by David DeLee
After what had turned out to be a good day, Flynn said, “Up for a ride?”
Levy glanced at the delicate gold watch she wore on her wrist. “Where?”
“Staten Island.”
“Why?”
“See Stokes. Let him know we’ve discredited Kevin’s statement against him. He could probably stand some good news.”
“We could just call him.”
But Flynn was already on his feet and grabbing his coat. “That won’t get us out of here though. I need some air. Besides, it’ll give us a chance to see how he lives. Maybe talk to some of his neighbors. See if he’s got a Nazi flag hung up inside his garage or a shrine in his man cave dedicated to David Duke.”
“But it’s Staten Island,” she protested, getting to her feet.
“Come on. You said you wanted to ask him about Trey. See if he saw the boy that night with DeShawn.”
Another check of her watch. “Fine. But I need to be back here by eight.”
“Got a hot date?” he asked as she gathered her coat and gun.
“Something like that.”
Flynn drove. Not overly familiar with Staten Island, Levy plugged Stokes’ address into the GPS app on her phone. He lived in Great Kills—the irony of that was not lost on them—on the South Shore, a predominantly Italian, Irish American and Jewish neighborhood that enjoyed a low crime rate, a closeness to the water, and a plethora of small businesses.
Stuck in slow moving traffic on the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, Levy said, “He’s got a point, you know?”
“Who does?” Flynn asked with a tap of his horn to get a battered box truck to move forward.
“Goodall.”
Flynn slammed on the brakes so as to not rear end the suddenly stopped truck. “Say again?”
“Goodall. Not the crap about us, but about blacks getting killed by cops and not being held accountable.”
“You believe that?”
“I had a case about three years ago,” she said. “A young man in his early twenties, black, his name was Fredrick Jones. He was driving home with his girlfriend, going back to Westchester. White Plains, I think. They’d been in the city clubbing. It was late. Up on 157th Street they got sideswiped by another vehicle, forcing the car Fredrick was driving into a row of parked cars.”
“A hit and run?”
“Yeah. The first car took off. Fredrick’s girlfriend banged her head on the windshield pretty badly. There was a lot of blood. The young man, he got out and starting yelling for help. I guess he freaked out a little. The few people around, typical New Yorkers, ignored him, thinking he was crazy or avoided him like he was contagious. Still, someone called 911. A patrol car responded with two patrolmen. Both officers were white. They ordered Fredrick to the ground.
“He’d been drinking, and confused or angry or scared, or who knows why, he refused to comply. Probably he was just worried about his girlfriend. Wanted to get her help. After several more orders to get down on the ground, Fredrick began ranting about his girlfriend. The officers opened up on him, killing him. Fired ten shots between the two of them.”
“How’d they justify that?” Flynn asked.
“Said he refusal to comply with their orders. Made them fearful for their lives. No weapon. The officers fired from fifteen feet away. All that was supported by video cams footage and eyewitness accounts.”
“They were charged?”
Levy nodded. “Voluntary manslaughter. We got an indictment. At trial the jury acquitted them.”
The traffic ahead of them began to break up. Flynn sped up to ten miles an hour.
“That’s tough. But it cuts both ways. Last year a buddy of mine responded to a burglary call. He found a door to a residence broken open. He went in after calling for backup. He confronted a man—black guy—and repeatedly told him to stand down and produce ID. The man lunged at him. They fought in the hallway, struggled for control of the officer’s gun. They fell backward and tumbled down the stoop to the sidewalk. The gun discharged, shooting the perp in the stomach. He died at the scene.”
“And your friend?”
“Charged with reckless homicide. Pled guilty to lesser charges to avoid jail time. Lost his shield, his pension. Ended up divorced and works as a minimum wage security guard at a mall in New Jersey.”
Traffic started to flow. Flynn sped up.
“We could trade war stories all day trying to prove our points,” Flynn said. “The bottom line for me? Cops do a tough ass job, deal with shitty ass people at their shittiest. We’re expected to make split second life and death decisions. Decisions the rest of the world get to mull over and pick apart for months, years, afterwards. So yeah, I think we deserve a little benefit of the doubt.”
