That night, I removed my Timberland high-heeled boots from the box and placed them by the closet door. I ironed my blouse and hung it up and laid my jeans and suit jacket out too. I carefully wrapped my hair in my scarf. I wanted to look good because I was going to the FBI building to meet with the people who had the real power to finally convict my son’s killer.
The day before the decision was to come down, Attorney General Eric Holder and the Department of Justice had released a report from its Ferguson Police Department investigation.
The DOJ findings included the following: (1) a pattern and practice of disproportionate stops and arrests of blacks without probable cause, (2) unreasonable force, (3) racially biased handling of warrants by municipal courts, and (4) a pattern of focusing on revenue over public safety that violated the rights of poor, black residents.
Thank you, God! This had to be a good sign for the next day. At least I could close my eyes and try to sleep.
March 5, 2015
On the drive into downtown, Daddy, Louis, and me were silent except when I asked Louis to hand me the lighter. I quietly puffed away, turning up the radio to take my mind off my anxiety. I was jittery and my leg was shaking as Louis pulled past security and into the small arched driveway that was in front of another set of tall iron gates. On the other side was a large white-brick building. You couldn’t see a name or address on it. Chevelle pulled up a few seconds behind us, and Ben Crump and Daryl Parks were right behind him.
The wind whipped and cracked past my ears. It must’ve been the coldest day of the year so far. Everyone saved their greetings for inside. When we reached the door of the building, a tall FBI agent met us and ushered us to a check-in desk. Adolphus Pruitt and Attorney Gray were already waiting inside. I felt like I was on some top-secret mission. A nerve in my right cheek started jumping, and my stomach was on full-blown flip-flop mode.
“You OK, Lezley?” Crump asked. He had a lazy tongue and talked with a heavy Southern drawl.
“I’m OK. But we needed to be on time for this meeting. “Where’s Mike?”
“You know, Lezley, I don’t know, but just stay calm.” He patted me on my shoulder, and I felt a moment of reassurance. He always cracked me up the way he said my name. That helped lighten the moment.
Thirty minutes later, Mike still wasn’t there. Everybody was checking their watches and phones. I felt my heart start to race, and I was pacing nervously back and forth. I didn’t want to get upset.
“Gray, can you please go get him?” I asked with a tight jaw.
Attorney Gray was the local attorney on our team, but he had a stronger rapport with Mike. Gray whipped out his cell.
Several DOJ agents and FBI agents, mostly white men, had gathered around. There was one black female agent in the middle of them all. I connected with her eyes, and we had one of those silent sister-girl-hang-in-there moments. I took a deep breath again.
“Crump, can’t we just do this without him?” I said, rolling my eyes. I didn’t really want to have the meeting without Mike. Crump knew I was just saying that outta anger. Plus, it didn’t look good for us being black parents in such an important situation, and the daddy wasn’t even there.
Just then, in a cold gush of air, Mike came through the door. He had his regular hard-core demeanor and a stern face. Folks around the room spoke, but he didn’t acknowledge anyone except Gray, Pruitt, Crump, and Parks. He ignored my daddy, Louis, and Chevelle.
When he saw me, he looked me in the eye and walked toward me. I was startled at first, unsure what his intention was. I moved closer to Chevelle.
“Hey, Mike.” I did my best to keep it civil.
And then he grabbed me in a forceful hug. There was no tenderness there. I didn’t understand what the gesture meant. Chevelle’s face tightened. I saw my daddy and Louis perk up. I shook my head, letting them know it was OK.
“Seems as if we’re all here. So you guys can all follow me!” The tall, slender black female agent motioned for us to follow her.
Thoughts of Mike and his behavior quickly went away. I was trying to concentrate on keeping my balance walking up the cement steps. I held Louis’s hand as we were all led into a large conference room. When we entered, Fara was standing on crutches. I leaned in and gave her a hug. A short, well-groomed white man took over and began introducing himself to everyone in the room.
