Act I Scene I

1. The Shot

Franklyn Reid

Twenty-seven years old, slim black male

Wanted

Breach of peace

Failure to appear in court

Has been spotted…

December 29, 1998

“Cramer is in foot pursuit of Franklyn Reid. Maybe you should give him a hand,” Dispatcher Cindy Hanford says to Detective David Shortt.

The predominantly white, rural community police department in New Milford, Connecticut, doesn’t usually deal with action that could make it into a crime drama. Today is a departure from routine.

Returning from morning investigations, Shortt asks, “Where are they?”

The inclement weather from earlier had subsided, leaving a wet and crappy day to be chasing someone outside.

“Around Heacock-Crossbrook Road,” Hanford says.

No time to waste, Shortt dashes to get his partner, Investigator Scott Smith, and retrieve handcuffs from his desk. He finds Smith with Detective Steven Jordan in the Investigative Service Bureau.

“Scotty,” Shortt hollers to the rookie, “let’s go, we need to provide backup to Cramer. He’s in pursuit of a suspect.”

Standing up from his desk, Jordan inquires, “Where abouts? I can head out, too.”

Shortt tells him, and all three plainclothes officers rush through the door.

“Scott, do you have the keys? You’re driving,” barks Shortt.

Seconds before exiting the bureau, Jordan informs his colleagues he’s going to grab an extra clip for his Heckler & Koch service weapon from his desk. Smith and Shortt scurry toward a black surveillance vehicle.

***

Walking briskly alongside Route 202, unaware of police activities, Franklyn realizes he needs to call his girlfriend, Pamela. He stops at Jolly Roger Firearms store. While hastening toward her house, close to the store, Mrs. Roger notices a black man she doesn’t know standing in her backyard. Franklyn approaches Mrs. Roger.

“Can I borrow your telephone to call my girlfriend? My car has a flat tire,” he says.

Quickly surveying her surroundings, she grants the young man’s request and escorts him into her home. Standing next to him, she observes his appearance while listening in on his quick phone call.

“Yo, I have a flat tire; pick me up at Sunoco,’’ Franklyn says to Pam at 11:19 a.m.

Franklyn turns to Mrs. Roger. “Thanks. How far is it to that Sunoco gas station?”

“Um. Just about five minutes, I think.”

Watching the young man leave, Mrs. Roger finds it peculiar that he continues walking through other residents’ backyards but not alarming.

Thirteen minutes prior, at 11:06, Sergeant Cramer was patrolling in a marked police cruiser, down a side road located on the outskirts of town. Driving northbound, he suddenly saw a white Toyota Celica appear out of nowhere, heading southbound, in the middle of the road. The quick-thinking lawman maneuvered his car over to the curb, providing ample space for the motorist to pass.

The car is still drifting toward me, thought Cramer.

The driver must have realized the close proximity, because he straightened out before passing Cramer.

Cramer didn’t get a good look at the distracted driver, but he registered the license plate number. Evaluating the situation, he thought, Huh, is the driver just being inattentive or should I go after the vehicle in case the driver’s drunk? Choosing the latter, Cramer turned around and followed the vehicle. Momentarily losing sight of the car, the sergeant radioed dispatch, knowing communication is essential in law enforcement. He had to make dispatch aware that he was investigating unusual activities.

“HQ, I’m out with 840-Frank-Charlie-Robert,” Cramer said.

He arrived at Dawn’s Road, a side street branching off Heacock-Crossbrook Road, and found the Toyota weirdly angled in the intersection with the driver’s door open. Pulling behind the two-door Celica, Cramer looked through the back window but didn’t see the driver. He exited his police cruiser, removed his service revolver, and cautiously approached the abandoned car in case someone was lying in wait for him. Cramer’s adrenaline pumped as he crept closer and peeked through the windows. But something he heard raised his apprehension. A tone, a rhythmic sound in a different dialect. Edging closer, he realized it was music—reggae music.

