He sat in his computer room for hours. He had never been in such emotional pain and anguish; the factory was destroyed, burned to the ground. But more importantly a dozen people were killed, engulfed by the fire, including one of his close friends, who was not killed by the fire but actually murdered. A beautiful woman, also a close friend, was disfigured. He could still hear the screams of all the burned victims, and he would never forget that putrid smell of burning flesh. He believed he was responsible for all of this because of his ideas and his ideals; he had underestimated his enemies. As these thoughts were going through his head, he felt devastated, angry, and defeated. He knocked over the computer monitor to the floor, turned his desk over, and proceeded to tear the entire room apart as he let out some of his anger and frustration that was beginning to overflow in his system. Then he sat down and thought about everything that had happened these past four-plus years.

Four years earlier.

The Meeting of the Minds

The trial was over; the policemen were acquitted. As he was leaving the courtroom in Albany, New York (the capital of New York State), Rohillio remembered the community board meetings he used to attend many years ago when he was married and living in the Bronx (one of the five boroughs that make up New York City), especially when the police and politicians attended and gave talks.

He was a little shy back then, so whenever someone would ask him his name, he would just say he was a concerned citizen. But his personality, comments, and ideas were so profound and innovative that people started calling him the Citizen, and that name stuck.

That's where he first met the district attorney from the Bronx, Ronald Jackson. The two of them had exchanged ideas. One of the Citizen's ideas was to open the schools for youth community centers in the evenings and on weekends, using the money taken from drug busts and other crimes. The amount of money taken during the busts would be listed in the legal notices in the city newspaper. Once nobody claimed the money, the money would be put back into the neighborhood where it was found. Businesses like McDonald's and Burger King, Pepsi, etc., would then match those funds to pay for councilors and general operating costs so it would not affect the city's budget.

His idea was only modestly successful. A few schools did get after-school programs, but a lot of money went into Ronald Jackson's youth program. Ronald Jackson stole Rohillio's idea, and he did a bad job in court.

Rohillio didn't like Ronald then, and he didn't like him now. However, Rohillio got more involved in political and social reform by writing letters to local politicians. He authored a few articles in the local newspaper and a magazine article from time to time. Rohillio would always sign his name "A Concerned Citizen." More and more often, his friends and associates began to refer to him as the Citizen or Citizen Jabel.

It was drizzling on the day he left the courtroom. He asked himself why he thought the trial would have ended any other way. If the people didn't have the power to hold the trial in the county where the crime was committed, why was he stupid enough to think there could possibly be a conviction? The police had never been convicted of killing a black man, so why did he think this would be any different? This was especially true in Albany, where they hadn't convicted a policeman in a hundred years. He felt like a fool as the answers to his questions came to him. He had allowed himself to believe in American justice and had forgotten about the "just us" that applied to black people and other people of color. He had allowed himself to forget that important fact. A young man had been shot forty-one times. Some of the bullets had entered through the bottom of his feet, which clearly proved he was shot on the ground. A year ago, the police had killed a Latino youth in front of his house because a football hit the police car. Another Latino youth was shot in the back. The mayor said the youth was a gang member. Citizen Jabel wondered if the young man had gang member written across his back. The police were out of control with a license to kill. The Citizen was angry and sad as he contemplated the plight of his people. He asked himself the same questions everybody asked him whenever he described the black experience in America: "What are you going to do about it?" and "What would it take to change the black experience in America?" He had known the answers to both questions for some time, but he also knew that to do this would change his life forever. He pondered this last question as he drove back to Queens (Note: New York City is made up of five boroughs—Brooklyn, The Bronx, Queens, Manhattan, Staten Island). That was the real question. Was he willing to put his personal life aside and do the work that was needed to benefit his people?

He was a successful black man in every aspect of his life. He was financially secure, in excellent health, well educated, socially accepted where he went, and he enjoyed a good relationship with his two grown sons and ex-wife. But it didn't take long for him to make his decision. On his way home, he stopped by a local card shop and bought twelve of the most expensive invitations they had. He reasoned if he could get the support he needed, then he would commit to it. He had eight people in mind, and five of them would have to commit. It had only taken him a couple of hours to get to his house in College Point, Queens. It was springtime; College Point was a beautiful town with nice homes and parks. It was a town in every sense of the word. It reminded you of the old Western movies where the stores and businesses were on the same street. College Point Boulevard was the main commercial strip. Most of the homes were on the side streets on or near the water and the marinas. It was a peninsula and College Point Boulevard was full of private businesses owned or ran by people who lived in the town; even some of the bankers lived in the community. It used to be strictly an Irish/German town, but over the last few years it became an ethnic melting pot but still a town, not a neighborhood. Jabel had reasoned that on the commercial strip the dollar must be turning over six or seven times, not like a ghetto where the dollar was lucky to turn over once.

It was still early afternoon, so he decided to go to a nearby park to think about his undertaking and to reflect on the trial. Jabel's condominium was waterfront property. His backyard faced the water where he could see LaGuardia Airport on the far western side of the town. He could also see the ball drop from the Empire State Building on New Year's Eve from his backyard. College Point had beautiful small parks on both sides of College Point Boulevard running north and south—north to the Whitestone Bridge and south to Northern Boulevard, almost to Main Street. This particular park he decided to go to was a couple of short blocks east of College Point Boulevard, about a ten-minute walk from his condo. He often went there to think, write, and read. The park was tranquil and serene, one square block with benches, baby swings, handball courts, and a small basketball court and lots of trees and grass. He sat on his usual bench near the entrance on the west side of the park. Then it happened! Two police cars converged on him from different directions. He was told, "Don't move! Put your hands up and get against the fence!" as...