blacked out to hide something, and listened to audio tapes of me agonizing in pain, and my mother crying and praying for her son as police officers told her to be quiet and that she was not allowed to pray; every one of them looked absolutely ashamed. None of them would look anywhere in our direction; they all looked down or purposely in the opposite direction. All it took was one courageous person to speak out against injustice. Just one!

  The judge gave the prosecutor, Clint Greenwood, an opportunity to speak to the jury behind closed doors; an opportunity Clint jumped at. The jury declined to speak with him, and asked to be escorted out of the building immediately. I cannot for the life of me understand their logic; those twelve jurors sat through five days of the trial and listened to all of the evidence. They heard all of the holes and inconsistencies from the defense and their testimonies, then came back with a verdict that was supposedly appropriate, and just. If they stood by their decision, why lower their heads in shame? Why refuse to speak with Clint? Why ask to immediately be escorted out of the building? I might have at least respected some of them if they had appeared vaguely confident in their decision, but I witnessed the indignity on their faces.

  As a police officer, Cotton was even eligible for probation had he been convicted; he got absolutely nothing but a fifteen-month vacation. The facts of the case were as clear as day. My life was threatened; hanging by a small string. I had to leave the game I loved; piling up medical bills and attorneys’ fees in the four hundred thousand dollar range. Meanwhile, Jeff Cotton maintained his full salary and benefits during his administrative leave; and was also given his job back.

  Police are always going to get the benefit of the doubt in Texas; I am okay with that. As I got older, I gained a far better understanding of the dynamics and unspoken protocol for existing as a black man in such a red state like Texas. So I am okay with giving them the benefit of the doubt; what I am not okay with, is when all of the facts are staring you in the face, and you make a conscious choice to look away. Those twelve jurors, that were supposed to represent the people of the progressive major city of Houston, have no integrity. This case was supposed to send powerful reverberations throughout the city, communities, and police departments. It was the perfect opportunity to begin to hold policemen accountable for their actions. The verdict was a terrible message to send to the community and our youth.

  I have maintained one position throughout this entire ordeal, and that position is: I do not hate police officers. I was taught to respect and trust in them to do what is right. Just like any other profession, there are go
od officers, and bad officers. Police officers have a tough job, and they should be recognized for it. But since we expect so much of them, we should also hold them to a higher standard than we do ourselves. We impeach presidents and congressmen for lying about affairs and falsifying documents; why shouldn’t we hold policemen to the same standard?

  Policemen are the people we trust to protect us when we are in danger; where was my protection on December 31, 2008? My protection tried to kill me. Now who am I to trust and call when I am in trouble? Am I to take matters into my own hands? Of course not. I would be wrong if I did that, right? Who am I to trust? I wished those twelve cowards understood there are laws designed to hold public servants accountable for their actions, if you enforce them. When President Barack Obama elected Eric Holder as the Attorney General, he came out of the gates swinging with a very bold statement that has stuck with me and holds true during moments such as this verdict:

  “We are a nation of cowards.”

  I kept that small black notebook with me for two years without looking back at these words, but I knew that the raw emotion in my rant was a true reflection of how I was feeling at the time. For years after the verdict, I let the jury’s decision eat me alive because I just couldn’t make sense of it. What were they looking at that made them come to this decision? Was being a police officer such a powerful position that you could completely exonerate a man for making a nearly fatal mistake? Now, I will never look at jury summons the same. Back in the day, I used to look at a jury summons with the same annoyance that most Americans do, with one thought in mind: How in the hell do I get out of it? Not anymore, my friends, not anymore.

  By virtue of my experience, I now recognize that jury duty is a privilege. Yeah, it can be an exasperating process, but when I think about the people who could have served on my own jury, who could have brought a different thought process, I believe the verdict could have been different. And I’m quite sure that many Houstonians who were upset by my verdict are some of same people who resist the notion of serving on a jury due to the inconvenience.