No Justice

by Robbie Tolan

  I’ve spent countless sleepless nights wondering whether some of the people who sent me letters of support after the Real Sports segment had decided to not serve on the jury when summoned. Or did someone who asked, “Is there anything I can do?” on a Facebook post say no to their civic duty? Did all of the people who could have spoken up indeed speak up?

  As a victim, I pray that everyone who serves on a jury takes the time to learn to empathize with the victim in the trial. I mentioned how I thought the hardest thing for a jury judging a black man shot by a white cop was going to be the empathy factor, and I was right. The jury in my case had the chance to do something right, and they didn’t. I’m sure that if the shoe were on the other foot, they would want someone to stand up for justice for their son or daughter. And for that, I unapologetically call them cowards.

  I’ve come to the cynical conclusion that most people are inherently selfish. Yeah, this is a dark view of humanity, but I find that people are mostly just interested in talking about making a difference, but not actually doing what that requires. And I think that if you dive deep into the frustrations that drive black people, including all of us who support Black Lives Matter, it’s that we want people to stand up and make a difference. Listen to me. See me. Hear me. Don’t just fall for the notion that society is safer if a police officer is allowed to shoot and kill without repercussions. What message does that send to our sons and daughters?

  Returning to that reporter’s question I mentioned earlier, about what you tell a black kid like me about believing in the system, I’d have to reiterate that I don’t know what to tell that kid. Again. Remember, for a second, I had hope. We have dozens of campaigns encouraging kids to vote, to remain abstinent, to say no to drugs, and to do a plethora of other things, but what are we telling them about being empathetic to other human beings? What do you stand for in life? If anything, this experience has taught me to stand up for those whose voices get lost among the powerful. I count Greenwood among those who stand up.

  The day after the verdict, my mom received a call from Greenwood, who was very upset.

  “Marian, I tried… and I’m sorry. I really tried,” he said, his voice solemn. “I just don’t know what happened. We had a really good case against him.”

  I always felt that Greenwood was genuine. He didn’t have to call my mom, but he did. That’s what you do when you see people as being human and you can empathize with them. I knew that he knew that Cotton was wrong, and although I only saw Greenwood in trial action, I trusted him.

  Near the end of the conversation with my mom, Greenwood said that he’d contacted the FBI to potentially try Cotton at the federal level for violating my civil rights.

  “Marian, I sent them everything,” Greenwood said. “All of the notes, the pictures, the videos, transcripts, I sent it all.” He was hopeful that one way or another, Cotton would be held responsible for his actions.

  In the end, that’s all I wanted to happen. I don’t hate police officers, but I do want them held accountable. But just as I see that people are loath to empathize with other human beings as victims, I’m starting to see that accountability isn’t an important attribute in America when it comes to victims with black skin.

  Now before you get all up in arms, know that I don’t believe in being prejudiced against any race, gender, or profession based on the wrongdoings of one person. Edwards and Cotton are not like every white police officer. I know that. And growing up, my parents never even talked about the contentious relationship between white police officers and black people. My parents raised me to have a strong moral foundation that centered on the Golden Rule from the Bible: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” I was taught to respect everyone, no matter who they are, including police officers. But now, things are different.

  I know that police officers don’t care if I’m polite. I know that police officers don’t give a damn if I own my car. I know that police officers don’t give two shits if they’re actually on my property. I know that police officers don’t care for me. And I can’t help but think that it’s because of the color of my skin.

  After the verdict, I had dozens of police officers, black and white, approach me and express their discontent with the verdict. And I had a lot of civilians say the same thing, and I always thought, “Then why don’t you do something to change the system? Stop saying that police officers have a tough job or that we have to believe in the system.” Here’s my call to action for America: Do something to change the system.

  All of this was on my mind when I got on the plane to Detroit. Besides being in the worst emotional state of my life, deflated from the outcome of the trial, I again felt guilty for being the center of the emotional world of my family and then, the next day, leaving their lives. Yes, I was excited about getting back onto the baseball field, but it felt like a dark cloud had descended not only over me, but also over my entire family, who were all devastated by the words “not guilty.”

  Was I running away from my problems or chasing my dreams? Was I standing up for my mom or getting ready to attack a police officer? Like everything in life, it was complicated. My parents, the two most important people in my life, were left to pick up the pieces. I felt like I should be there to be as strong as they were for me.

  I thought about how often I had run when they had stayed. I’d run from my old house on Woodstock, while they crossed the same threshold where I’d been shot each and every day. In some ways, I had run away from baseball, but my dad had stayed with it, bringing me back to the B.A.T. convention so that I could find myself on this plane going to a new team. I ran away from the media, the reporters, and the interviews, while my mom stayed to fight for me. However, my parents are not invincible, and even though they have the support of my family, the strength of their religion, and just good old stubbornness, I’m sure their quiet moments are not only stressful, but also heartbreaking.

  The early morning ride to the airport was somber, and my melancholy mood didn’t help matters. It was my true emotion, the depression that comes from having one’s hopes and dreams dashed, but as my parents kept telling me, “Life goes on.”