“We need to be held to a higher standard,” Levy said. “Better trained. Better screened. Better prepared to deal with a community that maybe doesn’t like us or resents us telling them what to do.”
“No argument here. A cop willfully kills someone, they need to be accountable. They need to be punished. But painting every cop with that broad brush doesn’t cut it either. The community needs to look in a mirror, same as the police do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Black on black deaths. Cops kill, on average, about a thousand people a year. Only a small percentage of those are unarmed perps—around sixty, give or take any given year. And even those aren’t all necessarily unjustified. But the number of black on black deaths in this country is staggering, six to seven thousand each year. Yet every politician, every media outlet, every civil rights leader, like Goodall, refuse to talk about that. It’s easier to vilify the police, get a quick sound bite on the evening news about police brutality and a police force that systematically abuses its authority, than deal with the tough question of reducing criminal violence in their own backyards or deal with the social issues that cause it. The poverty, the lack of education, the broken families, the lack of respect for live, for each other. Those aren’t exclusively black issues but they’re hitting the black communities the worst. Like Calderon said.”
They found the Stokes’ residence at the end of a tree-lined street filled with small, single-story, two-family homes. Each with tiny front lawns, double-wide driveways, fenced-off backyards, and cars parked on both sides of the narrow street.
As night descended on the neighborhood, Flynn was the first to notice the distinctive pulse of emergency police lights at the end of the street in front of the house. A small crowd of people were gathered on the sidewalk.
“This can’t be good,” he said.
Flynn pulled their unit past two blue and whites and angled the car toward a guardrail at the dead end of the street. As they got out, Levy could smell the nearby water of Raritan Bay. She tasted the thick salt water in the air. Seagulls circled over the sand and sea grass lining a path leading away from the block of houses.
The Stokes lived in a small cape with beige vinyl siding and a bay picture window. A low brick wall framed a flower garden under the living room window. An American flag hung at an angle from the door frame. The white wrought-iron and glass storm door didn’t close properly because the jamb had swollen with moisture. Loud shouting came from inside the house followed by something being smashed.
They pushed through the small crowd and raced for the front door.
Flynn pulled the decorative storm door open. The interior door, heavy oak and painted aquamarine, hung open. Levy slipped in first. With two cops already on the scene, and she and Flynn in civilian clothes, she pulled her service weapon but held it low, behind her leg, afraid all the cops would see was a gun. She unclipped her gold shield from her belt and held it over her head. High.
Inside, there was a small foyer that opened up onto a wood paneled living room connected to a kitchen-dining room combination through an open archway. A dark brick fireplace with a timber mantle took up the far wall. A looped HAPPY THANKSGIVING holiday decoration with a paper turkey in the middle hung over the mantle, above a row of f
ramed family pictures.
Karen Stokes stood with her back to the front door. She had one arm across her daughter Rebecca’s back, holding her tight against her body. The little girl’s face was buried in Karen’s stomach. She clutched a well-loved and grubby stuffed bunny rabbit by the ears.
In the archway between the dining room and living room Ben Stokes was putting up a mighty struggle against two NYPD cops who were trying to wrestle him to the ground.
“Son of a bitch!” Stokes spit. “Let go of me!”
One cop hooked a foot between Stokes’ legs, and together with his partner shoved Stokes forward. The three of them fell to the floor. Stokes hit the throw rug covering the hardwood floor face first. The two cops landed on top of him.
He grunted, struggling against their efforts to pull his arms behind his back. One cop had his knee grinding into Stokes’ back. Stokes squirmed and kicked his feet. They got tangled up with a nearby dining room chair which got knocked to the floor.
“Get off me, you motherfuckers!”
Flynn darted into the fray as Levy touched Karen’s shoulder. “Karen?”
The woman jumped and clasped her throat.
“What’s going on?” Levy barely had the words out before she saw the red and swollen flesh around the woman’s weeping and bloodshot eye. She’d been hit.
