Excessive Use of Force
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Excessive Use of Force
Excessive Use of Force
One Mother’s Struggle Against Police Brutality and Misconduct
Loretta P. Prater
Rowman & Littlefield
Lanham • Boulder • New York • London
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Prater, Loretta P.
Title: Excessive use of force: one mother’s struggle against police brutality and misconduct / Loretta P. Prater.
Description: Lanham : Rowman & Littlefield, [2018] | Includes index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017031630 (print) | LCCN 2017045702 (ebook) | ISBN 9781538108017 (electronic) | ISBN 9781538108000 (cloth : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Police brutality—United States. | Discrimination in law enforcement—United States. | African American men—Family relationships. | Mothers and sons—United States. | Wrongful death United States.
Classification: LCC HV8141 (ebook) | LCC HV8141 .P72 2018 (print) | DDC 363.2/32—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017031630
™ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.
Printed in the United States of America
This book is dedicated to the memory of our beloved son, the late Leslie Vaughn Prater, and in honor of Stefan DeWitt Prater, our remaining pride and joy. We love our sons very much and they will forever live inside our hearts.
Contents
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Introduction
1 Homicide or Natural Causes
2 Police Brutality
3 Profiling
4 Review of Police Departmental Responses to In-Custody Deaths
5 Fueling a Legal Battle
6 To Settle or Not to Settle in Wrongful Death Cases Involving Police Officers
7 Silent No More
8 MOMS (Mothers of Murdered Sons)
9 Police Academy Workshops
10 No Justice, No Peace
Notes
About the Author
Acknowledgments
The first acknowledgment is to my immediate family. My husband, Dwight, while dealing with his own feelings of loss, has stood by my side, provided strength when I was weak in grief, and supported me in all of my endeavors. I certainly could not have endured the emotional pain or written this book without him. I recognize that not only did Dwight lose Leslie, but, in many ways, he also lost the woman he married. I will never be the same. Our younger son, Stefan, shares in our grief. Stefan’s relationship, with his older brother and only sibling, is different from, but enlightened by, the mother-and-child relationship. There is a kind of a sacred bond between African American men and their mothers, as can be further explored in Keith Brown’s book, Sacred Bond: Black Men and Their Mothers, and demonstrated by Stefan’s relationship with me.
I must acknowledge Lucille and Willie Pinkard, the loving maternal grandparents who raised me. Without them, I would not be the person I am today or have the fortitude to write this book. Other family members were instrumental in my journey in completing the manuscript. My aunt Louise Arnold, who has been like a devoted older sister to me and had a close relationship with Leslie and deep love for him, and my mother, the late Willie Mae Smith, provided words of encouragement that helped to sustain me during these difficult times. Cousins Ronald and Dollie Montgomery and Dorothy and Alvin Winton are among extended family members who provided encouragement. The numerous ways in which they helped me are too many to name.
I have also been blessed to have supportive in-laws who stood beside us during our darkest days, including many years after Leslie’s death. Dwight’s brother Herman and his wife, Lawanda; his brother Michael and his late wife, Kathy; and Dwight’s sisters, Terry and Andrea, have provided strength to us. They marched with us, attended numerous meetings in Chattanooga, and collected information helpful to our case. Dwight’s brother Marion and his late wife Barbara, from Las Vegas, were unable to participate in the ceremonies in Chattanooga, but they provided moral support through their cards, calls, and prayers. Their son Anthony, one of Leslie’s favorite cousins, sent a beautiful message that was read at Leslie’s funeral. I must also recognize Stefan’s wife, Heather, and his friend Rick Bakewell, for the emotional support they provided to him. Heather also provided the book cover picture.
Many friends supported us emotionally, spiritually, and physically by their presence. The late Ingrid Peter, prior to her death in April 2012, attended all of the memorials, marches, and Chattanooga City Council meetings and listened to me describe my heartache during countless long-distance phone calls. Our former pastor, Rev. Paul A. McDaniel, provided support and spiritual guidance during our initial and continued grieving process. The presence and encouragement of friends Johnny and Juanita Holloway, Dr. Phyllis Bell Miller, attorney Emma Jones, and the late Dr. Marcia Riley will always be remembered. Many other friends and relatives, as well as people who hardly knew us personally, forwarded expressions of sympathy and concern, which helped to sustain us.
I would like to thank my publisher, Rowman & Littlefield, and editor Kathryn Knigge. I certainly appreciate the significant assistance of my primary book reviewer and dear friend, Marsha Haskell. I consider her to be my literary angel. Other reviewers included Dr. Tom Linares, Dr. Vida Mays, Dr. Robert Polack, Judy Zabike, Jeanice Scott, Vera Campbell-Jones, Dr. Francisco Barrios, Joycelyn Phillips, Johnny Holloway, Dr. Morris Jenkins, Dr. Festus Obiakor, former police chief Carl Kinnison, and attorney Al Spradling. Further assistance was provided by Dr. Jeremy Ball and Dr. Linda Heitman. I thank Dr. Susan Swartwout for her superior technical assistance. I would like to express appreciation to attorneys Nick Brustin, John Wolfe, Amelia Roberts, and Barry Scheck for their support of this project. To all of the other supporters and friends of our family who have offered encouragement and prayers, I say thank you. Your words helped me to continue the journey.
