Well, it’s happened again: the New Brunswick Police shot and killed an unarmed Black man.
Investigators recovered a bullet from scene[sic] where New Brunswick police fatally shot a man last week, and relatives are cooperating in the investigation authorities said today.
In a statement released late today, Middlesex County Prosecutor Bruce Kaplan said two dozen investigators from his office have interviewed 37 people about the fatal shooting of 47-year-old city resident Barry Deloatch.
“Many of these witnesses who were identified and-or[sic] came forward did so because of the assistance and encouragement of community leaders, and because of some of Mr. Deloatch’s relatives, who are cooperating with law enforcement,” Kaplan said in the statement.
Relatives of Deloatch have participated in several rallies protesting the shooting and demanding an investigation by an agency outside Middlesex County.
Relatives have said a witness told them Deloatch was shot as he ran from police. Residents have said they will continue demonstrations.
Note the prosecutor’s emphasis on the word cooperation. In early accounts, the police would not talk to the family, leading to understandable and familiar community outrage.
“Let’s face it, New Brunswick has had a troubled police department for a very long time,” Deborah Jacobs, a local representative from the American Civil Liberties Union, said at the meeting. She asked people to sign a letter by ACLU urging the federal government to probe the shooting.
Jacobs also showed the crowd a “bust card,” detailing the rights a civilian has when stopped by police.
The New Brunswick-area branch of NAACP organized the meeting Wednesday. “NAACP has been involved with this from the outset and will continue to be involved until justice has been served for Barry Deloatch and processes are in place to stop these wanton killings in our community,” NAACP president Bruce Morgan said in an email announcing the meeting.
The call for an investigating agency outside Middlesex County is a smart one.
It’s been a week since All My Children rolled credits for the last time and thank Vishnu it’s over. As my cousin and hairdresser Carmello said, “That was on before I made my debut!” The soap opera, never closely connected to reality lost its grip entirely during the last four months, with the final two weeks veering into the unabashedly cartoony. If it had gone on much longer, I would have sworn off it completely. I rolled my eyes often during the last month of episodes. If nothing else, AMC’s bad dialog may pay off next time I see the optometrist. So there’s your silver lining.
Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday
It’s Banned Book Week, which is practically a religious experience in the library. This morning, my co-worker read selections from Native Son and tomorrow, there will be more reading. Earlier in the week, Lupe read from Their Eyes Were Watching God, which I love. My boss Gianna read a selection from a book I can’t recall at the moment, but the whole idea is quite charming. When we speak to each other in work-related conversations, language in the library is ordinary and genteel. It’s nice we’re finally swearing at one another.
Yesterday was the 25th anniversary of my first day as a full-time employee of the unnamed university. Many times, it seemed like I wouldn’t last another day, but here we are. One of my co-workers has 50 years in, so 25 is nothing special and tomorrow is another day. Now that Susan Lucci can cut up her cocktail dresses and stay home nibble bonbons, it’s tempting to imagine going out in nothing but satin pajamas.
Mary: Please save bottles with tops or lids. We’re having a Harry Potter party for my daughter’s birthday, including potion-making.
Tata: POTION-MAKING! Before high school?
Mary: Yeah. Wine bottles would be helpful.
Tata: I’ll get right on that.
Pete and I save bottles for special projects like infused oils, vinegars or vodkas. It took about a week of soaking and peeling to get the labels off and the aroma of adult libations past out. Yesterday, I told Mary I was ready to contribute to her container collection and I’d bring the bottles to work. I wrapped them in brown paper for adorable, scurrilous effect and stuffed them into one of my bicycle paniers. It weighed a ton. The ride to work this morning was more work than usual. Thank Ishtar I am strong as an ox and no one cares if I smell like one.
Tata: You sound glum. What gives?
Mary: Fighting with a vendor.
Tata: Need me to beat up someone for you?
Mary: No, but it’s so sweet of you to offer. I have to wait for a conference call. Can you send those bottles by campus mail?
Tata: As Queen of Bubble Wrap, I will!
I wrapped the bottles up in all sorts of packing materials, addressed the box and forgot about it. Half an hour ago, the mailman was slinging boxes from a table to the floor. I bolted across the room, but the box addressed to Mary was already gone. Then I made the most unpopular statement of the day.
Tata: Should I have mentioned that box was full of glass?
