I grabbed them both in a hug and held on for dear life. I turned and looked at Déja. Her and Mike Mike were tight. They weren’t just brother and sister, they were best friends.
“Y’all, go on in your rooms for a while.”
“Mama, we cain’t stay in here forever!” Déja said. There was a quiver in her voice. She got up and tried to walk out of the room.
“Déja!”
I grabbed her, threw my arms around her, and just held her close. I rocked her in my arms, and we cried softly together.
The outside world had sucked me into a firestorm of confusion. I had to go to the store to get food and necessities, but now people had seen my face plastered on television. If I went in the grocery store or Walgreens or even the damn McDonald’s, people were looking, pointing, asking me how I was doing.
The police were finally going to release the officer’s name. I wanted to look the cop in his eyes so he couldn’t escape the face of a mother in pain, so that he couldn’t just run away from being held accountable. He couldn’t just walk away like he had done when he shot my son in cold blood.
The lawyers had me on a whirlwind of interviews. I had never been on an airplane in my life, and now I had to fly to places like New York and Atlanta, Los Angeles to Geneva Switzerland, and too many other cities to count. I had so many people telling me what to do, where to go, how to act, and what to say that I barely knew my name.
The lawyers insisted that me and Big Mike present a united front like two parents who had raised Mike Mike together. I was doing everything I wasn’t asked but told to do.
I wasn’t in any shape to speak to the media, and so I asked Chevelle to stand with me and speak on my behalf. Louis was right by my side every step of the way, which was a comforting reminder of how much this man had my back. He kept me strong enough to do what the lawyers said and appear in the media with Big Mike.
It was important to show that Mike Mike wasn’t just some black boy in the hood who didn’t have a daddy. No, he belonged to a family that loved him.
August 16, 2014
Governor Nixon issued a state of emergency for the Ferguson area and that they were imposing a curfew. “If we are going to achieve justice, we must first have and maintain peace,” Nixon said. “This is a test. The eyes of the world are watching.” I wasn’t convinced that the police or the governor were really going to deliver justice, but I did feel like I was being watched.
I pulled all the blinds shut. I was starting to feel paranoid that folks knew where I lived. I was at home on the phone with Chevelle, holding my breath waiting for the police chief of Ferguson to release the name of the officer who had shot Mike Mike.
Ferguson Police Chief Thomas Jackson stood in front of the media and shuffled his papers. He was shifting and stuttering as he presented the timeline of how Mike Mike and the unnamed officer “interacted.” My breathing quickened, my skin felt clammy. As the chief stammered, he turned redder and redder.
“Umm, anyway, so I’m here, umm, to talk about, uh, two things. Uh, first of all the name of the officer involved in the shooting, and then I’ve got a lot of Sunshine Requests for information I’m gonna be releasing information about a robbery that occurred on August ninth immediately preceding the, uh, altercation and shooting death of Michael Brown.”
What the hell was this? I hadn’t heard anything about a robbery. I was gripping the side of my chair with my other hand so tight my knuckles were turning white, as he went on and on about Missouri’s law that says, “Records of public governmental bodies are open to the public.” I was furious that the police were using this law now at their convenience.
“Um, it’s important to note that I, uh, I have made contact with someone who is in contact with Officer Brown’s family, um, to make them aware of this, uh, information being released.”
I let out a loud sigh. “This is an insult! Listen to him hemmin’ and hawin’. He just called my son Officer Brown!” I shouted at the TV.
I didn’t want any of this to be real. This was a bad dream, and I needed somebody to wake me up. I needed Mike Mike to walk through the door and give me that playful smile so I could be like, “Boy, you play too much!”
“Um, uh, I’m sorry, the officer that was involved in the shooting of, um, uh, Michael Brown was Darren Wilson. He’s been a police officer for six years, and he’s had no disciplinary action taken against him. He was treated for injuries, which occurred on Saturday. Again, I won’t be taking any questions at this time, but the packages will be passed out by my officers.”
The police chief went on to spell out the officer’s name and talk about the video they released. His name didn’t tell me anything about him. That name could’ve belonged to a black or white man, but when I did finally see his picture, I saw evil. I saw a coward. He was this person who used his badge to his advantage. He wasn’t protecting and serving anybody. I wanted to go to trial just to see the person who took my son from me in the flesh.
The police had a strategy. Their handouts to the press and the release of the Ferguson market video were conveniently released to the public. The police were crucifying my son. How was this just and fair? The police had drawn a line in the sand, making it clear that they’d protect their own by any means necessary. I knew right then and there I was about to be in the fight of my life.
But I believed that the truth would come to light.
• • • •
After the police chief’s announcement and meeting with Governor Nixon, I had an intense urge to know what was real and what wasn’t. “Chevelle, they said that’s Mike Mike on the video,” I said, taking quick puffs off my cigarette. “Mike Mike don’t steal. You know that.”
“I know. Have you seen the video? They’re tryin’ to smear his image, Nette!” he said, shaking his head.
“No. I don’t want to. You know what they tryin’ to do, and my son ain’t here to tell the truth!” I felt my blood pressure surge. “What I want the police to show me is somethin’ that can give me some type of understandin’ as to why my son is dead. That’s still my main question. Not the store, not the tape, but why my son was shot and killed!”