“Robert Moossy. Great to meet you, Lezley,” he said in a friendly, upbeat tone. He was full of energy like he had had too much caffeine.
Mr. Moossy quickly went around to each person. He knew everyone by name and was extra-friendly. But he was getting us in our seats at the same time. We were already late starting, and I could tell they weren’t going to waste another minute. My hand was trembling as I opened the bottle of water in my hand.
Mike and his wife sat across the table from Daddy, Pruitt, Chevelle, and me. Crump, Gray, and Parks were next to him. There was a black agent in charge of community relations present, but outside of a friendly hello, he never opened his mouth.
“Well, good morning. We are so glad that everyone could make it,” Mr. Moossy said, jumping right in.
Someone handed him a stack of documents, and he started passing them out. It was a large, heavy file:
DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE REPORT REGARDING THE CRIMINAL INVESTIGATION INTO THE SHOOTING DEATH OF MICHAEL BROWN BY FERGUSON, MISSOURI, POLICE OFFICER DARREN WILSON
I was confused. He began to break down what was in the pages in front of us. I was getting fidgety. I didn’t care about all this information about Ferguson and their bad policing. I just wanted him to get to the point. His words got faster and faster, and I felt myself crumbling as everything started going in and out.
“As discussed above, Darren Wilson has stated his intent in shooting Michael Brown was in response to a perceived deadly threat . . .”
I was breathing heavy, gripping the arms of my chair. I gasped for air.
“The only possible basis for prosecuting Wilson under section 242 would therefore be if the government could prove that his account is not true. Meaning that Brown never assaulted Wilson at the SUV, never attempted to gain control of Wilson’s gun . . .”
I felt like my air supply was being cut off. I needed water. I needed help.
“There is no credible evidence that Wilson willfully shot Brown as he was attempting to surrender or was otherwise not posing a threat . . .”
What the hell was going on here! Then, almost in slow motion, I heard him clear as a bell.
“Because Wilson did not act with the requisite criminal intent, it cannot be proven beyond reasonable doubt to a jury that he violated 18 U.S.C.§ 242 when he fired his weapon at Brown. For the reasons set forth above, this matter lacks prosecutive merit and should be closed.”
“What?” Tears exploded from my eyes.
I heard “Oh, nos” and “God, nos,” and then Mike pushed back from the table, kicking his chair over. Everyone in the room jumped.
“Fuck this bullshit! Fuck all y’all! I ain’t come down here for this shit!” He stormed out.
Agents from around the building ran out in the hall after him.
“Fara! What is this shit? What happened?” I pleaded.
“Lezley, after interviewing all the witnesses . . .”
“Don’t tell me that crap! This man killed my son in cold blood!” I didn’t give her a chance to say anything.
Meanwhile, Mike was causing an uproar. He stormed back into the room and began pacing wildly. Then he left again.
I was furious at the spectacle he had made. Then his wife, Calvina, got up and left.
I tried to catch my breath, but my mind and heart were moving too fast. I jumped up. “Fara, you owe me a better explanation than this!”
Fara startled, gripping her crutches.
“What are you doin’?” I asked, with a look of utter surprise. “Do you think that I’d hit you?”
“Well, no, no, Lezley. I just want you to calm down.”
&nbs
p; It was as if all the blood had been drained from my body. My cheeks got hot, and then I collapsed in my chair. She went on to explain and give me so many apologies that my ears overflowed. But I never heard the words I’d been longing for: that Darren Wilson would be prosecuted.
• • • •
I sat in the middle of the bedroom floor. I needed and wanted to escape, to disappear. I was wishing I had something to calm me down, make me sleep, make this all go away. I was weary and broken for sure this time. I mean, how much did these people think a person could take? The lawyers were talking about the next step being a civil suit, but that wasn’t going to put the cop that killed Mike Mike behind no bars. It wasn’t about money, never had been. It was about justice. We lost again. I was numb-minded and limp as CNN played in the background. Everyone was commenting on the day, but not Mike Mike’s mama. None of these motherfuckers wanted to hear what I really had to say!
