13 Days in Ferguson Read online

  “Something different,” my father-in-law says.

  Day five. Day five. It’s hard to wrap my mind around that number. Five straight days of unrest and uncertainty. The only thing I’m sure of is that the protests will continue tonight. I expect a larger crowd and a more significant police presence.

  At the command post, rumors fly through the room: The governor is calling in the National Guard, declaring a state of emergency, imposing a curfew.

  Like everyone else here, I’m on edge—pacing, sipping at a can of soda, drifting outside, then back inside again. At one point, I cruise up to West Florissant to see for myself what’s happening. As I drive, I battle a mix of feelings—from frustration to uselessness. Everyone seems to want to draw a stark division between the two groups on the streets—protesters and law enforcement—and assign a fixed value to the distinction: good versus evil.

  Of course, it’s not that simple.

  The protesters come from a wide swath of humanity, including people with a cause—angry, impatient citizens determined to express themselves peacefully; people who feel forgotten, unseen, and unheard; people who want to show their support for the people of Ferguson and the Brown family; and a stream of state and national officials, here for a variety of reasons.

  Mixed in and among the demonstrators, walking alongside them, are reporters from the national news networks; cable news outlets such as CNN, MSNBC, and VICE News; major news magazines and newspapers; and Internet news sources such as the Huffington Post and the Daily Beast. And then there are those who call themselves members of the media—some even waggle homemade press passes—but who don’t represent actual media outlets; they simply own cell phones and feverishly post photos on Twitter, Facebook, or Instagram.

  Finally, there are the rioters—people enraged by the Michael Brown shooting who feel compelled to wreak mayhem, damaging or destroying whatever building, obstacle, or person stands in their way—and the looters, opportunists who use the unrest as an excuse to take things that don’t belong to them.

  One cannot paint the other side—law enforcement—with a single brushstroke either. Officers from more than fifty law enforcement agencies have descended on Ferguson, including those who have come on their own. This wide array of officers arrives with differing levels of training and experience. Given the tension here, I’m not sure that more equals better. I don’t believe we’re accomplishing anything by bringing in more force, by becoming more militarized.

  I hear horror stories. I hear about nerves fraying and adrenaline-fueled aggression. I hear about police smashing camera equipment, running people off the streets, screaming profanities at protesters, arresting innocent people who don’t disperse as quickly as they demand, and even hauling off and arresting members of the media because they can’t distinguish them from the protesters.

  But in contrast to one report that says we are arresting only peacekeepers or members of the media, we have also been arresting rioters and looters who vandalize businesses and attack other people, including the police. It’s fair to say we’re not batting 1.000. It’s also fair to say we’re not batting .000.

  Journalists need to write, record, and broadcast this story. The younger ones, the upstarts from the lesser-known outlets competing with the larger national news organizations, elbow their way to the front, fighting for their space, taking more chances. I want them to get the story, but I fear for their safety.

  We warn them. Officers shout through bullhorns and loudspeakers, “Clear the street!” and I hear a voice in the crowd respond, “I’m a journalist. I need to be here.”

  Then I hear, “I’m telling you to clear the street,” followed by a journalist defiantly saying, “I’m here in a peaceful way, and I’m not leaving.”

  And then the officers’ instincts kick in. They charge, swarm, and force the journalist to leave.

  I understand the police perspective. But I also respect the journalists and see that they, too, want their voices to be heard.

  All of us—citizens, protesters, journalists, police—need to talk to each other.

  Even more, we need to help each other.

  But right now, on this Wednesday night, we face off against each other—police and protesters—two lines formed in defiance and anger.

  We won’t get anywhere this way.

  We’ll just be right back here tomorrow.

  Night falls on day five. The protesting escalates. Rioters emerge from the crowd. They throw bottles, rocks, Molotov cocktails. They fire guns. Law enforcement reacts. Voices crackle through bullhorns.

  “Go home or face arrest!”

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  The streets erupt with smoke bombs, flash grenades, and tear gas. And then the searing ping-ping-ping-ping of the sound cannon, a Long Range Acoustic Device (LRAD) that works like a sonic machine gun to the brain.

  Ping-ping-ping-ping . . .

  It doesn’t stop.

  People cover their ears, screaming, crying, choking on the smoke and tear gas, running . . . the world a circle . . . nobody able to find their way out . . .

  Flash grenades scuttle across the asphalt and into neighboring yards. Fires burn where Molotov cocktails have landed. Voices wail.

  “I’m not doing anything!” someone yells.

  The cops respond: “CLEAR. THE. STREET.”

  We sit at the command post, trapped in a circle of despair.

  A long silence.

  “This isn’t working,” somebody says.

  Jon Belmar buries his face in his hands. After a moment, he lifts his head. His eyes have turned the color of ash.

  “We’re going to go home and think about something different to do tomorrow,” he says.

  The fear. The anger. The pain.

  It all melds together and becomes a smell.

  It’s on me.

  All over me.

  I smell it on my clothes.

