November 2014
On November 17, 2014, Governor Jay Nixon issued another state of emergency. He ordered the National Guard to patrol the streets of Ferguson. It was rumored the grand jury decision would be coming any day. My nerves were shot. I found myself going back into a dark place again. It hadn’t been this bad in a while. I just wanted to lie in bed under my covers and hide. I tried to turn on Love & Hip Hop and let reality television drown out my reality, but I couldn’t tune the world out. What was happening consumed my thoughts. The lawyers were calling me daily. They were giving me updates on no updates.
I scrolled through social media to pass time. Facebook was on fire. Some reporters were saying that Governor Nixon’s latest actions were antagonistic. He was assuming demonstrators would be ready for action, and to me that was outright accusing folks of being violent before they did anything whatsoever.
“My hope and expectation is that peace will prevail,” Governor Nixon said, speaking in front of a press conference. “But I have a responsibility to plan for any contingency that might arise.”
A week later, on November 24, 2014, I was given a couple hours notification that the grand jury was going to announce the verdict. I wanted to be out in the streets among the people when the announcement came down.
Louis and me stood in front of the Ferguson Police Department on a platform. Hundreds had gathered with us. The cold air was tense and thick, like how it feels when a thunderstorm is about to happen. It wasn’t going to take much to send the demonstrators over the edge. I closed my eyes tightly and began to pray for good news.
Thanksgiving was in a few days, and my family needed something to be thankful for.
Everyone huddled around their cell phone or car radio, watching, listening, as Bob McCulloch, the county prosecutor, stood in front of the world, stiff, cold, unfeeling. He peered over his glasses, looking down on all of us, and then rattled off a slew of words that filled up my head so fast I got dizzy. He was aggravated as he rambled about the twenty-four-hour news cycle and its “insatiable appetite for something, for anything, to talk about, following closely behind with the nonstop rumors on social media,” he said sarcastically.
Then, finally, he announced, that the grand jury determined that no probable cause existed to indict the officer.
I shook my head back and forth. So many people saw this coming, but I didn’t.
I reached for Louis, but he was too far away. The crowd began to chant “Fuck the police!” and “Hands up! Don’t shoot!”
Suddenly, someone threw something through the window of an empty police car. The window exploded, glass flew everywhere. Then it went up in flames.
“Burn this motherfucker down! Burn this bitch down!” Louis shouted, raising his arms up and down in the air.
Louis is a peaceful man. He had tried to be strong for me all these months, but McCulloch’s announcement broke him. I grabbed him by his shirt and took him in my arms. Next thing I heard was gunshots. We ducked and took off running.
People were outraged. They were not turning back tonight. More police cars were set on fire. You could hear glass breaking in the distance and big crashes and kabooms. Flames had consumed block after block. Louis and me ran for shelter.
I lay on Louis’s chest that night, quietly staring at the ceiling. I thought about who those grand jury members were. Were any of the nine whites mothers? What about the three black ones? Was anybody a black man with a black son? Was anybody a black woman trying to raise a black son?
I was numb. Thick black smoke was still hanging in the sky, and you could still see the smoke coming from what used to be small businesses around these parts. But there was something still alive inside me. I know it must’ve been Mike Mike’s spirit, his voice whispering, “Mama, I know you’re tired, but you can’t give up.”
“Physical evidence does not change because of public pressure or personal agenda,” Mr. McCulloch said.
Our attorneys wasted no time issuing a statement:
“We are profoundly disappointed that the killer of our child will not face the consequence of his actions. While we understand that many others share our pain, we ask that you channel your frustration in ways that will make a positive change. We need to work together to fix the system that allowed this to happen. Join with us in our campaign to ensure that every police officer working the streets in this country wears a body camera.
“We respectfully ask that you please keep your protests peaceful. Answering violence with violence is not the appropriate reaction.
“Let’s not just make noise, let’s make a difference.”
It was all more bullshit to me. I wanted action, but I was too tired to think about what we were going to do next.
The officer who killed Mike Mike announced his resignation on the Saturday after everything. He said that after the state prosecutor’s announcement, he feared for his own safety and for the safety of his fellow police officers. I wonder if he realized Mike Mike had feared for his safety too?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
DECEMBER 25, 2014
Christmas 2014
We couldn’t even have Thanksgiving and be thankful. Holidays were always big for my family, and I made them big for my kids. But, coming off the Missouri grand jury’s decision not to indict, how was I supposed to, just a few days later, sit at the table where he used to sit? Usually the day before Thanksgiving, Mama would spend the night with Brittanie, then we’d all spend the day at her house cooking and hanging out. But I didn’t even want to wake up today.