One cop got his cuff around Stokes’ wrist. The sound of it ratcheting was loud, even over all the grunting and cursing. As they tried to secure his second wrist, Stokes wiggled and twisted and pulled free. He bucked and managed to shake off the kneeling cop who fell back and struck his head against the overturned chair.
The cop cried out in pain.
Stokes rolled over and sat up.
As Flynn stepped in, Stokes swung his arm around. The single metal handcuff whipped around, the open end flashing like the end of a giant fishhook.
“Who the fuck are you?” one of the cops called out.
“Flynn!” Stokes said with contempt. “Should’ve known you’d be part of this.”
“Part of what?” Flynn hooked an arm around Stokes’ flailing arm. The cop that had been knocked back over the chair grabbed for Flynn.
Flynn shook him away. “NYPD, asshole. I’m with the Seventh.”
The guy’s partner circled around Stokes and yanked him up on his feet by his sweatshirt, an NYPD Athletics Club logo on the chest. He twisted Stokes around and together with Flynn they body slammed Stokes into the table, knocking over another chair. He twisted one of Stokes’ arms behind him—Stokes grunted—and Flynn grabbed the hand with the cuff already on it.
He twisted it up behind his back.
The first cop ratcheted the cuff closed, then pulled Stokes up into a standing position, both men panting.
The cop looked at Flynn. “Thanks.”
Flynn stepped in front of the cop who’d tried to make a grab for him and took hold of Stokes’ arm. “I’ll help take him out.”
Stokes tried to pull away, struggling against their grasp. He looked at his wife and dropped his head, suddenly becoming as docile as a kitten. Shame and embarrassment could do that.
Karen turned away and held a fist to her mouth, trying to stifle the strangled sound of her crying. When Stokes was out of the house, Karen wiped the tears from her face.
“Mommy,” the little girl said, looking up. “Where are they taking Daddy?”
To Levy, Karen said, “I’m going to take Rebecca to her room and try and explain this…mess to her.”
“Of course.”
They went into a room and disappeared behind a closed door.
The cop that remained tucked his pulled-out uniform shirt into his pants and scooped up his partner’s hat from the floor. The throw rug had bunched up from the scuffle. He used the heel of his shoe to pull it back into place. His name plate read Vachon.
“What’s the Seventh doing out here?” he asked.
“Detective Levy,” she said. “We came out to see Stokes. He was involved in that shooting the other night.”
“Involved?” Vachon said. “No need to sugar coat it, Detective. He shot that kid. We’ve been dealing with it all week, constant calls from neighbors and the whole community seems like. Everything from are does he pose a danger to fry his ass to give the son of a bitch a medal. Media’s been camped out in front of the house all week.”
“That can’t be fun.”
Vachon stared at the closed bedroom door. “Worse for them.”
Levy had to agree. “What’s this all about?”
“Typical domestic call,” Vachon said. “Except I guess not. Neighbors called a noise complaint into 911. We got here and heard screaming and shit crashing inside. The front door was unlocked so we went in and called out, announcing ourselves. Your guy was standing over the missus who was on the floor. The little girl was standing over her mom, protecting her from getting hit again.”
The cop pointed to a smashed whiskey bottle. Levy caught the sharp smell of spilled booze. “Had the bottle up over his head, held it by the neck. From where I stood, he was two seconds from cold cocking the woman…or the kid.”
“Did he say anything about why?”
“Never got the chance. We told him to put the bottle down. He told us to fuck off and get out of his house. He pushed the missus aside, smashed the bottle on the floor, and headed for the kitchen. We didn’t know if he was going for a weapon. A knife or a gun or what. A cop, you’ve gotta always assume. We rushed into the kitchen. Next thing I know it’s ultimate cage match time. That’s when you two showed up.”
He shook hands with Levy and they exchanged business cards. He headed for the door but stopped and turned. “Sucks what he’s going through. He’ll be at the Twelve-two being processed. On Hylan Boulevard.”
“Thank you, officer.”
Flynn came in, passing Vachon in the tiny foyer as the uniform cop left.
