The niece stood in the darkened stairwell of the Winbrook Houses,
listening, as 20 feet away five police officers yelled at her uncle, who
had locked himself in his apartment.
It was 5:25 on a chill November morning. The officers banged loud and
hard, demanding that her 68-year-old uncle open his door.
“He was begging them to leave him alone,” she recalls. “He sounded
scared.” She pulls her shawl about her shoulders and her voice cracks;
she is speaking for the first time about what she saw. “I heard my uncle
yelling, ‘Officers, officers, why do you have your guns out?’ ”
The string of events that night sounds prosaic, a who-cares accumulation
of little mistakes and misapprehensions. Cumulatively, though, it is
like tumbling down the stairs. Somehow the uncle, Kenneth Chamberlain
Sr., a former Marine who had heart problems and wheezed if he walked
more than 40 feet, triggered his medical alert system pendant. The
system operator came on the loudspeaker in his one-bedroom apartment,
asking: “Mr. Chamberlain, are you O.K.?” All of this is recorded.
Mr. Chamberlain didn’t respond. So the operator signaled for an
ambulance. Police patrol cars fell in behind — standard operating
procedure in towns across America. Except an hour later, even as Mr.
Chamberlain insisted he was in good health, the police had snapped the
locks on the apartment door.
They fired electric charges from Tasers, and beanbags from shotguns.
Then they said they saw Mr. Chamberlain grab a knife, and an officer
fired his handgun.
Boom! Boom! Mr. Chamberlain’s niece Tonyia Greenhill, who lives
upstairs, recalls the echoes ricocheting about the hall. She pushed out a
back door and ran into the darkness beneath overarching oaks. He lay on
the floor near his kitchen, two bullet holes in his chest, blood
pooling thick, dying.
It makes sense to be humble in the presence of conflicting accounts. The
White Plains public safety commissioner declared this a “warranted use
of deadly force”; the shooter was later put on modified assignment. Mr.
Chamberlain, in the commissioner’s telling, had withstood electric
charges, grabbed a butcher knife and charged the officers.
The alert system phone in Mr. Chamberlain’s apartment recorded most of
the standoff, as did a security camera in the hall. And the officers’
Tasers carried video recorders.
Last month, the Westchester County district attorney played these for the dead man’s son,
Kenneth Chamberlain Jr., who teaches martial arts for a local nonprofit
organization and intends to file a lawsuit. He is lithe, with a shaved
head, and takes pride in a reasoned manner. “My family, we’re not into
histrionics,” he says. “We don’t run down the street inciting riot.”
His voice cracks, though, as he describes the tapes. “I heard fear,” he
says. “In my 45 years on this earth, I never heard my father sound like
that.”
The district attorney will present the case to a grand jury and has not
released transcripts. But the family’s recollection matches that of
neighbors who listened through closed doors.
They say officers taunted Mr. Chamberlain. He shouted: “Semper fi,” the
Marine Corps motto. The police answered with loud shouts of “Hoo-rah!”
Another officer, the niece says, said he wanted to pee in Mr.
Chamberlain’s bathroom.
Someone, the niece and neighbors say, yelled a racial epithet at the door. Black and white officers were present.
Kenny Randolph listened from his apartment across the hall. “They put
fear in his heart,” he says. “It wasn’t a crime scene until they made it
one.”
The police say Mr. Chamberlain was “known” to them, although it appears
he had not been convicted of a crime. There are intimations that he
wrestled with emotional issues. Sometimes, neighbors say, he talked to
himself. Who’s to say? As often, life’s default position is set to
“complicated.”
Many police departments have trained corps of officers expert in talking
with the emotionally upset. Their rule of thumb: talk quietly and
de-escalate. That night in White Plains, no one appeared to have
de-escalated anything.
Mr. Chamberlain sounded spooked. His son recalls hearing his father say
on tape: “This is my sworn testimony. White Plains officers are coming
in here to kill me.” A few minutes later, a bullet tore through his rib
and heart. The ambulance took him to White Plains Hospital, where he
soon died.
His son lives five minutes away. He says he could have talked his father
down. Standing in the office of his lawyer Randolph M. McLaughlin, he
mimes knocking on his dad’s door. “Dad, it’s me, Ken, I’m here.” His
eyes are bloodshot and brimming. “I always said, ‘I’m the protector
now.’ But I wasn’t there when he needed me.”
No comments:
Post a Comment