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In Ferguson, protesters and police forced to learn as they go amid continued standoff In Ferguson, protesters and police forced to learn as they go amid continued standoff
(4 days later)
FERGUSON, Mo. — The pepper spray and rubber bullets have disappeared from the nightly protests on the streets of Ferguson. Also missing Monday evening were 13 air mattresses, 10 tents, five coolers, four yellow hoodies and a textbook on constitutional law. FERGUSON, Mo. — Gone are the pepper spray, tear gas and rubber bullets that shocked the country during nightly protests on the streets of this small St. Louis suburb, but there is little tranquility.
“I needed it because I was trying to learn about my rights,” said Dasha Jones, who looks even younger than her 19 years. She is a member of an activist group known as Lost Voices. Nearly two months after that explosive unrest, signs of crisis are everywhere as the city waits for a grand jury to decide whether to charge police Officer Darren Wilson, who is white, in the fatal shooting of Michael Brown, an unarmed black teenager.
For weeks, Lost Voices had set up encampments on West Florissant Avenue, blocks away from where an unarmed black 18-year-old, Michael Brown, was fatally shot by white Ferguson police officer Darren Wilson. Businesses remain boarded up. Angry residents paint “Don’t shoot” on their car windows, while others post lawn signs to show pride in the Ferguson that existed before the Aug. 9 shooting. Smaller groups of protesters continue to face arrest.
Acting on a complaint by a business owner, police descended on the encampment last week and seized everything Jones and her fellow activists could not pick up in five minutes. It was the third prominent symbol of this suburb’s struggle that was removed or threatened in a single week. The day before, a business owner near Ferguson’s police department told protesters they could no longer camp out in his parking lot after a nighttime tussle between police and protesters. And two days before that, a makeshift memorial on the street where Brown lay for hours had partially, inexplicably burned. The tensions underscore the vast differences between residents who want to get Ferguson back to what they consider to be some semblance of normal and those whose resolve is for Brown’s death to lead to systemic change.
As a grand jury is deciding whether Wilson should face charges in the shooting, this St. Louis suburb wrestles with the interim — and the unyielding protests that continue every night. “How we were living before wasn’t normal,” said Dasha Jones, who looks younger than her 19 years. She is a member of an activist group known as Lost Voices, young people from the neighborhood where Brown, 18, was killed, including some who knew him. “Now we’re learning our rights. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
The furor over Brown’s death has not subsided. The difficulties have come to underscore the vast differences between those who want to get Ferguson back to some semblance of normal and the resolve of those who want anything but. For weeks, Lost Voices had set up encampments on West Florissant Avenue, blocks from the site of the shooting.
“How we were living before wasn’t normal,” Jones said. “Now we’re learning our rights. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Acting on a business owner’s complaint, police recently dismantled the encampment and seized everything Jones and fellow activists could not pick up within five minutes.
It appears to be a learning experience for protesters and police alike. The police department has stumbled from one tactic to another as it tries to contain demonstrators. And protesters, many of them politically active for the first time, are also learning as they go. It was the third prominent symbol of this suburb’s struggle that was removed or threatened in less than a week. A day earlier, the owner of a business near Ferguson’s police department told protesters that they could no longer gather in his lot, following a nighttime tussle between demonstrators and authorities. And two days before that, a makeshift memorial on the street where Brown’s body lay for hours had partially, inexplicably burned.
Police Chief Thomas Jackson said his department is trying to use “a variety of tactics and trying to see what works best.” He is most interested, he said, in breaking up any scenario that could cause a disruption. After issuing a videotaped apology to the parents of Brown on Thursday — weeks after the shooting — his efforts to march with protesters backfired. Many say they want him gone. That area has become hallowed ground. Within hours after the fire, residents had replenished the memorial with pictures, candles and poems.
“The tactics we use is largely determined by the number of, not to use the word ‘agitators,’ but people interested in causing chaos,” Jackson said. “If they are in the crowd, they can heat things up and change the mood.” Sometimes, a driver will stop to tidy up the community tribute.
But when the police disassembled Lost Voices’ protest site, the group vowed simply to find another spot. When authorities told protesters they could not block foot traffic on the sidewalk, they started riding bicycles on the street. “We just need to make sure this place stays all right and respectful,” said Lakresha Moore, 34, as she knelt to make sure teddy bears stood upright. She began to tear up when a teenager from a nearby apartment complex came over to hug her.
When police officers have tried to pull individuals out of crowds for arrests, protesters linked arms to prevent it.
“People are angrier now than ever before,” said Patricia Bynes, the Democratic committeewoman for Ferguson Township. “The police chief has not stepped down. The grand jury has been delayed. The police are taking people’s stuff. And we have to learn the law because the police are becoming more technical about why they are removing us. It’s a legal clinic on these streets.”
