(first published at: http://www.xiffi.com/index.php?view=article&catid+303%3Acrime&id=161%3Asean-bell-tolls-for-thee&option=com_content&Itemid=70 )
by Andrew Arnett
Yesterday
I knew the Sean Bell verdict was to be decided today, but I didn’t think it would be this early, at least not before the morning dog walk and certainly not before that first cup of coffee. But there it was, first thing I saw when I turned on NY One News at 8:40am – “Breaking News: Police in Sean Bell Case Acquitted of All Charges”. I didn’t expect that verdict. Nobody expected that verdict, not even the cops, I would guess. With a verdict like that, it looked to be another big news day in Devilstown. Of course, in a situation like this, there was always someone bound to be upset. But the clearing of all three defendants of all charges would certainly tip the emotional scale into the deep end. Tempers were going to be stoked. There were already fears this might turn into another Rodney King affair. Now, that concern seemed more palpable.
What next? After the verdict, the family of Sean Bell, accompanied by Reverend Al Sharpton, stormed out of the court house, abruptly canceling all scheduled press conferences. There would be no statements made. The silence was, of course, deafening. The entourage chose, rather, to go to the grave sight of Sean Bell and commensurate and, I would suspect, plan their next move.
No statement had as of yet come from the Mayors office, and since the Bell family had left Kew Gardens, I figured the news could be found at City Hall. I was wrong. Sure, I made it down there quick enough, but found nothing there except for the usual suspects. No media, no television news vans, protesters, nothing. But this story was far from over, I just needed to catch up with it. I decided to go into Kew Gardens after all, and I knew that the F-train could take me there, even though I had never been there before. It is true that I did grow up in New York City but most of Queens and even parts of Brooklyn were as foreign to me as northern Mongolia. And Staten Island may as well be a moon circling Neptune for that matter. By this time I had wandered into Chinatown, so I asked someone who looked like a local where I could catch the F train and he told me to “walk in that direction for about ten or fifteen minutes or so.” By my estimates that would put me on the shores of Brooklyn, if I could walk on water. I negotiated my way past vendors selling dried dragon fish and spicy squid and shop windows displaying Fuchow Mimosa Moon Cakes and jackfruit until another helpful soul told me that I was heading in the right direction, just take a right on East Broadway then walk two blocks. I must admit I was tempted to veer into the Wing Shoow Seafood Restaurant for a taste of their Hong Kong Blue Crab Taco but suddenly caught sight of the subway entrance right across the street of the Sun Light Bakery Corporation so I decided to soldier forward for I am, after all, a professional.
By the time I got to Kew Gardens it was getting close to noon, and though the police barricades were still up around the court house and the cops were still out en mass, it seemed the angry mob of hundreds I had seen on TV in the morning had dissipated. The television news vans were there as well, but the crews were all on break. There didn’t seem to be any major riots breaking out, that’s for sure, and aside from two minor scuffles earlier on, this was far from being a Rodney King flashback. At least not just yet.
I was in Los Angeles in 1992 when those riots broke out. I was attending a music school and living in Hollywood the day the judge acquitted the cops in that horrific beating they threw on poor Rodney King. The verdict itself seemed to ignite a fire that turned L.A. into one huge Molotov cocktail. Over three thousand fires were started in three day’s, reaching into the Hollywood Hills and that enclave of the upper crust, Beverly Hills 90125. But the logistics of that circumstance proved to be very different from that found in our city. One factor is the layout of the two cities. Los Angeles is flat and spread out with many freeways intersecting it. When the Bloods and the Crips united to lay waste to L.A., they just loaded up their cars with Molotov cocktails and fanned out into the different sections, tossing the bombs from their cars without needing to even slow down. They moved like ghost riders in the night and no one got caught. If such a thing were to take place in New York, cars would quickly get snarled in grid lock. Of course the subways are the quickest way to get around here, but seriously folks, how many Molotov cocktails can a person carry on the train before things start looking suspicious.