Brittanie cooked anyway, but instead of us spending the day over there, Louis, the kids, and me didn’t get there until that evening. At the table, it felt uncomfortable. We all knew the obvious, but no one spoke about Mike Mike, or brought his name up for that matter. It was too painful. Mike Mike loved to eat and that’s why this was one of the hardest times to gather. We were sitting at the table looking at all his favorites—ham, macaroni and cheese, greens, chocolate cake, Mama’s famous sweet potato pie. I stayed on him about his diet, but I always let him take a break on days like this, because he loved him some ham. He wasn’t supposed to eat it because of the sodium, but I let him cheat a little bit. We tried to have something normal, but what was normal about this?
When Christmas came around, I was trying to be in better spirits. I wanted to skip Christmas this year, but I couldn’t be unfair to my other kids. After all, they had been through a lot this year. They deserved for me to try to make this holiday season as special as I could.
Everybody in St. Louis was trying to be positive and come together. But the elephant had been let out of the room. The lack of an indictment for Mike Mike’s killer had left this city with an even bigger bleeding divide. The public knew it was wrong, but that didn’t matter. The police were a machine. You can’t win, and even when you think you’ve won—like Wanda Johnson, the mother of Oscar Grant, the unarmed black man who was shot and killed at Fruitvale Station in Oakland, California—you aren’t really winning. She went through a trial and everything, got the policeman convicted for murder, and he was out in less than a year.
I was trying to fight the way I was feeling like hell, but I was slowly creeping to a space where I just wanted to lock myself in my room.
I decided to get myself together and accept the NAACP’s invitation to their annual jazz brunch.
I had a jittery feeling in the pit of my stomach. The Ritz-Carlton Hotel was just a short distance away from Bob McCulloch’s office, where the grand jury chose not to indict Mike Mike’s killer. I just wanted Louis to speed up and get us to the hotel as soon as possible. This part of town stirred up too much emotion.
When we pulled up to the Ritz and the valet attendant let me out, I was rushed by a group of people who were going into the event too. They immediately began giving me their “We’re so sorrys” and “How do you feels?” It was too much, too soon. Louis got us inside and sitting at our table in no time.
The room was elegant, and
I was starting to feel better about being there.
I was in shock when John Gaskin III, the local NAACP youth leader, called me to the stage.
“We want to present you with this small love token, Miss McSpadden, let you know that you are loved and that the county civil rights organization is remaining true to the fight for justice for you and your family. Ever since August, they’re saying, ‘How can we get this to the Brown family?’ There are several things in our office that are being mailed to you, Miss McSpadden, all types of stuff that people want you and your family to have for Christmas.”
As I thanked the room, my eyes landed on a chubby white man with glasses. I had to do a double take. When I got back to my seat, I whispered to Louis, “That’s the mayor of Ferguson, ain’t it?”
It was not only Ferguson Mayor James Knowles III, but also Ferguson Councilman Dwayne T. James. They were sitting at a table on the opposite side of the room from where we were sitting. My eyes narrowed as I looked behind them at another table and saw St. Louis County Police Chief Jon Belmar, whose department had investigated Mike Mike’s killing.
I was so angry I wanted to storm out. Instead, I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I dabbed my face dry, put on some fresh lip gloss, and was ready to face the room again.
I walked right past an area where Chief Belmar and Mayor Knowles were being interviewed. I slowed my walk. I wanted to make my presence known to them, so that they were forced to stop and acknowledge me. Ask me for the time. Something!
“I saw coming to the event as a way to help bridge that gap and increase our outreach efforts, because the city of Ferguson has always been committed to being a progressive community,” Knowles said. “I think a lot of issues have come to the forefront since August—and those are things the city’s going to continue to work on moving forward.”
“We can’t only see each other in times of hardship,” Belmar said. “We’ve got to see each other in times of joy, otherwise we don’t build those relationships.”
I stood off to the side and just shook my head. The mayor and the police chief didn’t part their lips to speak to me. They didn’t have to even give me a condolence or show me sympathy, but they could’ve at least acknowledged me with a “Hello, Miss McSpadden.” Anything. Anything. They were still government officials, and I am a citizen. They showed me their true character and what kind of men they were. They stood for nothing. So I have to keep fighting, even when I get weary, even when I’m scared and confused. I’ve got to keep fighting.
• • • •
Louis and me came back home with a Christmas tree, and Moo Moo’s face lit up. Jazzy was jumping all around.
“Mama, can we make it a Frozen Christmas tree?” she screeched.
“Naw, we ain’t doin’ nothin’ like that, Jazzy,” Moo Moo said, giving her a playful push.
“Y’all stop playin’! Let’s get everything cleaned up so we can decorate.”
“Let it go. Let it go!” Jazzy sang a song from the movie, spinning herself right out the room.
We all busted out laughing.
That’s just what I decided to do at that point. Even if it was just for one day, I was going to let all the stress and the fighting and the sorrow go and give my family the Christmas we all needed.
Christmas Day, Daddy had already arrived. He was sipping on a beer. Mama and Brittanie and her boyfriend and kids was on the way. Bernard and his girlfriend, too. Louis had the Christmas music going, and I was at the stove doing what I loved. I had my sweet potato pies filled, my collard greens were in the pot, next to the eye with my spaghetti, and my dressing, and mac ’n’ cheese was all mixed up and ready to go in the oven. My potato salad was chilled. Even though it was wintertime, Louis was seasoning up some ribs to put out on the grill. My ham was done and the turkey was in the oven.