  “We’re proud of you, son,” my dad said, “and you’re going to have a great season.”

  With every word, more and more tears filled my eyes. These people loved me so much, and I loved them. As I kissed them and we said our goodbyes, I put the hoodie over my head and strode through the airport hoping to not be recognized. But as I looked around, I felt like I was in a scene from The Twilight Zone; everyone in the airport was reading the front page of the Houston Chronicle, featuring none other than me. I made eye contact with one man and watched as he looked at me, then at the newspaper, and then back and me. Yeah, that was gonna be my life in Houston and that meant one thing: I needed to get the hell out of Houston.

  When I landed in Detroit, the team had been in spring training for a week, which meant that I had to get my mind right and my body right at the same time. It was cold and raining or, as some of the players said, “Welcome to Detroit” weather.

  Let’s be frank; the Frontier League isn’t the big leagues by any means, and that means that the money was funny and the owners weren’t giving out a lot of it. Most players stayed with host families, but I was lucky. I stayed with Dmitri at his business manager’s house, Dave Bailey, with another ball player, Kris Kararjian, a guy from just north of Los Angeles, who went to UCLA. I loved staying there because I was comfortable, we all got along, and it felt like a family.

  Let me stop here for a second and explain why I’m talking about my time playing baseball. I’m not telling you about it because I think you share the same undying love for the game of baseball. I am relating this part of my story for one reason: baseball pretty much saved my life. Remember when I talked about using writing as a way to heal myself mentally versus going to a therapist? Well baseball played the same role in my life. Heading to the baseball field while running around and chasing and hitting a baseba
ll was therapeutic for me, and I didn’t know I needed this therapy until I started it.

  When we weren’t at practice, the three of us spent a lot of time just chilling—watching TV, playing Xbox, and watching endless movies on DVDs. The evenings were spent eating at a local restaurant called Outriggers, and we generally just had a great time.

  One day after practice, I had a candid conversation with Bailey, who told me that, as for making the team, I basically had a “free pass.” I asked him what that meant, and he explained that once it was agreed that Dmitri was to join the team, Dmitri requested that I come too. The owner of the team, Rob Hilliard, had to be convinced though.

  “Rob, don’t you think the kid has been through enough?” Bailey asked, lobbying on my behalf. “Plus, it just might bring some good publicity to the team having Tolan on it.”

  Being a smart businessman, Hilliard agreed that me being on the team would be a good thing, if I was willing to give interviews. And you know, I was grateful for the opportunity, so if the Houston Chronicle or those June Bug–type newspapers my mom used to talk to needed an interview on chasing my dreams, then boom, I was going to give it to them.

  “Initially when it happened [being shot], I never thought I would be in a uniform again, and as soon as I heard the doctor say I should make a full recovery, the first thing that was on my mind was baseball from that point on. I was determined to get back to this point,” I told the reporters.

  I didn’t feel as much pressure to perform knowing that I didn’t have to worry about making the team. But, for me, just making the club wasn’t enough. I wanted to start. That was the one way to pay back Dmitri, Bailey, and Hilliard for giving me a chance.

  However, like everything in my life, the road toward my goals wasn’t exactly straight. The curve was that it turned out our owner was supposed to build a new stadium. That was the good news. The bad news was that it didn’t happen, I heard, because the necessary paperwork wasn’t submitted to the city to obtain the construction permit. This was unfortunate, especially if you were a player or a coach who liked playing half your games within driving distance of your house. Instead, it meant that the team would spend the majority of the ninety-six-game season on the road, while playing only eighteen home games at Eastern Michigan University.

  You don’t have to be a genius to understand what that meant. And if you’ve ever seen a baseball movie about the minor leagues, you know that even in the best of times traveling is dodgy. It’s all bus rides, bad food, and cheap motels. Now imagine that you’re on the road endlessly. It’s going to affect your performance. But, ironically, it didn’t affect mine.

  I loved playing on the road, meeting different people, and seeing different towns. I was thrilled when I got a chance to play the Evansville Otters at Bosse Field, the third oldest stadium in the country, only surpassed by the Boston Red Sox’s Fenway Park, and the Chicago Cubs’ famed Wrigley Field. It’s where the movie A League of Their Own was filmed. So that part was dope.

  Despite everything, we had a lot of talented players on the team, and we were playing very well. I started off on fire; I was hitting over .300 and was seeing regular playing time. I was getting back to being me. Ah, but it seems my life wouldn’t be complete without some type of tension. It turns out that the general manager and Dmitri, who was now the hitting coach, didn’t get along, even though we were in first place. In a power struggle, the general manager began releasing players left and right, but I still remained.

  Eventually, our team entered a downward spiral during the second half of the season, and a full-blown revolt was close to happening. Baseball players tend to be paranoid, especially when they see good players being released. It makes them nervous.

  The slide was gradual. First we relinquished first place, and then the avalanche came; soon we were out of playoff contention, and the club lost the revenue that came with being in the playoffs. Members of the club began to show up to more and more games, interfering with us during batting practice and before and after games.