Today
Today I made a concerted effort to get on top of the story. There was a rally scheduled to take place at 9am at Al Sharpton’s National Action Network Headquarters located on 145th Street and Malcom X Boulevard, then at 10am the Sean Bell family were scheduled to speak. When I arrived the streets were full of protesters and cops and the media was ubiquitous. The rally itself was taking place inside the headquarters so the throng waited anxiously in the streets for Sharpton’s next move. I pressed myself up against the window to try and get a glimpse of Sharpton while agitators shouted out slogans. One guy in dreadlocks chanted “Every dollar is a bullet. Hold back that black dollar . . . burn baby burn, burn their pocket.” This was by no means a strictly black thing, there were many white protestors in the crowd as well, and I felt no personal pressures based on skin color. This was more a rally against the system, and a desire for change there. Another man chanted “No justice, no profit, keep your money in your pocket . . .boycott, boycott!” It seemed that it might take some time before Sharpton would emerge from his lair, so I decided to slip into the Dunkin Donuts next door for some coffee. The establishment was a flurry of activity with protesters and press passes flapping about, but the Pakistani run establishment was delighted by the infusion of business. It would seem that the boycott may start soon, but not just yet, at least not until everyone had gotten their donuts and latte’s.Back outside, it seemed that things were coming to a head. They were lining protestors up in preparation for a march down Malcom X Boulevard towards 125th Street. The organizers had fashioned fifty placards, each with a number from one to fifty, representing the number of bullets fired in the Sean Bell incident. I was asked to hold one of the numbers but respectfully declined. I wanted to remain a fly on the wall, an impartial observer to the scene.
I continued to scribble overheard conversations into my notebook. One man said “We should have listened to Marcus Garvey and gotten the hell out of here.” Another person said “Malcom X said I don’t want them to give me anything because those Indian givers will just take it back.” Then, another kindly gentleman asked me if I could hold the placard with the number 24 on it, for just a moment. I said “sure”. And then the march began. Suddenly I was swept with the rest of the protestors down the Boulevard. Now I had become part of the story. Was this a compromise of my journalistic integrity, a blurring of objectivity? What the hell, at least it was a front row seat to the event. Hell, I was sitting on the stage. Later that night, on the CBS Evening News, I saw the number 24 march down the street in Harlem.
end.
by Andrew Arnett
Yesterday
I knew the Sean Bell verdict was to be decided today, but I didn’t think it would be this early, at least not before the morning dog walk and certainly not before that first cup of coffee. But there it was, first thing I saw when I turned on NY One News at 8:40am – “Breaking News: Police in Sean Bell Case Acquitted of All Charges”. I didn’t expect that verdict. Nobody expected that verdict, not even the cops, I would guess. With a verdict like that, it looked to be another big news day in Devilstown. Of course, in a situation like this, there was always someone bound to be upset. But the clearing of all three defendants of all charges would certainly tip the emotional scale into the deep end. Tempers were going to be stoked. There were already fears this might turn into another Rodney King affair. Now, that concern seemed more palpable.
What next? After the verdict, the family of Sean Bell, accompanied by Reverend Al Sharpton, stormed out of the court house, abruptly canceling all scheduled press conferences. There would be no statements made. The silence was, of course, deafening. The entourage chose, rather, to go to the grave sight of Sean Bell and commensurate and, I would suspect, plan their next move.
No statement had as of yet come from the Mayors office, and since the Bell family had left Kew Gardens, I figured the news could be found at City Hall. I was wrong. Sure, I made it down there quick enough, but found nothing there except for the usual suspects. No media, no television news vans, protesters, nothing. But this story was far from over, I just needed to catch up with it. I decided to go into Kew Gardens after all, and I knew that the F-train could take me there, even though I had never been there before. It is true that I did grow up in New York City but most of Queens and even parts of Brooklyn were as foreign to me as northern Mongolia. And Staten Island may as well be a moon circling Neptune for that matter. By this time I had wandered into Chinatown, so I asked someone who looked like a local where I could catch the F train and he told me to “walk in that direction for about ten or fifteen minutes or so.” By my estimates that would put me on the shores of Brooklyn, if I could walk on water. I negotiated my way past vendors selling dried dragon fish and spicy squid and shop windows displaying Fuchow Mimosa Moon Cakes and jackfruit until another helpful soul told me that I was heading in the right direction, just take a right on East Broadway then walk two blocks. I must admit I was tempted to veer into the Wing Shoow Seafood Restaurant for a taste of their Hong Kong Blue Crab Taco but suddenly caught sight of the subway entrance right across the street of the Sun Light Bakery Corporation so I decided to soldier forward for I am, after all, a professional.
