The Blue Executions (25 page)

*

Lambert tilted his head slightly in recognition.  “Mr. Mitchell.”  His response was cordial but he was in no way happy with Reverend Mitchell. 

Standing out in the sun in near one hundred degree heat, in uniform, to police a demonstration against a good friend of his was the last thing in the world Lambert wanted to be doing.  In fact, he was denied the day off and was
missing his only sister’s engagement party because of the demonstration.  In his own estimation, it was already one of the worst days of Lambert’s career.

Lambert and Stargell, along with a dozen other officers were assigned to bring up the rear of the march.  Once the marchers reached the precinct they would be assigned to either side of Baisley Boulevard, making sure none of the protesters were blocking the sidewalk.  Lambert knew that would be the easiest part of the day as the metal police barriers would do the job for them. 

“What a waste of time.”  Dave Stargell was just as unhappy about having to be at the detail as Lambert was.  “I wanted to collar up tonight so I can get an
R.D.O. court
tomorrow to draw up the affidavit.”

Lambert and Stargell were a very active team that tried to make a felony arrest every Saturday night—as Sunday was their
regular day off,
they would be paid overtime to process the arrest and draw up the court affidavit.  Lambert looked at Stargell, who was about four inches shorter than him but had to outweigh him by thirty pounds.  There were beads of sweat clearly visible against his dark brown complexion.  “Maybe next Saturday Dave.”

Stargell watched as the precinct’s Executive Officer walked along side of Reverend Mitchell and Ms. Jackson at the head of the procession.  He could see members of the media filming every step.  Officers from the precinct flanked the marchers on either side, keeping them
penned in along Brewer Boulevard.

Stargell shook his head.  “This is such bullshit.  They have Captain Blaine and all of our cops standing out here marching with these knuckleheads, but the entire Task Force—who by the way—is trained in civil disobedience, is sitting on their assess in
our
precinct.”   

Lambert agreed.  “This job always does things ass backwards.  Why aren’t they the ones out here in the heat while
we
hide in the precinct on standby?”  He looked at Stargell, who took a towel from his back pocket dabbing away the beads of sweat.  “You know what else pissed me off…Captain Blain telling us at roll call,
‘no hats and bats’
.”  He shrugged his shoulders.  “Are they trying to get us killed?”

Stargell placed the towel back in his back pocket.  “I know.  How dare they tell us we can’t carry our batons or wear our riot helmets? 
I’m glad the delegates are going to file a grievance with the union on Monday.  Honestly, it’s so goddamn hot I wouldn’t have worn it anyway, but it’s just the point.”

Lambert nodded in agreement, glancing up at the sun.  “The job could care less about our safety.  It’s all about public perception.  They want us to be a kinder, friendlier police department.  If a few cops get hurt or killed along the way, so be it.”  Lambert shook his head in disgust.  “I can’t believe the Police Commissioner actually met with Mitchell.  What kind of precedent does that set?  You can’t give guys like Mitchell access to the department.”  He let out a laugh.  “I remember when the last P.C. would always refuse to take meetings with the likes of Reverend Mitchell, calling them nitwits in the process.  People respected the police a little more back then.  People aren’t afraid of cops anymore.  There
’s no respect at all.  Take those cop killings for example.  They have to be related; no way they aren’t.  Yet the job refuses to acknowledge that they are.  There’s some psycho out there killing cops and the powers that be could care less.”

Stargell agreed.  The lack of respect for the police was getting out of hand.  “Did you see a rookie cop on a foot post got jumped in the seven-five last night?  They beat him with his own baton, leaving him unconscious on Linden Boulevard.  They took his gun too.”

Lambert shook his head.  “Unbelievable!  It’s a bad time to be a cop.” 

The last of the crowd was finally reaching Brewer Boulevard, so it was time for Lambert and Stargell to join the march at the rear of the crowd.  They noticed close to twenty young men all wearing the same t-shirt with Jackson’s picture on it.  They were clearly together.  One of them met Lambert’s eye; he was a dark skinned black man with a pocked marked face and a scar across his left cheek.  He had corn rows and dark eyes which were now fixed on George Lambert.

Lambert didn’t like the looks of the man, he was not very big; average height and weight but he looked like there was a lot of rage built up in his eyes.  Lambert, noting that the media was at the front of the march stepped a bit closer to the male.  “Why are you eye-fucking me?  Keep marching.”  The man’s nostrils flared but he did not say a word.  He released Lambert’s eyes with his own and continued marching toward the 113 Precinct.

The march continued as planned with no further interaction between the man and Lambert but Lambert was keeping an eye on him.  As the crowd reached Baisley Boulevard, they turned east; the stationhouse could be seen in the distance.  They marched in silence in a tribute to the dead man
; many holding candles or pictures of him in memoriam. They would allow the Reverend Mitchell to speak for them once they reached their destination. 

The tail end of the marchers, led by the man with the pocked marked face had slowed
their pace as they walked up Guy R. Brewer Boulevard; allowing for a slight separation from the main crowd .  When the group reached 122 Avenue, one block before Baisley Boulevard, they turned right onto a residential street, making another right, heading north on Long Street.

“What the
hell are these guys up to?” Lambert remarked as he removed his radio from its holder on his belt.  Neither Lambert, Stargell, nor any of the other cops at the rear of the march took particular note that the group was almost entirely made up of young men ranging from their late teens to their mid thirties.

“113 detail portable to central,” said Lambert into the radio.

“Go detail portable.”

“Be advised we have a small group of about twenty who splintered from the main group heading north on Long
Street.”

Captain Blain was quick to address the situation.  “113 X.O. central, have that unit follow the group and have
one and four respond
from zone two.

Lambert put his radio back in its holder knowing a Sergeant and four additional police officers would be joining them shortly. 