  Then there was some mysterious tax that came out of our game checks, something to do with a fine the league had imposed on the club but that the players were paying. Still, we had fought back to get to the last game, which we eventually lost. Our season was over, but I was as happy as if we’d won.

  In the clubhouse, everyone was giving little goodbye speeches.

  “I really loved playing with you all.…”

  “I think I made twenty-five different friends, and not just teammates.…”

  That sort of thing. When you’re on a team, sometimes you play with people who you can’t wait to get away from, even in the major leagues. There is a famous quote about the Red Sox being “twenty-five players taking twenty-five cabs,” meaning that these players weren’t a team, but individuals. But our clubhouse felt like a team, despite the hurdles of playing mostly on the road, players being dropped left and right, and our losses. In the midst of these little speeches, Dmitri turned to me and mouthed the words, “Say something.”

  I’m an introvert, not a person who seeks the spotlight. You may have noticed that, during my whole ordeal, I sought the background, hiding when possible. So I told Dmitri, quietly and to the side, that I didn’t have anything to say. But as the speeches went on, Dmitri whispered in my ear.

  “I really think you should say something. I think the team really needs to hear from you.”

  And then, after a brief pause, Dmitri blurted out, “Hey Robbie, aren’t you going to say something?”

  And there I was, right there in the spotlight. I gave a nervous chuckle of embarrassment for having been put on the spot, but Dmitri had given me this chance to play baseball in the first place. He’d given me months of thinking about nothing but a game; he game me the opportunity to not be in Houston, having to worry about the civil case that Geoff Berg was busy preparing. In short, he’d allowed me to clear my brain, and now I needed to use that clear brain to think of something to say to people who’d helped save my life.

  Everyone was watching me, and my mind was moving a million miles per hour.

  “Look, I just want to thank you all for being great teammates,” I started. “You helped me escape a very tough time in my life and I’m forever appreciative. I’m a living testament to the grace of God, and no matter what happens on the field, or off the field, we’re all blessed to play this game. Of course, we all want to do well, and we want to win, but at the end of the day, it’s just a game. A kid’s game. Don’t take it too seriously. Enjoy it.”

  I was surprised by the reaction to my speech. They all seemed to be moved, with each one of them giving me a hug afterward. We all got together for one last meal, and then it was off to our respective homes. For me, heading back home to Houston was bittersweet. I was revitalized, but now I had to stare my continued struggle in the face. We’d lost the criminal trial, but it was now time to fight Cotton in the civil courts. Things wouldn’t go smoothly, though, and to quote the famous title of Nigerian author Chinua Achebe’s best-selling book, Things Fall Apart; elements of my life would resemble that title.

  CHAPTER 8

  RENEWING THE GOOD FIGHT

  Michael Brown, 18, Ferguson, Missouri—August 9, 2014

  Michael Brown, an eighteen-year-old resident of Ferguson, Missouri, a suburb of St. Louis, was shot and killed in the middle of the street by Ferguson police officer Darren Wilson. Brown had allegedly robbed a convenience store earlier; however, Officer Wilson had initially stopped Brown for jaywalking. Wilson would end up shooting Brown in the middle of the street, where Brown would lay dead for hours, leading to weeks of unrest in Ferguson. Officer Wilson was not indicted by a grand jury.

  Once the criminal trial was over, the civil trial was next, with the Bergs leading our case. As disappointing and devastating as the criminal verdict was, we still had to realize that the odds of us even getting to trial had been long, and the strategy had been to sue the two Bellaire policemen and the Belleaire Police Department an
yway. However, we started having issues with our legal team because they seemed to lose their enthusiasm for our case.

  Nearly two years earlier, they had walked into my hospital room and given me the impression that we had a “slam dunk” case against the officers, but now, suddenly, we were hearing things like “The odds are looking less in our favor” and “Our chances don’t look good.” Whereas Geoff Berg and his legal team had previously seemed certain that we could press the City of Bellaire and the Bellaire Police Department for full compensation for our pain and suffering, the Bergs were now saying that “We might want to settle so we can get something out of this.”

  “I want to be honest with you,” Geoff Berg told us, “so that you don’t get your hopes up.”

  In our private family meetings, we agreed that being realistic is one thing, but being pessimistic is another thing altogether. My mom had been very clear from the start that she was not interested in settling. She didn’t like the idea that you could shoot a young black man and then pay off that man for pennies on the dollar. She wanted the officers to feel the pain so that they’d think twice about doing it again in the future. We also thought that our legal team were scared that they weren’t going to see a return on their investment, and that put us at loggerheads. They wanted money as fast as possible, in our eyes, and we wanted justice.

  “The City of Bellaire and the attorneys for the officers are very interested in settling, but they want us to initiate a proposal,” the lawyers told us. So we did.

  In our first settlement proposal, we called for the City of Bellaire to implement new policies regarding diversifying the police department. We also wanted a public apology from the city and the police department, along with the resignations of Sgt. Cotton and Officer Edwards.