In the courtroom, too. A hearing Monday in which the American Civil Liberties Union challenged the five-second rule — police are ordering protesters to move within five seconds or risk arrests — went on for hours and finally was continued.
Over the past month, marchers have migrated away from the struggling corridor of strip malls and boarded-up restaurants near Brown’s home. That area has become hallowed ground. Residents have replenished the burned memorial with pictures, candles and poems.
Sometimes, a driver will stop to tidy up the community’s tribute.
“We just need to make sure this place stays all right and respectful,” said Lakresha Moore, 34, as she kneeled to make sure teddy bears stood upright. She began to tear up when a teenager came by from a nearby complex to hug her.
“It’ll be okay,” he told her.“It’ll be okay,” he told her.
“I just pray there is an indictment,” Moore responded. “If not, I don’t know if we’ll be okay.”“I just pray there is an indictment,” Moore responded. “If not, I don’t know if we’ll be okay.”
Protests now commence at night in a tonier part of town, near the police station. Concern over the grand jury intensified last week when the St. Louis County prosecutor’s office announced that it was investigating allegations of jury misconduct. The process is already tainted with skepticism and suspicion, and there have been callsfor Prosecuting Attorney Robert P. McCulloch to step aside because of perceived bias.
On Sunday, more than 200 banged pots and shouted, “The whole damn system is guilty as hell!” Hanging over it all is the question of whether this city of 21,000 — where 70 percent of residents are black, and police and city leaders are overwhelmingly white — will erupt again if there is no indictment.
Police lined up in the middle of the street to ensure protesters did not block traffic. Protesters recorded footage on cellphones; police wore body cameras. Rowdier protesters threw plastic water bottles toward the officers. Police, some with shields and batons, arrested eight that night. In the interim, protesters confront police nightly near department headquarters.
Around 11 p.m., after the city’s noise ordinance had gone into effect, a protester announced that police would be willing to release those who had been arrested if the remaining demonstrators agreed to disperse. Chief Thomas Jackson said his department has been using “a variety of tactics and trying to see what works best.” After Jackson issued a videotaped apology on Sept. 25 to Brown’s parents for their loss, he attempted to march with protesters, but his effort backfired. Rather than an apology, they want his resignation.
Some wanted to consider the deal — the city hadrecently raised bonds from $100 to $1,000. But Jones and other members of Lost Voices yelled: “No! We don’t negotiate!” Jackson said he is most interested in breaking up any situation that could cause a disruption. “The tactics we use is largely determined by the number of, not to use the word ‘agitators,’ but people interested in causing chaos,” he said.
“The message has been to stop protesting because it’s getting close to the time when the grand jury will reach a verdict and I think what they’re afraid will happen,” said Susan McGraugh, a St. Louis University law professor who has been representing arrested protesters. “I think the police are trying to make people afraid of organizing and to deter people from coming out because of what might happen.” When police disassembled Lost Voices’ encampment, the group vowed to find another spot. When authorities told protesters that they could not block foot traffic on the sidewalk, they rode bicycles in the street. And when authorities have tried to pull individuals out of crowds to arrest them, protesters have linked arms to prevent it.
Lost Voices emerged in the early days of the protests for Mike Brown. “People are angrier now than ever before,” said Patricia Bynes, the Democratic committeewoman of Ferguson Township. “The police chief has not stepped down. The grand jury has been delayed. The police are taking people’s stuff. And we have to learn the law because the police are becoming more technical about why they are removing us. It’s a legal clinic on these streets.”
Most members are in their teens or 20s and knew Brown from the neighborhood. They are spunky, rambunctious and often the loudest voices heard during the most profane chants at the police. Lost Voices, whose members are in their teens and 20s, emerged in the early days of the protests over Brown’s killing. They are spunky, rambunctious and often the loudest voices heard in the most profane chants at the police.
“We’re not a violent group but a forceful group,” Jones said. “We are the people who want to be on the front lines, who get everyone turned up.” “We’re not a violent group but a forceful group,” Jones said.
One of their tactics had been “to police the police.” So they took tents and air mattresses and set up in parking lots along West Florissant Avenue, with the permission of business owners. Two had asked them to leave before they settled on a parking lot behind a Ponderosa Steakhouse. One of the group’s strategies is “to police the police.” So its members took tents and air mattresses and set up in parking lots along West Florissant Avenue, with the owners’ permission. Two businesses later asked them to leave before they settled on a lot behind a Ponderosa Steakhouse.