Lastly, I would like to thank all of my former English and grammar teachers from elementary school and beyond. Those outstanding educators stimulated my interest in writing and facilitated the foundation for my ability to write, and are partly responsible for my enjoyment and appreciation of the written word. A special note of thanks is extended to Mrs. Christine Simmons Hicks, my twelfth-grade English teacher at Howard High School in Chattanooga, Tennessee. This may sound odd, but I really loved those English term paper assignments, which I consider an early precursor to my doctoral dissertation and subsequent writing projects.
Prologue
I don’t know where to start. There were so many times when I would say to myself, “Today is the day that I will devote to writing the book, and I will do absolutely nothi
ng else today.” Then conveniently, other things would intervene and postpone my good intentions. Maybe it was work, a telephone call that I initiated, volunteer obligations, or just an unlimited number of various excuses to keep me from sitting at the computer and working on this book. I had to question myself, “Why the avoidance?” Was this something that I really wanted to do or just something I should be doing? I knew the answer. I learned years ago that humans are programmed to welcome pleasure, repeat the circumstances that are pleasurable, and avoid pain. I anticipated that writing this book would bring pain, and possibly intensify it. So, I chose the route of avoidance. I knew that I would have to uncover some feelings that I had tried to bury for the past thirteen years. However, I also remained convinced that this book must be written. In my opinion, only I could write this story. Maybe I was being selfish, thinking that only my perception of the events should be reported. Of course, I will also include some sentiments and reflections of other family members who were close to Leslie.
I always felt that there was a special mother-son bond between Leslie and me, maybe because I carried him in my body for nine months. I have heard other mothers of sons express this feeling as well. I am not the mother of any daughters, so I don’t have an alternative frame of reference, although Nancy Friday’s book about mother-daughter relationships seems to suggest that there is also a unique bond between mothers and daughters.1 Could Keith Brown be right in suggesting that African American men and their mothers share a special attachment? In Brown’s book, he shared a sentiment from Washington Irving that there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother for a son that transcends all other affections of the heart. From my experience, I certainly would not dispute that claim.2
I will ask for forgiveness in advance for being selfish and writing in the first person, but this is my story, from the viewpoint of an angry black mother. I said to one of my reviewers that I didn’t want people to think that I was just an angry black woman. He pointed out to me that, although the book had substance, I was an angry black woman. I had to admit that he was correct. Stefan, my younger son, is a good writer. I hope that one day he will write his story too, but this is my journey toward survival. I am uncertain if I will ever get there, but I know that the sleepless nights and numerous spontaneous incidents of fighting back the tears are indications that I have not arrived yet.
Over several years, I talked with several people about my plans to write this book. I received a lot of encouragement during those conversations but never put “pen to paper.” I spoke with other book authors, read books focused on the “how-to” of writing books, and talked to numerous people about my ideas. I also collected a lot of information that I knew I wanted to include in the book. I have boxes of “stuff,” probably enough raw data for two or three books. Yet I had still not begun this project in earnest. Sometimes I received conflicting suggestions. I was told to find a publisher first and then let the assigned editor guide me through the process. Then I was told to write the book first and then shop for a publisher. I was also advised that I needed to get an agent first. People sent me information on self-publishing and writing e-books. Additionally, I received a variety of suggestions about the audience I should address. I was totally open to suggestions and sincere in my requests for input. However, the inundation of well-intended solicited advice and information can stifle the process. I had written a number of published book chapters and journal articles, but this anticipated manuscript would be my first attempt as the sole author of a book.
Because there are so many facets to this story, I became more confused than ever in regard to where to start and how to proceed. Finally, I had the privilege of meeting noted author and successful entrepreneur Clifton L. Taulbert. His first book, When We Were Colored, is among my private collection of works focused on African Americans.3 The personal account of his journey through childhood and his reflections of those times were very inspiring to me. At the time that I finished reading his book, I never thought I would have the opportunity of actually meeting him.
My meeting with Mr. Taulbert was unanticipated. I attended the Delta Regional Authority Leadership conference in Little Rock, Arkansas, in November 2011, seven years after Leslie’s death. Mr. Taulbert was one of the speakers on a guest panel. Fortunately, I had a chance to talk with him at the end of his session. Maybe it was divine intervention that we were able to meet. When I briefly discussed with him my dilemma and confusion in identifying the audience for the book, he said to me, “Write the book as though you were the audience, and it is written as a book that you would want to read.” At that moment, it was as though clarity instantly surfaced! That was the best advice I could have received, because I immediately thought, “Yes, I can do that.” After all the years of struggling with where to begin and how to proceed, his direct statement made the path so clear, and yet so simple. I would write the book for me, Leslie’s mother. If no publisher would publish it, I would self-publish. If no one wanted to read it, I would read it. Thank you, Clifton Taulbert.