I turned to the screen and was face-to-face with Eric Holder. I just kept shaking my head, wondering, What happened Mr. Holder? You promised me. I thought you had my back. I thought you understood.
“Michael Brown’s death, though a tragedy, did not involve prosecutable conduct on the part of Officer Wilson. Now, this conclusion represents the sound, considered, and independent judgment of the expert career prosecutors within the Department of Justice. I have been personally briefed on multiple occasions about these findings.”
The screen cut to the anchor, Wolf Blitzer, talking to Daryl Parks.
“I know the family, the Michael Brown family, is disappointed. But do you accept what Eric Holder said, that he personally reviewed everything and this was his conclusion?” Mr. Blitzer asked.
“Not only do we accept it, Wolf, but we thank the attorney general for his involvement. We also thank the line prosecutors and Fara Gold, who was one of the assistant US attorneys from DC involved, and many other FBI agents. If nothing else, I think that their involvement allowed us to get closer to the truth in this case. I think the truth plays a big role, in that now we know what happened. Whether or not they were able to file a federal civil rights criminal complaint against Darren Wilson is a total different issue. I think that the family, although very disappointed, in that the killer of their son continues to go free, is very disappointing to them and would be disappointing to any person who has lost their child. However, they are, as we said earlier, encouraged by the fact that the Justice Department has found the things that it found within the department. When you think about Michael Brown, think about the first thing that Officer Darren Wilson said to the boys as he approached them. He told them to ‘get the F on the sidewalk.’ That’s just not a way that an officer should greet young men who are walking in their own neighborhood. So we are hopeful that this action by the Department of Justice in Ferguson, Missouri, will lead to some positive change.”
I took my shoes off and threw them across the room. “It’s bullshit! It’s all bullshit!” I kicked and screamed and rolled over on my stomach and let the carpet soak up my tears. Louis cradled me in his arms, and we cried together.
• • • •
There was a knock at the door at 8:00 a.m. I couldn’t imagine who was at my door. I peeked out the front blinds, and there was a FedEx truck, but I wasn’t expecting a package. I looked through the front-door peephole and saw that the worker was holding up a letter.
I ran back into the bedroom and shook Louis awake. I had become so paranoid and was too afraid to answer the door.
“You expectin’ a package?” I asked frantically. “They at the door.”
“Just answer it,” Louis said calmly.
I opened the door and there was a FedEx envelope on the mat. I sat on the couch and pulled out a letter that was on official Department of Justice letterhead. I began to read the words out loud. It was from Attorney General Eric Holder.
In between the words, I could see his kind face again. But this time something was different. It was like he was trying to justify why the officer wasn’t in violation of Mike Mike’s civil rights. At the same time, he had to play his attorney general role and keep things from being to personal. But it was personal, and with each sentence that wasn’t formal, I could feel that he was a black man who saw the injustice. He was a black man who knew that my son’s civil rights and living rights had been violated, but maybe his hands were tied. I couldn’t try to analyze it anymore. I slumped over and my hand fell limp. The letter floated out of my hand and onto the floor.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
RAINBOW OF MOTHERS
May 2015
I grew up with my granny doing spring cleaning, and all the kids would have to get a rag or a broom or a mop, something. You weren’t going to be at her house and not doing something. Even with us moving a lot growing up, my mama was all about throwing out the old to make room for the new. I do it with my kids too. But I was also doing it with my life.
I read that there are five stages of grieving that help us learn to live without our loved one: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. A lot of days lately, I feel like I’m in the bargaining phase, feeling like what if I devote the rest of my life to helping others; or if only I could go back and stop that cop from pulling out his gun and shooting Mike Mike. Then sometimes I just feel straight depressed and ask myself, Why go on at all? So I was stuck and I knew I needed to get some help for real.