By the time I got to Kew Gardens it was getting close to noon, and though the police barricades were still up around the court house and the cops were still out en mass, it seemed the angry mob of hundreds I had seen on TV in the morning had dissipated. The television news vans were there as well, but the crews were all on break. There didn’t seem to be any major riots breaking out, that’s for sure, and aside from two minor scuffles earlier on, this was far from being a Rodney King flashback. At least not just yet.
I was in Los Angeles in 1992 when those riots broke out. I was attending a music school and living in Hollywood the day the judge acquitted the cops in that horrific beating they threw on poor Rodney King. The verdict itself seemed to ignite a fire that turned L.A. into one huge Molotov cocktail. Over three thousand fires were started in three day’s, reaching into the Hollywood Hills and that enclave of the upper crust, Beverly Hills 90125. But the logistics of that circumstance proved to be very different from that found in our city. One factor is the layout of the two cities. Los Angeles is flat and spread out with many freeways intersecting it. When the Bloods and the Crips united to lay waste to L.A., they just loaded up their cars with Molotov cocktails and fanned out into the different sections, tossing the bombs from their cars without needing to even slow down. They moved like ghost riders in the night and no one got caught. If such a thing were to take place in New York, cars would quickly get snarled in grid lock. Of course the subways are the quickest way to get around here, but seriously folks, how many Molotov cocktails can a person carry on the train before things start looking suspicious.
Today
Today I made a concerted effort to get on top of the story. There was a rally scheduled to take place at 9am at Al Sharpton’s National Action Network Headquarters located on 145th Street and Malcom X Boulevard, then at 10am the Sean Bell family were scheduled to speak. When I arrived the streets were full of protesters and cops and the media was ubiquitous. The rally itself was taking place inside the headquarters so the throng waited anxiously in the streets for Sharpton’s next move. I pressed myself up against the window to try and get a glimpse of Sharpton while agitators shouted out slogans. One guy in dreadlocks chanted “Every dollar is a bullet. Hold back that black dollar . . . burn baby burn, burn their pocket.” This was by no means a strictly black thing, there were many white protestors in the crowd as well, and I felt no personal pressures based on skin color. This was more a rally against the system, and a desire for change there. Another man chanted “No justice, no profit, keep your money in your pocket . . .boycott, boycott!” It seemed that it might take some time before Sharpton would emerge from his lair, so I decided to slip into the Dunkin Donuts next door for some coffee. The establishment was a flurry of activity with protesters and press passes flapping about, but the Pakistani run establishment was delighted by the infusion of business. It would seem that the boycott may start soon, but not just yet, at least not until everyone had gotten their donuts and latte’s.Back outside, it seemed that things were coming to a head. They were lining protestors up in preparation for a march down Malcom X Boulevard towards 125th Street. The organizers had fashioned fifty placards, each with a number from one to fifty, representing the number of bullets fired in the Sean Bell incident. I was asked to hold one of the numbers but respectfully declined. I wanted to remain a fly on the wall, an impartial observer to the scene.
I continued to scribble overheard conversations into my notebook. One man said “We should have listened to Marcus Garvey and gotten the hell out of here.” Another person said “Malcom X said I don’t want them to give me anything because those Indian givers will just take it back.” Then, another kindly gentleman asked me if I could hold the placard with the number 24 on it, for just a moment. I said “sure”. And then the march began. Suddenly I was swept with the rest of the protestors down the Boulevard. Now I had become part of the story. Was this a compromise of my journalistic integrity, a blurring of objectivity? What the hell, at least it was a front row seat to the event. Hell, I was sitting on the stage. Later that night, on the CBS Evening News, I saw the number 24 march down the street in Harlem.
end.
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