Introduction
One spring Saturday afternoon on the campus of the University of Missouri in Columbia, I sat communing with nature and being entertained merely watching people of all ages, sizes, and ethnicities walking by. The warm, friendly breeze reminded me of many past spring afternoons when I would sit enjoying the beautiful flowers and swaying trees, fanning the yellow jackets that seemed to be attracted to my perfume. And yet, as was so often the case, my thoughts drifted and focused on reflections of Leslie. My thirty-seven-year-old son Leslie could not enjoy the flowers. He could not see the trees. He could not even feel frustration with the interference of the yellow jackets. Leslie would not ever see another spring on Earth. He would never again laugh and talk with his friends, the people he enjoyed so much.
Leslie was a person filled with life and love. People enjoyed just being around him, drawn to him by his extroverted personality and his kind demeanor. Everyone expressed affection toward him. I know you have heard people describe a personality by saying, “When he walks into a room, it lights up,” or “He never met a stranger.” Well, that was Leslie.
My mind drifted more as I continued daydreaming about Leslie. During such times, I would often reflect upon Mary Dawson Hughes’s poem “You’re My Guest in Thought.”1 In her poem, she discusses how you can visit deceased loved ones daily through daydreaming. From her writing, I am especially warmed by the following passage:
For though my daydreams bring you near
I wish that you were really here
But what reality cannot change
My dreams and wishes can arrange
And through my wishing you’ll be brought
To me each day, a guest in thought.
Just observing those young people, many of whom were the age that Leslie would have been, I immediately felt immense grief, the kind that just appears and takes over your emotions, your thoughts. Now, I often refer to these experiences as a “meltdown,” as part of the grief process. I recently had a meltdown episode when on an outing with friends to see the movie Fruitvale Station, about the 2009 shooting death of unarmed, twenty-two-year-old Oscar Grant in Oakland, California. I had to go out and sit in the lobby. It was just too painful, and all too familiar, to watch scenes depicting the merciless and unjustifiable killing of an unarmed young man by a BART police officer at Fruitvale Station.2 You may be familiar with Elizabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.3 Each day, I struggle with one or more of these stages, trying to be a survivor, rather than a victim. With Leslie’s death, I am often stuck between denial and anger. Certainly, after thirteen years, I have not reached acceptance.
As I sat on the campus of the University of Missouri and reflected on Leslie, I suddenly felt the resurgence of anger. The contrast between my anger and the rainbow of flowers glowing in the warm sunshine on a beautiful campus seemed very surreal. Wha
t was the source of that anger? It was that the last persons his eyes looked upon were those who cared nothing for him, people who, I believe, hated him for no reason. I am still angry with those individuals, identified as public servants. These people did not even know him, had never met him, but they demonstrated such disdain for him that, by their unwarranted aggressive behavior, they denied Leslie his constitutional right to life. I believe that they would have treated an animal with more respect.
How often have we read of police officers or other first responders taking great personal risks in rescuing a dog or a cat from a distressing or potentially dangerous situation? One can face criminal charges for shooting a dog, for example.4 I am pleased that the lives of animals are saved, but I would expect no less concern or assistance when public servants encounter a human being in distress. We only have one physical life on Earth; at least that is my belief. Unfortunately, Leslie’s cry for help was answered with death.
The amazing irony in how Leslie’s life ended is that he had such a high regard for human beings, even those who were labeled as undesirable by some societal, stereotypical standards. We all have a purpose in life. Maybe Leslie’s life was to serve as a model of the demonstration of unconditional love and true friendship. I recall saying to him on numerous occasions, “Everyone who smiles in your face is not your friend,” or “Those guys are not friends.” His constant reply was “Oh Mother, he’s OK” or “They’re cool.”
As I continued my observation of people’s interactions—walking, talking, laughing—more anger consumed me. Again, I had to ask myself, “Why am I so angry?” I think it was because I strongly felt that Leslie’s life was unfairly taken, stolen from him and from us, the people who loved him so much. The ironic thing is that I remain convinced, as documented by two autopsy reports, that Leslie’s life was taken by people who were expected, and paid by taxpayers, to serve and protect him. His constitutional rights were violated and dismissed. In accordance with the Fourteenth Amendment of the United States Constitution, Leslie was deprived of life and liberty and denied protection under the law. He was unarmed and helpless at the time of his death, causing no harm to any individual. Leslie’s life ended on January 2, 2004, in Chattanooga, Tennessee.