  I can’t rub it off.

  I can’t wash it away.

  It seeps out of my pores.

  I pray.

  Please, God, I ask you . . . please . . . give us a different morning.

  I lie in bed.

  I think of my hero.

  My dad.

  If I had a problem, I went to him. He always had the answer.

  He was a policeman.

  He would know what to do.

  Dad, what do I do?

  I wish he could tell me.

  Sleep won’t come. I stare at the ceiling. I slam my eyes closed. I try to slow my breathing and shut everything out of my mind.

  I breathe.

  In.

  Out.

  Again.

  I open my eyes and I see . . . Ferguson . . . West Florissant. Crammed with people—thousands of people—marching, shouting, fists in the air. They see me and slowly start walking toward me. Advancing, they come closer . . . closer . . . I blink, furiously, because . . .

  They have no faces.

  Nobody has a face.

  I can’t see any faces.

  A DIFFERENT MORNING

  * * *

  Step right up, be a man;

  You need faith to understand.

  So we’re saying for you to hear,

  “Keep your head in faith’s atmosphere.”

  EARTH, WIND & FIRE

  “KEEP YOUR HEAD TO THE SKY”

  ON THURSDAY MORNING, I speak to members of student government at Riverview Gardens High School, the same high school I attended and where the poorer residents of Ferguson go.

  I speak to twenty-five students, the majority of them African American. They express confusion and deep emotion. One young woman sitting in the back bursts into tears. For days she has felt nothing but pain and loss. I tell her I understand and that I share her feelings. I pass out my business card and invite the students to call or e-mail me at my office anytime. I then ask each of them to write me a letter about how these days in Ferguson have had an impact on them and how they feel. I tell them to wri
te from their hearts and not hold anything back; that after these days have passed—after this crisis is over—I will read their letters to the troopers who have been assigned here. I remember my prayer from last night and share my words with them.

  “Today is going to be different,” I say. “I know it’s going to be different.”

  As I leave the high school and head to the command post, my boss, Bret Johnson, calls me.

  “What’s up, Bret?”

  “The governor is coming to town. He’s holding a press conference.”

  This can mean only one thing. He’s making some changes.

  “What’s this about?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Bret says. “The colonel will be there, and he wants all of us there too.”

  “Who else?”

  “Everybody,” Bret says. “The mayor of St. Louis City, the county executive of St. Louis County, Belmar . . . everybody.”

  “This involves us,” I say. “It has to. We’re the only agency the governor leads.”

  “I know nothing,” Bret says.

  I’m pretty sure I believe him.

  Bret gives me the time and place for the governor’s press conference.

  “On my way,” I say.

  We meet in a small community room at the University of Missouri, St. Louis. Clearly the governor’s staff has spread the word that he will be making a major announcement, because members of the national and local media jam into a larger connecting room where the governor will hold the actual press conference. I drift into the smaller room and see Jon Belmar standing by himself. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. I walk over to him.

  “Last night,” he says, shaking his head.

  “I know,” I say. “The worst night yet.”

  We both go silent, waiting. Belmar nods toward the governor. “What’s he going to say? What do you hear?”

  “I just heard he’s going to make some changes,” I say. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “No idea?”

  “None.”

  After another brief, awkward silence between us, we turn our attention to Governor Jay Nixon—tall, white haired, and distinguished looking, but appearing anxious or even nervous—who stations himself at the front of the room. He rifles through some papers, pauses to gather himself, and then speaks rapidly.

  “Over the past several days, we have all been deeply troubled by this crisis, as the pain of last weekend’s tragedy has been compounded by days of grief and nights of conflict and fear.”

  I shift my weight and try to focus on the words in the governor’s blistering delivery.

  “What’s gone on here over the last few days is not what Missouri’s about. It’s not what Ferguson is about. This is a place where people work, go to school, raise their families, and go to church—a diverse community, a Missouri community. But lately, it’s looked a little bit more like a war zone. And that’s unacceptable.”

  The governor peers at the paper in front of him and then looks up. He speaks so quickly now that he doesn’t appear to breathe.

  “Literally, the eyes of our nation and the world are on us. In order for that important process of healing and reconciliation to begin, we need to address some very immediate challenges. That’s why today I’m announcing that the Missouri Highway Patrol, under the supervision of Captain Ron Johnson, who grew up in this area, will be directing the team that provides security in Ferguson.”[1]

  I feel . . . staggered.

  I did not know about this. I did not expect it. I had no inkling, no insight, no warning.

  I feel my pulse rocket and my mouth go dry.

  The governor just put me in charge.

  What does this mean?

  What am I supposed to do?

  It suddenly occurs to me that now I am not only in charge but have also just replaced Jon Belmar, who is standing right next to me. I turn to him and read his expression—a mixture of shock and anger.

  “Hey, Jon,” I say. “I had no idea.”

  He stiffens and his stare bores right through me—and then he turns away.

  He doesn’t believe me.

  I suppose if our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t believe him either.

  I want to say something else to him, but no words come.