Drusy's secret love: a feather pillow. They try to hide it but they only have eyes for each other.
In the Times Square Olive Garden, my sister Daria, Pete and I met two of our cousins from Guatemala. You may remember two years ago, my brilliant cousin swam around Manhattan, rendering me speechless. Thus, we were overjoyed to see our champion again, but this time she brought her mother.
More than thirty years ago, my grandfather Andy found her. She didn’t know she was missing. He was an only child of immigrant parents. Her grandfather Giovanni and my great-grandfather Carlo were brothers, and it meant everything to Andy that he had blood relatives besides his overly colorful children. He died a few years after he and my grandmother visited Guatemala, but his joy has remained impressed upon me all this time. When I saw her yesterday, she was tall, like he was. Her eyes were like his eyes. Her expressions were like his expressions. I can’t tell you how many times my heart skipped a beat because I’ve missed him so much. But she looked at me like she’d missed me, too, and maybe she did. She wants us to go to Guatemala.
It’s been awhile since I traveled. Plainly, I just heard the distant past describe a fantastic and once improbable future.
Last Thursday afternoon, I was tooling around in my car and slapped the radio’s on button. The signal was inexplicably tuned to WDHA, which calls itself “the Rock Of New Jersey.” I didn’t even hear the beginning of the bumper, but the DJ asked, “Have you heard the new Theory of a Deadman single? It is sooooooooooo funny.” And this is what he played.
Then I was finished with WDHA forever. Further, it is my fond hope that women everywhere avoid the prime specimens of douchetastic doodhood that are Theory of a Deadman.
At 7:05 p.m., five minutes after his scheduled death, Davis’ supporters erupted in cheers, hugs and tears outside the jail in Jackson, Ga., as supporters believed Davis had been saved from the death penalty. But Davis was granted only a temporary reprieve as the Supreme Court considers the decision.
The warrant for Davis’ execution is valid until Sept. 28. The Georgia Resource Center, part of Davis’ legal defense team, said it was unsure how long the delay would last.
I would be surprised if anyone concerned slept tonight.
In other news and muddying the already troubled waters, Lawrence Brewer was executed tonight in Texas for the murder of James Byrd.
Between the Republican debate and the Tea Party debacle, I wondered when someone on television would turn to the camera and say, “This, friends, is what genuine crazytalk sounds like. This goes beyond requiring medication; it is so far gone that I’m going to ask you not to make eye contact with this herd of thundering bewilderbeests in the hope that we can get the studio audience safely out of the building. Hush. No sudden moves, please. Audience, please make your way to the fire exits and, for fuck’s sake, don’t look back.”
The more no one turns to the camera and sternly declares crazytalk is a danger to us, the greater that danger becomes. I hope you have BandAids and First Aid Cream. It would not be too much to strap on a helmet.
In the old days, before we tried bombing Afghanistan back into a Stone Age it never left, you might’ve pictured Wolf Blitzer falling on this grenade. In 2011, you hope Blitzer doesn’t feed you to the bewilderbeests. He would, you know. Bewilderbeests have teeth, and Blitzer fears anything sharp, like Ron Paul. Think I’m kidding? Ron Paul is so prickly you could cut yourself on his chitinous shell and Blitzer will have none of it!
Wolf Blitzer is concerned.
Seeing this – and this guy – I don’t really know what to say anymore. The statements have become so outlandish it can be difficult to recognize the genuine danger belied by the cartoony talk. Abolish Social Security? Saying something that stupid should disqualify a person from holding public office. Raise the Medicare age? Should be cause for a public inquiry into which pets and children that guy’s abusing. Cut Medicaid? Elderly people should spit on that public speaker. War without end? Please accept this plane ticket to the Hague on behalf of sane people everywhere. Cut food stamps and defund poverty relief programs? Excuse me, there’s a Mr. Jesus to speak with you. He looks upset. Hurry. He’s got a 4:30 with some bankers.
You would think it would be warm at the shore, but it is not. It is freaking cold. Pete and I drove down to Sandy Hook, cycled around the point, dodged cars, pedestrians and two missile tours – don’t ask! – to park our bikes on a windswept balcony, where we stared at Coney Island shimmering in the distance and ate bagels we’d brought with us. We decided to get shirts printed: We have matching shirts. They will probably have long sleeves.