I pulled out my bowl to start mixing up some cake batter and sat down at the table. I had opened my blinds and was staring out the window.
“Nette, you gon’ be able to get through today?” Daddy asked.
“Yeah, Daddy, I’m just thinking about last Christmas when I bought Mike Mike his Beats headphones.” I had to stop. I was getting choked up and my eyes filled up with tears. “I had saved my money all year to get those for him. He loved music.”
“Baby, it’s okay, just let it out. That’s why we all here together. We here for Mike Mike,” he said, standing up and putting his arms around me.
Everybody had gotten to the house, and we were all in a good mood. It was time to eat, and Daddy gathered everybody in the kitchen. It was tight, but we were going to bless the food together. Louis gave me a nod.
“Well, um, I just want y’all to know how happy I am that we here together. We made it, and some days I wasn’t sure.” I choked back my tears, but Brittanie couldn’t. I looked over at her and they were streaming down her face. “I know this is hard for all of us, but we made it and God blessed us, and He gonna keep on blessing us.”
Everybody hugged the next person, and then we got down to the business of eating. We all felt some sadness in our hearts, but today we just wanted to remember Mike Mike’s laugh and his smile. Mike Mike loved his family. So I know his gift to us was bringing us together even though he was no longer with us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SMOKE AND MIRRORS
March 4, 2015
A reporter asked me once if there was anything they could do. I think I shocked him when I said, “Yes, do you have a life that I can give to my son so that he can come back?” He was speechless. That was several months before, when I was still dealing with a lot of denial about Mike Mike being gone for good.
When Mike Mike was put in the ground on August 25, 2014, I knew for sure then that he wasn’t coming back. And so I’d been fighting what felt like the world since then. It had taken a lot to keep hope alive, but the Justice Department opening its case seven months before proved to the world that Mike Mike’s death wasn’t right. I still believed that justice was possible.
The next day the Department of Justice was going to make its decision. My anxiety was starting to build up again. Cleaning up was always good therapy, but I had scrubbed the bathroom twice, fed the fish, mopped the kitchen floor, and vacuumed. Louis was at work, the kids were at school. I felt like I was going to jump out of my skin. I could hear myself breathing. It felt like the walls were starting to close in on me. I fired up a cigarette and looked out the window at the empty street, and it made me think about Mike Mike lying out there alone that day. A firelike feeling shot through my spine. I had to shake off that horrific image of my baby. I jumped into my car with a broom, my mind set on one place: Canfield Drive.
When I got out the car in front of the makeshift memorial for Mike Mike, no one was in sight. The dreadhead “cop watch” guy wasn’t even sitting in his regular lawn chair. But it was quiet, and I could be alone for a change.
With my broom in hand, I started sweeping the street and straightening up the stuffed animals. Some were dirty and worn, even had started to mildew; others were brand-new. I stood up a candle that had been knocked over. I needed to be here. I needed to feel my son. As I organized the items and swept away the trash, I wondered who all was going to be at the meeting from the DOJ. I had hoped Attorney General Holder would be there. The only other person I knew from the DOJ was Assistant US Attorney Fara Gold. She was my local DOJ contact.
We’d only met in person once, but we had developed a relationship over the phone during the last several months. Our exchanges were often volatile, because I was seeing that as much as she was saying she was on my side, sometimes she didn’t have any real answers for me. Our back-and-forth was mainly over text:
LM:
What’s goin’ on, Fara? Why we ain’t got no answers and it’s goin’ on two months?
FG:
Lezley, please be patient. We are interviewing witnesses. I am personally going door-to-door. Please, there is a process . . .
LM:
A process? Be patient? With all due respect, Fara, the police wasn’t patient when he shot my son in cold blood. You wouldn’t be fuckin’ patient!
FG:
Please try to be calm.
LM:
Calm! Are you serious? I’ll be calm when this man is indicted! I’ll be calm when my son has justice!
We had many more exchanges, but in the end Fara understood that I was just a mother who was refusing to give up. I knew she’d be there the next day. I just wanted to feel like somebody who knew how hard it had been waiting all these days and weeks and months was there. I couldn’t talk to Mr. Holder. He was too high up. Fara had been my only resource, and I just hoped she was going to come through for me.
I bent over to pick up a broken piece of glass. I had worked up a sweat sweeping the street and dusting off the still-growing pile of items that were placed there out of love and care from people all over the world, just for Mike Mike. So when I went up in them FBI offices the next day and met with the Department of Justice, I was going to take the spirit of all the hundreds and thousands of people who, even though they didn’t know me or my son or my family, felt my pain. I was going to walk up in there with my head held high. I just knew they were going do the right thing. They had to do the right thing.
Tell the Truth & Shame the Devil Page 23
