On The Other Hand

By Connie A. Anast

The call came in about 11:30 on Saturday morning. Getting ready for a baby-shower, I took the call from an old friend, who gave me news that sent my world into a spin. A dear friend was dead. The news was surreal, almost unbelievable, until she continued on with the explanation: shot down in the line of duty, trying to make a drug bust. As she spoke, images flooded through my mind as I tried to piece together all of the information pouring from the other end of the phone.

Following a car he thought might contain a small time cocaine dealer, Marc tailed three young men, in what is arguably the worst part of Phoenix, Marydale. As the car turned the corner, the three men jumped out and waited until they saw the police car, then one of them opened fire. Ambushed, alone, shot twice in the head. Marc had no chance. He didn't even have his lights and siren on. She mentioned that they had caught the shooter, thanks to an off-duty security officer who eventually shot the suspect, and all three were in the custody of the Phoenix Police Department.

Gutturally, tears soaking my skin, I growled, "I hope they fry him."

Had I said that? Yes, that was me, in all my anger, going back to my primal, first gut instinct. Kill him. Remove the threat, right the wrong. Only until later that evening, when I truly began my grieving process had I thought about the man, not even out of his teens, who shot and killed my friend, and what his fate should be.

I have been a stern supporter of three things in my lifetime: labor unions, gun owners rights and the death penalty. I have believed the Old Testament scripture of "an eye for an eye" was appropriate in this country. I have fumed as convicted murders not only get the privilege of living out their lives, but, frankly, living them out in style, while families and friends mourn and grieve with pain for the rest of their lives.

Should someone who took a life so viciously be granted the mercy he didn't show to Marc? No. Should the state of Arizona, City of Phoenix, administer the death penalty for this cop-killer? Yes. Should this suspect have the right to appeal and live five, ten, fifteen years longer while the courts decide his fate? No. Should justice be quick, fair and truly just? Yes.

Who should kill the killer?

For that question, I have no answer. As a society that supports the death penalty, such as the state of Arizona, is every citizen responsible for the legalized killing of the convicted murderer? When we meet the Creator, will we also be judged with the same blood on our hands for the death of the convict as the convict has for the victim?

I don't know. Will my pain go away faster if another human being is dead? No. Will I feel that justice has been served? Most certainly. And I feel horribly animalistic about that.

I am reminded of what my mother used to tell me when I was a child. "Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord". But don't we, as vessels of God, administer vengeance in His name? We do it every day. The Police Chaplain who spoke at Marc's funeral told us that every law that we follow in modern society has its roots in God's Law and those who uphold the law, police officers, are, in a fashion, ordained of God. If that is the case, then we are the vengeance. We have the right to decide that when a crime so heinous and brutal and random, it should be met with strong justice.

The funny thing is that I wholly supported the death penalty until it parked itself into my backyard, until my friend was killed. Up until now, it had always been someone else's friend, child, husband, and I believed in strong and swift punishment for their killers. But in this case, I just don't know. Marc wouldn't want another mother, brother and sister to mourn their loss the same as his mother, brother and sister is mourning his.

What would Marc want? I can't profess to say, but I think he would want forgiveness. Unfortunately, I am not in a place where I can forgive his killer. Not for a very, very long time.

Marc will never hold his baby son or his wife again. He will never have the opportunity to watch as his sister marries and has children of her own, to live a life of a simple peace officer who never had to draw his weapon one time during his career. And I feel cheated not being able to see him be a father, which is one of many roles I am certain Marc would do with love and pride. That, dear readers, makes me angry.

If the jury says Marc's murderer should die, I will support our judicial system completely. Frankly, I don't see any other way for the one's left behind to go on with their lives. It must come to the same end as the suspect chose to end Marc's time on earth. If that makes me a horrible person, well, then, I will just have to take that up with my Creator when the time comes.

I packed my bags and drove 14 hours to Phoenix to attend his funeral. The people of Arizona were kind and most accommodating, from the gas station attendant to the hotel worker who let us into our room 4 hours early to clean up before the services. The people of Phoenix were feeling as I was, even though most of them didn't know Marc. One of their protectors had been attacked, and, with that, the people as well.

Attending his funeral, there were endless tributes to him, numerous touching words, honors, salutes, flags, symbols of who he was and what he stood for. But the singular event which drove home the fact that Marc was gone was the Final Radio Call. At his graveside, all of the literally thousands of officers present turned up their radios and listened as the dispatcher gave Marc his last call.

"This is the last call for Office Marc Atkinson." Silence. "5680. 5680. 10-7. "Officer went down bravely 17:30 hours. "Goodnight, Sir. Rest In Peace."

Indeed. Goodnight, Marc.

Note from the Author:

While the trial for the murders of Marc Atkinson have yet to get underway, many things have happened in light of the loss of this wonderful man. Memorials mark the site of his death (where candles still burn in tribute), his name was added to the wall of fallen officers, and Phoenix Police Department is now investigating adding more officers to the force so that they might be able to ride two to a vehicle. Most recently, in the heart of Phoenix, Marc T. Atkinson Middle School opened its doors to the first of many students. When it came time to name the new school, his name and thoughtful deed was not forgotten.

And it remains unforgotten. Semper Fi and God's Speed, Marc. I know, as all good Marines, you are guarding the Gates of Heaven.