***

When I was born in Montego Bay, Jamaica, in 1977, my family was expanding rapidly and life was challenging. My father’s mother, Carmen Reid (who had nine children of her own), embraced the grandmother role and raised her grandkids with pride and joy during work hours. Daycare was not an option; culturally, it did not exist. My grandmother was a petite woman with thick, oversized glasses. When she spoke, everyone listened, especially to her captivating life stories. I was fortunate to spend my first few years with her before she passed in 1980. Her love embodied the human spirit, fostering everlasting bonds. The following year, my parents applied for permanent resident status in the United States. Countless numbers of people hoped to set foot on beautiful American soil. With similar aspirations, we stood in line and waited our turn.

While life continued in Jamaica for the better part of the 1980s, Franklyn became a leader of the pack amongst his friends. Also known as Mark—most Jamaican parents nicknamed their children without rhyme or reason, simply to call them by another name—he constructed go-carts, a popular mode of traveling around town and used in competitions between friends. Franklyn’s four-wheel, wooden speedster consistently won those races. There weren’t trophies at the finish line, just community bragging rights. Despite the competition, he also assisted others in building better go-carts. His mild-mannered approach rubbed off on those around him, including me.

Going to school in Jamaica kept us in shape. Without buses, we had to walk a few miles each day to get our education. The schools had a strict dress code policy of khaki-colored uniforms that had to be neatly ironed. The only thing not required were shoes as most families, including mine, couldn’t afford footwear. It was a remarkable sight: nicely dressed kids going to school, barefoot. Finding innovative ways to get there was quite a fun challenge. One of Franklyn’s bright ideas was hopping moving trucks. It worked at times, but I was the youngest, slowest, and always the last to be pulled onboard—if I made it at all.

Growing up was fun and occasionally, well…pursuing silly ideas could be detrimental to one’s health.

One day, Franklyn and I were home alone while Mom, Dad, and Dwight Jr. went shopping in Montego Bay. Aunt Joyce, our next-door neighbor, was in her kitchen, occasionally looking through the window at Franklyn and me. A gleaming sun in a clear sky provided the ideal opportunity for Franklyn to explore one of his hypotheses.

“If I leave four D-sized batteries on the roof for a few hours, the sun will recharge them to full strength,” Franklyn said.

“Do you think it will really work?” I, at the tender age of five, said, questioning his theory.

“Yeah, I’m sure it will,” Franklyn replied. He was eleven.

It sounded feasible; I believed in him. Okay, maybe I was a little skeptical, but also excited to watch my older brother defy logic and gravity.

Verandas are common on island houses, and we had one on ours in Maroon Town. It was conceivable that a brave soul could climb one of the smooth pillars and utilize upper body strength to pull themselves up and over the six-inch ledge to access the roof. The adrenaline experienced after accomplishing a daredevil task would be intense (worth it for Franklyn), but a slight mishap and air and space are the only things separating you from the ground.

Courageously, my brother pocketed the batteries, wrapped his inner arms around the pillar, and used the soles of his feet to stabilize himself as he climbed. He looked like a slow-moving caterpillar scaling a post. Reaching the ceiling, Franklyn extended his right hand and gripped the edge of the roof. He quickly maneuvered his left hand and grabbed another part. He simultaneously released his legs from the pillar and hanging, mustered his strength and, with a loud heave, pulled himself onto the roof.

Excited and cheering, I clapped my hands, pleased at his accomplishment. He placed the batteries at the roof’s edge, so when it was time to retrieve them, he could climb the pillar and just extend his arms to reach them.

Taking a two-minute break to gather his strength, Franklyn prepared for his descent. He stooped down, chest grinding against the ledge, feet swinging loosely, and grabbed the pillar while his palms gripped the edge of the roof.

Pleased, I looked on. Then the unthinkable happened—he lost his grip! His feet dangled. His hands flailed wildly. He desperately tried to avoid greeting the ground. In the flurry of activity, his hands swatted the batteries. The first, second, third, and fourth batteries flew. The inevitable overcame his attempt to...