He looked around the mess in the living room and kitchen, noticing the broken bottle. The two dining room table chairs were still on the floor, on their sides. The tablecloth had been yanked off the table in the struggle. There were broken dishes on the kitchen floor. And a turned over tumbler glass on the floor next to a well-worn La-Z-Boy recliner. The carpet under it was stained dark and wet.
“Stokes. How is he?” Levy asked.
“Drunk off his ass. Hasn’t shaved in days. Needs a shower.”
“Did he say anything?”
Flynn shook his head. “Mumbled under his breath how he can’t believe it. A lot of cursing. I filled the cop in—Evans—asked him if they could let the resisting arrest go. He said it depends on what the wife does, press charges or not, but he’d talked to his partner and they’d consider it.”
“He seemed like a decent guy,” Levy said, meaning Vachon. “I think he will. I hope he will.”
“Hope he will what?” Karen said, coming out of a back bedroom. She gingerly clicked the door shut. As she joined them, she kept her head down and sniffled, running the back of her hand under her nose.
Levy told her, then asked, “Is Rebecca okay?”
“She’s confused. Doesn’t understand much. How could she? She’s never see her father like that before. She’s playing a video game. Trying to forget, I guess.”
“And you?” Levy asked as the woman walked past them.
She went into the kitchen and turned on the tap. A glass sat on the counter. She stuck it under the running water but her hand shook so badly she couldn’t fill it up. Water sloshed into the sink.
Levy stepped over and took the glass from her. She filled it up. “Why don’t you sit down?”
She guided Karen to the dining room table where Flynn righted one of the turned over chairs and set it out for her to sit down. It took two hands for Karen to hold the glass and drink from it.
Levy pulled a second chair out and sat down beside her. She saw a hand drawn Thanksgiving Day card stuck on the refrigerator with a fruit-shaped magnet. In crayon, in a young girl’s shaky handwriting, Rebecca had wr
itten: I love my Mommy & my Daddy. With hearts.
Flynn busied himself picking up the broken bottle pieces, the other chair, and set about picking up the smashed plates on the kitchen floor.
“You don’t need to do that,” Karen said.
“It’s no sweat,” Flynn said and kept picking up pieces.
Levy considered Karen and Ben and Rebecca. The broken pieces of their lives would be much harder to pick up. She patted the woman’s hand. “Karen, what happened?”
“I was here, in the kitchen, when Rebecca started calling for me from her room. She was looking for a particular dress she wanted to wear or something. Ben was in there,” she pointed toward the living room, “watching a fishing show. Who watches fishing on TV? I was unloading the dishwasher. I asked him if he could finish putting the dishes away for me so I could go help Rebecca.”
She sipped some water.
“He didn’t get up. He didn’t acknowledge me at all. He kept drinking and watching that damn show, ignoring me. Rebecca started screaming for help. It’s not her fault. She can feel the tension. Knows something’s wrong.”
“Of course not.”
“I asked Ben like two more times, and by then Rebecca was having a meltdown.”
Karen planted her elbows on the table and fisted her hands, pressing them to her temples like she was trying to get the sound of her daughter’s screaming out of her head. “I yelled at him. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“This isn’t your fault either,” Levy said.
“He came storming into the kitchen. He was screaming. He was so drunk. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath…it was horrible. He picked up the stack of plates and he smashed them on the floor. They shattered. It made a terrible noise. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Now you don’t have to put the fucking plates away.’ I’ve never been so frightened in my life. Ever.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Levy said. “Take your time.”
Flynn found a dustpan and a broom in a closet and swept up the smaller pieces of glass in the kitchen. He poured them into a garbage pail he found under the sink.
“Thank you,” Karen said. “Rebecca heard the crash and came out. I yelled at her to be careful because of the broken dishes, and Ben yelled at me to not yell at Rebecca.” She was shaking now. “I’m not really sure what happened next. I just knew I’d had enough. We were shouting at each other and Rebecca was crying and the next thing I knew Ben hit me.” She touched the tender spot under her eye. “I fell back against the counter and Ben walked away.”