*

Doris Williams stood along with over thirty other reporters in the press pen set up just east of the precinct on Baisley Boulevard.  She watched as
Reverend Byron Mitchell and Cheryl Jackson stood at the foot of the stairs leading to the precinct—the precinct where the officer that had taken her son from her was still assigned.  She listened to every word that the heartbroken mother had to say; after all, Doris Williams was also a mother.  She looked at the crowd which stood ten deep for almost two blocks to the west, they stretched across the precinct’s driveway to the entrance to the Rochdale Village Mall.

When the boy’s mother had finished speaking, Reverend Mitchell began.  Doris liked him.  He was well spoken, charismatic and always made his point without turning to violence.  He stuck to the issues at hand.  If she had not been working, she more than likely would have been here as part of the protest.  A shadow caught her eye; she glanced up to the roof of the two story police precinct—
Snipers? For real?  Are these cops kidding me? 

Doris found the presence of the Emergency Service Unit sharpshooters, stationed on the roof top to be offensive.  She was sure to make a note of it in her column. 
They wonder why there is such a distrust of the police in this neighborhood.  Reverend Mitchell didn’t deserve such distrust.  He was a man of God.

She stared up at them hoping to catch any one of their attention so she could express her disapproval.  She
then refocused on Reverend Mitchell, who was asking all in attendance, to bow their heads and share a peaceful moment of silence.

*

The man with the pockmarked face led the small group of twenty men back into the courtyard of the Baisley houses where Darrin Jackson had been murdered by the police officer.  In less than a half hour, thousands of people were scheduled to be standing at this very spot for a candle light vigil.  He stood motionless, gazing down at the tribute to a man killed by the white devil in the prime of his life.  There were pictures of him mounted on poster boards, other poster boards with tributes and remembrances scribbled on by friends and loved ones.  Candles by the hundreds were glowing in memory of the man.

This was not the first time Malik El-Khaleel
had attended a project memorial.  Sadly, he knew that it would not be his last.  All of the men standing with him stood in complete silence.  El-Khaleel turned from the memorial, looking at the police officers, they stood less than fifteen feet away watching him.  He saw the same
blue-eyed devil
that had yelled at him earlier. 
Only seven pigs.

El-Khaleel raised a hand in the air.  Neither the sergeant, nor the other six cops on the scene, recognized this as the signal that it was.  El-Khaleel, along with the rest of the protester’s removed their t-shirts to reveal a second one underneath; it was black, with a circular patch over the left breast.  The patch was red, yellow and green with a black panther in the center.  From his back pocket, he removed a black beret and placed it on his head.  He raised a fist defiantly in the air, “Black Power!”

*

Captain William Blaine was a fifteen year veteran of the New York City Police Department and had two years in rank as Captain.  He was second in command at the 113 precinct but today he was in charge of the detail.  Sensing Reverend Mitchell was nearing the end of his rhetoric, Blaine walked into the station make some necessary notifications—to his parent command (Patrol Borough Queens South) and to the Operations Unit at Police Headquarters.  He had been given clear instructions to keep both of these units updated every hour; or sooner if any incident arose.

Blaine had spent the majority of his career in non-enforcement units; the down time afforded him the time to study for promotional exams.  To the street cops, he would be considered a
house mouse
, but to him that didn’t matter, he was the next X.O. in the borough due to get his own command.  If everything broke just right for him, he could possibly be a full Inspector by the time he had twenty years on the job. 

Blaine looked around the precinct.  There were cops everywhere; their riot gear in black bags in every corner of the precinct.  The roll call room was overflowing with cops; just as every office upstairs had been to when he came out of the captain’s locker room shortly before the protest began.  Blaine knew
that it was overkill, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.  He estimated there were close to three hundred cops in the precinct right now, many of whom were here on overtime as it should have been their regular day off.  Between the members of the Queens South Task Force and the Queens North Task Force, the 113 precinct was the most heavily armed building in the City of New York at that moment.

Blaine
stepped behind the desk, where the four to twelve platoon commander was quick to abdicate his seat so the captain could sit.  Blaine checked the time, noting it was almost exactly an hour since he had last checked in.  He made both important phone calls, informing the respective units that there had been no incidents or arrests and that the protest was going exactly as promised; peacefully.  He hung up the phone, having totally forgotten about the
one and six
he had ordered to keep an eye on the splinter group.  As he hung up the phone, he heard an emergency radio transmission.  There was a great deal of noise in the background and the transmission itself was inaudible.

*

Lambert was the first of the seven officers on the scene to realize the seriousness of the situation.  As soon as the man with the pockmarked face and corn rows removed his t-shirt, Lambert immediately recognized the symbol of the militant, New Black Panther Party.  The radical, anti-white group often resorted to violence against both whites and police officers.  The hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.  “Oh shit!”

Lambert was furious with himself for not recognizing the trap earlier; at very least, he should have recognized
that when the man raised his hand, he was signaling for something to begin.  It was too late to worry about that right now.  Lambert could see more Black Panthers come from around both sides of the building; with the basketball court behind them, all means of egress had been cut off.

“Black Power!” yelled the man, his fist raised in the air.  The crowd answered back as they also raised their fists. “Black power!”  Lambert reached for his radio.  He turned his back to the panthers momentarily to broadcast an emergency transmission.  He keyed his microphone at the same time
that the sergeant and two other cops did, all of whom believed that their message was heard.  They were all wrong; their radio transmissions had all crossed over each other rendering them all unreadable.  A brick landed just feet from Lambert.  He looked up to see a few more men on the roof of the eight story building, hurling bricks down at them.  He heard a gunshot to his left and frantically raised the radio to his mouth for a second time to call for assistance.