I just wasn’t feeling the church thing yet. I was praying more, though, and I was now open to therapy. I had to get to this place of admitting that I needed help. With black people, you just don’t hear us talk about therapy. It’s kind of taboo.
One of the experiences I’ve had that made me more open to even just having a support system outside of family was meeting Sybrina Fulton, Trayvon Martin’s mama. We had the same lawyer, and we were called to do an interview for CNN with Don Lemon. Valerie Bell, the mother of Sean Bell, was with us too. Sean was the unarmed young black man killed in 2006, on the morning of his wedding day, in Queens, New York, after five police officers unloaded fifty rounds of bullets on him and his two friends. The officers were all found not guilty.
When I first met Sybrina, everything was just too fresh and my spirit wasn’t as open. These ladies were nice, but what did they really know about me? They had lost their sons senselessly like me, but my life was different than theirs.
I was so nervous my feet even were shaking with each step I took. Don Lemon opened the door to the room we were interviewing in, and Sybrina rushed toward me.
“Hey, mama,” she said, throwing her arms around me. “God Bless you, mama,” she said, pulling back and stepping to the side. Sybrina was so full of life, and that inspired me. I couldn’t believe she could be that upbeat with all she had gone through.
Valerie Bell was a little older and had been on this journey longer than the both of us. She was more reserved. She was dark-skinned, attractive, dressed conservatively, and very gentle. Her smile made me feel like I could drop my guard.
“We got you! We got you!” Valerie said, hugging me tightly.
“Yeah, we got you!” Sybrina nodded, and the two of them just took me in their arms.
That afternoon, Don Lemon thought he was just getting an interview, but I think what he witnessed was the power of the love.
“I was scared to come here, y’all. I almost said no. But I know y’all are speaking to me from experience. You know? You offerin’ me somethin’ right now that I cain’t tell you what it is. But it’s somethin’. And somethin’ is more than nothin’.”
Valerie touched my hand, “Keep the memories in your heart; that’s going to help you to continue to carry on with your son, and believing and having faith in God will also help you and the close family members. That’s what keeps me, the memories of my son. He always did tell me, ‘Ma, I got this.’ So I’m telling you, ‘Ma, you got this.’ It’s OK to cry, scream . . . I still do. It’s eight years, but you got this.”
“You have to focus on when he was smil
ing. You have to focus on his first day of school, and you have to focus on Christmas Day and things like that. The happier times. Put a picture up when he was happy. And you have to focus on those. Just don’t focus on the death, because that’s going to eat away at you,” Sybrina said.
When I flew home after the interview, Valerie’s words kept coming to me as Tamela Mann’s “Take Me to the King” played softly in my headphones: “Losing my son was like losing a part of your body. But you remember, you remember what that part of your body has done for you. Like if you lose an arm, you knew what that arm did. So my thing is keeping the memories that will keep you and carry you on.”
That day I began to wonder how mothers like us all over the country could connect with each other and build a unified support system. Maybe then we could stop the violence against our babies.
• • • •
A new season meant shedding the winter coats and hats for some people, but for me it had a new meaning. It meant cleaning out my mind to make way for new ideas. After a heavy storm one day, I opened the front door and looked up in the sky and saw a rainbow. I hadn’t paid attention to much of anything in months, let alone nature. But the storm had really affected me and made me cry because Mike Mike loved it when it rained. I stood outside, fascinated by the rainbow, and rushed back in to get my phone.
I was acting more and more like Louis, going to Google every time I saw or heard something and wanting to know more about it. I quickly typed in the word rainbow.
rain·bow/'rān bō/
an arch of colors formed in the sky in certain circumstances, caused by the refraction and dispersion of the sun’s light by rain or other water droplets in the atmosphere.
The definition stuck in my head, and I thought about chasing rainbows and never catching one, but it was always beautiful up in the sky. That’s what it’s like when you have a kid that you lose. You know they are up there and may even see a beautiful image, but you’ll never be able to physically hold that child again.
Tell the Truth & Shame the Devil Page 24