“We need to watch it, Nette.” Chevelle pressed play on the computer, and when the video was finished, he began to pace, rubbing his temple.
We were racking our brains to figure out how we could let the public know that there had to be some kind of terrible misunderstanding. We had to set the record straight. That video doesn’t show the whole story.
We didn’t have any facts to go on, but there was one person who did know something and that was Dorian Johnson. I didn’t know Dorian, although he had been on the news boasting about being Mike Mike’s best friend. But if Mike Mike’s mama didn’t know you, and I knew all his friends, then you weren’t no real friend. But I sure wanted to meet him now.
• • • •
I wasn’t seeing too much of anything with a clear head, but what was getting harder and harder to deny was race. Seeing Canfield covered by a mostly white police force, and this white police chief passing out packets and tripping over his words, and the white police officer who had disappeared on paid leave after shooting my black, unarmed kid, it was impossible not to see this as a black-and-white issue.
There had now been several politicians either reaching out to me or speaking out in support of Mike Mike, from Missouri Congressman William Clay Jr., to Missouri Senator Claire McCaskill. I appreciated it, but the main ones I should’ve been hearing from were the ones from Ferguson and St. Louis, and I hadn’t heard a peep from them. But the governor did want to sit down with me. I didn’t know what to think about that.
My attorneys, Ben Crump, Daryl Parks, and Anthony Gray, along with Adolphus Pruitt of the NAACP, set up a meeting at the downtown Drury Hotel for the governor to meet me. Former state representative Rodney Hubbard was there to give me his support too. I sat quietly next to Louis and Chevelle, wringing my hands in anticipation. Louis nudged me when the governor entered.
I could tell Governor Nixon was a tall man when I saw him on television, but seeing him in person, he was even larger.
“Let me give you a hug,” he said, leaning down. Hugging him was like hugging a big tree with a suit on. “I wanna give you another one, and it’s from the first lady.” He leaned back in, stiff in his blue suit. He had no passion, no emotion.
Governor Nixon didn’t seem sincere at all. It was like he was here because it was a good political move.
During the visit, I listened and cried a lot. Attorney Parks got some updated information and announced that Mike Mike had been shot in his head, that was what they called the “kill shot.” That knocked the wind out of me. Nothing else that the governor talked about meant anything.
“Huh? Nobody told me that! Where?” I demanded.
Attorney Parks pointed to the top of his head.
I began to shake uncontrollably. I let out a bloodcurdling scream, and the room went blurry, then black. My breath was cut off like a hard fist being punched in my throat had stopped it.
The meeting was over.
August 17, 2014
So, if “the eyes of the world are watching,” like Governor Nixon said then somebody ought to be able to tell me something about what happened at the Ferguson Market and the handful of mystery cigarillos my son supposedly stole, and what really happened on Canfield between that cop and my son? I wanted to go after the police hard for answers, but pushed that thought to the side, because I had just gotten slammed with the latest news that the private autopsy me and Big Mike had requested, found that Mike Mike had been shot at least six times, including four times in the right arm and twice in the head.
My head was now spinning in another direction. All of the shots were fired to the front of Mike Mike. What did all of this mean? It certainly didn’t prove to me that Mike Mike was in the wrong, definitely not wrong to make it okay to fire over and over. My son was unarmed and had on flip flops. Whatever happened to officers using a stun gun? That officer unloaded his gun on a mission to kill, not arrest or ask questions. I spoke to the pathologist about how those bullets entered my son’s body. He described that the bullets broke and shattered bones, and bounced around like pinballs in a game. I don’t believe there was any way Mike Mike could have had any strength to charge that officer.
• • • •
I’d been driving myself crazy trying to pick apart what could have happened. So, I was anxious to finally meet the last person who was with Mike Mike and the one he had talked to last, Dorian Johnson. I was hoping he’d tell me everything that had happened, because the whole Ferguson Market piece didn’t fit into any puzzle for me. I had taken Mike Mike to the Ferguson Market regularly. It’s one of the few stores near Mama’s house. That and Sam’s Market next door. Mike Mike would always go buy a green tea and some chips. I’d never taken him there and seen him buy cigarillos, though. That was a whole different store run for him.
Mike Mike knew I didn’t like him smoking weed. I put my foot down about him smoking. So he’d never even think about buying a cigarillo in front of me. It just baffles the hell out of me, because the store workers knew my son. For years he had even gone there with my mama or Brittanie or my Uncle Carl. I had a lot of questions, but now I was going to finally get some answers.
• • • •
I walked into Mama’s house with Chevelle and Louis. It was eerie today. Walking into the living room with all the pictures of her grandkids on the walls, in frames on the table. I brushed my hand over her black love seat that Mike Mike sat in all the time. Mike Mike’s diploma was front and center on the table behind the love seat. I swallowed a dry lump in my throat. A large picture of Brittanie, Mama, and Mike Mike greeted me next. Tears began to roll down my cheeks. The coffee table had a big, framed picture of Mike Mike in his cap and gown. Mama was most proud of that one. I had to turn away. I wiped my face and walked into the kitchen and sat down with Mama at the table.