Last week, police said the owner no longer wanted them on the property and gave them six days to leave. Eight days later, the group still had not left. So the chief said his officers “helped them move” by picking up their belongings and sending them to a storage facility 20 miles away. The encampment became one more symbol of how deep the troubles run.
Jones said she asked police officers for more time to grab her tent. It is unclear what happened immediately after, but a video showed that police put Jones in a headlock as they arrested her. She fell to the ground. When she did not stand back up, police picked her up by the arms and legs and put her in a police van. She was charged with failure to obey. Recently, police said, the restaurant owner no longer wanted Lost Voices on the property, and police gave its members six days to leave. Eight days later, the group was still there. So, the chief said, his officers “helped them move.”
On Monday afternoon, in front of a calendar in a nearby office planning more protest actions, Jones said she was undeterred. Jones said she asked police officers for more time to grab her tent. It is unclear what happened immediately after her request, but a video showed Jones in a headlock as police arrested her. She fell to the ground, and when she did not stand up, officers picked her up by the arms and legs. She was charged with failure to obey.
“I’m going to keep standing my ground and I’m going to keep protesting because the police here don’t treat us right,” Jones said. Demonstrators now gather nightly in a tonier area near police headquarters.
Last Sunday, more than 200 protesters banged pots and shouted, “The whole damn system is guilty as hell!”
On another night, clergy members joined the demonstrators, kneeling with them in prayer before a line of officers began to move in. Young people asked the priests, pastors and rabbis to step aside as they locked arms and demanded that they be arrested first.
From the front line, a 25-year-old nurse named Brittany Farrell shouted, “We are exercising our rights, and we will continue to exercise our rights. The only thing that is changing is we’re getting smarter!”
As Jackson noted, police tactics have changed from night to night. Sometimes police have tried to negotiate with demonstrators, sometimes they’ve arrested only protests leaders, and other times they’ve waded into small crowds sweeping up everyone they can.
The city recently raised bonds from $100 to $1,000.
Early Friday, protesters captured cellphone footage of a freelance journalist being arrested.
Such scenes are part of Ferguson’s landscape now, and by Friday afternoon, Jackson said his department simply has been overwhelmed. He has asked St. Louis County police to assume control of managing security for protests.
Jones and her comrades in Lost Voices and other protests groups are unlikely to be deterred.
“I’m going to keep standing my ground, and I’m going to keep protesting because the police here don’t treat us right,” she said earlier last week.
She paused.She paused.
“It’s personal,” she said. “I was 6 years old when the police killed my dad.”“It’s personal,” she said. “I was 6 years old when the police killed my dad.”
Her father, William Darnell Harlston, was shot by an off-duty St. Louis officer in 2001. Harlston, according to media reports, had robbed two men selling stuffed animals. Her father, William Darnell Harlston, was shot by an off-duty St. Louis officer in 2001. Harlston, according to news media reports, had robbed two men selling stuffed animals on the street.
“All I know was he went to get beers and never came back,” Jones said. “So I’m going to fight for Mike Brown, and for him, and for me.”“All I know was he went to get beers and never came back,” Jones said. “So I’m going to fight for Mike Brown, and for him, and for me.”
Night fell, and the protesters came in front of the police station again, chanting, “I put my hands on my head, please don’t shoot me dead!”
This time, they were joined by a dozen pastors, priests and rabbis who promised to stand with the young protesters. Police allowed them to chant on the double yellow lines in the streets, while Mike Kinman, dean of Christ Church Cathedral, navigated traffic.
At 11:15, police told the crowd “to leave the streets immediately or risk being arrested.”
Police began to line up, holding shields, batons and handcuffs. The clergy members kneeled on the ground, praying. Jones and two rows of young people began to pray with them, then they asked the clergy to leave.
If anyone were to be arrested, the protesters said, it should be them.
A line of police officers began moving forward, taking three steps at a time. The young protesters locked arms and shouted, “Take one, take all!”
The police inched closer. A clergyman stretched out his hands to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Gunshots sounded in the distance. Police retreated back to the parking lot. The protesters briefly scurried but returned to the middle of the streets.
From the front line, a 25-year-old nurse named Brittany Farrell taunted police to unlawfully arrest the group.
“We are exercising our rights, and we will continue to exercise our rights,” she said. “The only thing that is changing is we’re getting smarter!”
After midnight, Capt. Ron Johnson of the Missouri Highway Patrol approached the group. He said that the protesters could continue for the night as long as they remained peaceful. He also said that no officer under his command would enforce a “five-second rule.”
“I want to listen to what you have to say,” Johnson said. “. . . I’m not here to fight you.”
Jones nodded as he spoke. It seemed as if this protest, at least, would end amicably.
Eventually, it was Jones and her comrades sitting in the middle of the street as police walked away.