WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO CONVICT A COP?
Walter Scott’s cellphone bill was current. In that small but not unimportant aspect of life, he was on solid ground. He had checked in with his elderly parents, called and texted friends. At 50 years old, Scott was a forklift driver, a dominoes aficionado, an extrovert with a buttery voice who sang soul music at social gatherings and spirituals in church. As a young man he’d served in the Coast Guard, but he was discharged after testing positive for marijuana. He drifted between jobs, earned a two-year degree at a technical college, and performed the national anthem at his commencement ceremony. He had four children from two past relationships and was chronically behind on support payments.
On the morning of April 4, 2015, Scott was driving a 1991 Mercedes sedan that he had agreed to purchase from a neighbor, though the paperwork had not yet been squared away. He had a friend with him. He was less than a mile from the home he shared with his girlfriend in North Charleston, South Carolina—genteel Charleston’s poor cousin, a city of roughly 108,000 people that is bisected by railroad tracks and dotted with pawn shops and payday loan outlets. In parts of North Charleston, it seems like just about anything of value—tire superstores, small industrial sites, even residences—is protected by high cyclone fences and barbed wire.
At about 9:30 a.m., a police cruiser pulled up behind Scott, lights flashing. Scott made an immediate left turn, then came to a stop in the parking lot of an auto-parts store and watched through the rearview mirror as an officer, dressed in shirt sleeves on that warm spring day, walked toward him. Patrolman Michael Slager, then 33, had his hands at his hips, his right one close to his gun. Also a Coast Guard veteran, and in his fifth year on the force, Slager had moved from out of state to a place where he had no history and few associations. He was an armed white man hired to police unfamiliar black streets. He had gone through nine weeks of training at the South Carolina Criminal Justice Academy—nine, as opposed to the 26 weeks required for a New York City cop. Officers in Europe are typically trained for a year or more.
“The reason for the stop is your third brake light’s out,” Slager said through the driver’s side window. It was the classic DWB (driving while black) rationale for a stop, but Scott knew he had a bigger problem. He was $18,104 in arrears on child support and there was a warrant out for his arrest. Scott had been to jail in the past for failure to pay support. It had cost him jobs and made his debt ever larger and harder to manage. He handed over his license and told Slager he planned to complete the purchase of the car in a couple of days. The interaction was entirely respectful. Scott said he had no registration or insurance card with him. “I’m sorry about that,” he said.
“Okay, but you’re buying the car?”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer returned to his cruiser intending to run Scott’s license through an FBI database, standard procedure. Scott stepped out of his vehicle and then climbed back in when Slager, sitting in his squad car, instructed him to do so. But moments later, Scott got out a second time and ran toward an open field, the site of an abandoned trailer park, and onto a painted asphalt path known locally as the Yellow Brick Road. Slager pursued on foot, warning that he was preparing to fire his stun gun: “Taser! Taser! Taser!” Scott didn’t stop, so Slager hit him with two darts. The electricity brought Scott to his knees, but he refused to surrender. Slager then “drive-stunned” Scott—put the business end of the Taser directly on him and pulled the trigger—but could not cuff him. The men scuffled on the ground, and a winded Slager pleaded for backup. “One-five-six,” he said into his radio, calling out the badge number of the officer he knew was closest. “Step it up!”
Scott managed to break free and run away in a