I was meeting Dorian Johnson for the first time today. My leg was shaking something fierce.
I opened the door to let Dorian in. He was thin, mousy. He was shaking too and in tears, and the first thing he said to me was, “I’m scared for my life. I don’t know what to do and where to go. I think they gonna try to kill me.”
I didn’t have much sympathy. I know that’s wrong. He was still some other mother’s child. But the bitterness in me was bubbling up in my throat.
“If you knew my son and you were claiming to be a friend, why didn’t you go right to his grandmother’s house on Canfield when this happened and tell her what had just happened to her grandson? You kept runnin’. You already was some distance from Mike Mike. You was runnin’ because you was wrong!” I said, bursting into tears. “You kept runnin’ for three days. All we hearin’ is that this person was with Mike Mike, but we don’t know who he is. You ain’t a friend; you don’t know him for real!”
I calmed myself and tried to start over. “You were with my son; you could’ve told me everything. The police are down with the officer. They ain’t gonna tell me the truth and tell me what really happened. Why did it take you three days to come talk to me?”
He couldn’t answer. He was stumbling and stammering like the police chief. I just shut down and stared at him. Dorian hadn’t told no type of truth. He hadn’t told what was talked about before they went to the store—what was talked about while they were walking to the store, when they got in the store, when they left out the store. He didn’t tell me none of that. Dorian Johnson was the last person with Mike Mike; the least he could do was tell me what happened. But Dorian hadn’t told me any more than I knew before he got here. Meeting him was yet another disappointment on the already discouraging road I was traveling.
I’m of the mind that when you making up shit and don’t want to tell the truth, it’s usually because the truth involves yo’ ass.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LET MY BABY GO
August 18, 2014
There was a war zone just blocks away. I barely found the energy to get out of bed or go past my front room. Ferguson police had everything from helicopters to armored vehicles, and they was locking up so many people, young or old, anyone who even looked like a threat.
President Obama spoke. I had been waiting for him to say something. The more it looked like Wilson might get away with it, the more I prayed that the president would do something, set something in action. I listened carefully as he took his place in front of the microphone.
“I’ve already tasked the Department of Justice and the FBI to independently investigate the death of Michael Brown. I made clear to the attorney general that we should do what is necessary to help determine exactly what happened and to see that justice is done. I know emotions are raw right now in Ferguson, and there are certainly passionate differences about what has happened. But let’s remember that we’re all part of one American family. We are united in common values and that includes the belief in equality under the law, respect for public order, and the right to peaceful public protests.
“Now is the time of healing. Now is the time for peace and calm on the streets of Ferguson . . .”
I didn’t think much of what he said, because it wasn’t much. The most encouraging thing he said was that Attorney General Eric Holder was going to come to Ferguson.
Me and Chevelle, and Louis had to meet the attorneys downtown at the Eagleton Courthouse to get debriefed by the FBI about the investigation. I sat in the lead agent’s office with a blank expression on my face as he explained how over forty agents were going door to door looking for witnesses. Chevelle tried to explain that there are people coming up to us out on the streets daily saying they saw what happened. The agent assured us they were checking things out. I felt like they were just brushing us off. Just then, another agent peeked in and announced that Attorney General Holder was calling for me. My heart quickened. I was too nervous to talk to him by myself. I asked Chevelle and Louis to be with me. We were led t
o a private conference room. I sat motionless, my heart was pounding, I held my breath when he began to speak. His voice was warm and fatherly as he expressed his sympathy. He assured me that their investigation would be thorough. When he vowed his support to do everything in his power to bring justice to this case, my tears began to flow. I closed my eyes. I felt like the government was bringing in the big dogs for me. My prayers had been answered.
I just had to tie a knot in my faith and hang on a little longer, and hope Attorney General Eric Holder was going to open the door to justice.
• • • •
The county coroners were communicating with the lawyers because we ordered a special autopsy, and then the state had done their autopsy. Mike Mike’s body went through a lot before the funeral home got him. It was all too much.
My baby had been gone for fifteen days. Mama and Louis and Brittanie and I had been trying to plan the funeral, but we didn’t even know when we’d get his body back from the city.
But Austin Lane, the funeral director, had called to tell me to bring the clothes to the funeral home. How do you dress your son for his grave?
This morning, every time I got up out of bed, I had to get right back in it. I must have done that four or five times. Then I found myself wiping the same spot on the counter for minutes on end. I folded a basket of laundry. I was trying to do everything I could to delay leaving the house.
The men’s department at Macy’s felt like it was closing in on me, as I stood in front of a large table piled high with neat stacks of sweaters. I wasn’t sure if I was going to throw up or pass out. My eyes were welling up again. I was jittery, and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“You gonna be all right to do this?” Louis asked, gently rubbing my back.
I was trying to keep it together because we were out in public. Several people had already passed by pointing and staring. The black people gave me smiles, asked for hugs, then whispered, “Keep your head up, sister!” The white people who recognized me either gave me a quick, sympathetic smile before they turned away or flat out rolled their eyes and curled up their lip.
Tell the Truth & Shame the Devil Page 20