  The governor finishes his speech. He thanks the members of law enforcement and emphasizes the need for understanding and healing in Ferguson. Within seconds, I find myself swept up into a group of people I don’t know, and then I’m face-to-face with the governor. He shakes my hand.

  “The colonel and I believe you’re the guy for the job.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you need anything—”

  His voice trails off. He seems on edge, as if he’s about to burst. I would bet he hasn’t had much sleep lately—like the rest of us.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say.

  “When we get in there with the media, I’ll basically repeat what I just said, and then I’ll introduce you.”

  “That sounds fine.”

  A member of the governor’s staff materializes in front of me. He nods and presses a dark-colored binder into my hands.

  “Congratulations,” he says, looking down at the binder. “We wrote a statement for you. The governor wants you to read it at the press conference. It’s short.”

  “Okay,” I say, still trying to grasp what is happening.

  “Do you want to look it over?” the staffer asks. When I blink, confused, he adds, “The statement.”

  “Oh. Sure. Yes.”

  I open the binder and glance at the typed statement. All I see is a jumble of words, a blotch of letters swimming on a white page. I cannot fathom their meaning.

  “Are you good with it?” the staffer says.

  “Yes. It’s fine.”

  “The governor wants you to stand behind him at the press conference.”

  “Great,” I say.

  The next thirty minutes evaporate, and I find myself being shuttled along with the same group of people, including the governor, from the smaller room to a larger one cluttered with cameras, boom microphones, and members of the media. I follow the governor up a few steps onto a stage. He moves to a podium and for the next four minutes repeats the same speech he delivered a few minutes ago. He talks about making a change and the need for healing and reconciliation. He praises the Missouri State Highway Patrol, and then he introduces me, the new head of security for Ferguson. As the governor turns toward me, I step forward to the podium, flip open the binder, and begin reading.

  The statement floats out of my mouth, but I have no idea what I’m saying. I speak by rote, by reflex—the words well crafted yet canned, uncontroversial; necessary but generic. Certainly not me.

  I know I say something about breaking “this cycle of violence” and “how important it is that Ferguson has confidence in law enforcement,” but I really don’t comprehend the words that are crossing my lips. When I finish the last sentence, I look up, mutter “thank you,” and step back behind the governor. The entire speech takes just under a minute.

  As Charles Dooley, the St. Louis County executive, steps to the podium, I close my eyes and try to gather myself. I need to find my bearings. I need to breathe. I need to grab hold of this moment. I think about the words I just read and feel as if I’ve lost an opportunity. I should have said something in my own words. I should have spoken from my heart. The governor appointed me. The people—the country—should have heard from me. I vow to always speak for myself from now on, for better or worse. I open my eyes, knowing that I will have another chance. I believe in second chances. We all must believe in second chances.

  My second chance comes a few minutes later.

  Back at the podium, responding to questions from the press, Governor Nixon prepares to take one last question. He points to a local reporter named David.

  “I’d still like to hear from Captain Johnson what he says he’s going to do different tonight,” David says.

  The
governor whips around toward me and steps to the side. I walk to the podium and nod at the reporter.

  “So, Captain,” he says in a voice that sounds both skeptical and challenging, “I was wondering, what are you going to do differently tonight? Are you still going to roll in there with armored vehicles and police in full body gear or have a different appearance?”

  “We’re going to go back and assess—”

  I stop myself.

  I sound like a robot, as if I’m quoting from some kind of nonexistent riot-control manual.

  I start again. I speak slowly, and this time I speak from my heart.

  “We’re going to start from today,” I say. “We’re not going to look back in the past.”

  And then, finding the reporter’s eyes, I add, “When we talk about boots on the ground, my boots will be on the ground.”

  I remember now that we have received word of several members of the clergy leading a march this afternoon down West Florissant to the remains of the QuikTrip.

  I know what I have to do. I will walk with those people as if I belong with them, as if I am one of them.

  The words tumbling out, I say, “Actually, I plan on walking to the QuikTrip, which has been called Ground Zero, and meeting with the folks there myself tonight.”

  The moment I say this, the atmosphere shifts in the room. The air crackles. I feel a low-level hum. I don’t hear it; I feel it.

  “We are going to have a different approach,” I say, “the approach that we are in this together.”

  And then I tell the people gathered in front of me—the assembled law enforcement, public officials, and members of the media—about speaking to the students at Riverview Gardens High. I tell them about the young woman who cried. I tell them about suggesting that the kids write letters to me that I will share with troopers after these days are over.

  And I tell them about my prayer.

  “Like I do each and every night, I pray for a different morning,” I say. “Today is going to be a different day for our community. . . . We’re going to make a change today.”[2]

  The press conference ends and a throng of city, county, and state officials pummel me with handshakes and good wishes. They repeat, You’ve got my support—anything I can do, over and over, as if on a loop. The governor pulls me aside, grips my hand again, and says, “You did great in there. I’m here if you need me. Good luck.” And then he disappears.