Sunday is a day of rest. The full brunt of the shooting was not felt until the workweek began.
Outraged by Frederick Ludwig’s performance on the courthouse steps, several prominent South Jamaicans led by Assemblyman Guy Brewer visited the Acting District Attorney on Monday, April 30, and made their anger known. Following their departure, Ludwig summoned reporters to his office and announced a reversal of his decision to seek a reduction of charges against Thomas Shea.
“The facts will be put in, and the grand jury will decide. I’m not recommending anything,” the Acting DA said. However, the reversal of position was too little and too late. Fear of an official “whitewash” had already spread beyond controllable bounds.
By midafternoon, several hundred demonstrators were marching outside the 103rd Precinct station house carrying placards demanding that Shea be tried on a charge of murder. An anonymous telephone caller warned authorities that the Black Liberation Army would execute two policemen in retaliation for Glover’s death.
Twenty pickets appeared outside Shea’s Brentwood, Long Island, home carrying signs reading “Thomas Shea—You Will Pay.” Four Suffolk County cops were assigned to a round-the-clock guard of Shea’s family because of death threats against them.
As dusk fell, 500 demonstrators gathered on Linden Road near the shooting site, and Queens Borough Commander Charles McCarthy ordered an end to routine police patrols along New York Boulevard. In addition, to guard against ambushes, McCarthy instructed all cops in South Jamaica to refrain from responding to calls for assistance unless accompanied by a backup unit.
On Tuesday, May 1, emotions escalated still further. Roy Wilkins, Executive Director of the NAACP, issued a statement calling Clifford Glover’s death “a case of police murder.”
“Nothing,” the nationally respected black leader said, “can excuse the killing of a ten-year-old boy who was not connected in any way with a crime. His only fault was that he was black.”
Wilkins’s words were echoed by National Urban League Director Livingston Wingate, who called a New York City press conference to denounce “impetuous police action against black youths.”
Victor Soloman (Associate National Director of the Congress of Racial Equality) urged Governor Nelson Rockefeller to appoint a special prosecutor to investigate the case.
Late in the day, tensions rose still further when Clifford Glover’s body was placed on display at the McClester Funeral Home. From 6:00 to 9:00 P.M., hundreds of area residents stood on line outside the tiny pink stucco and stone building, waiting to pay their respects. Then, after viewing the boy’s body, they filtered into the night, where demonstrations were rapidly turning to disorder. By 9:00 P.M., bands of youths were roaming the streets. An empty police van was firebombed, and the officers who extinguished the blaze were pelted with bricks and bottles. An angry window-smashing spree halted traffic on New York Boulevard. Desperate for help, the police turned to a black cop named Howard Sheffey.
Sheffey had joined the force in 1956 and been promoted to sergeant in 1969. His influence lay in the fact that he was President of the Guardian Society.
Formed in 1949 as a fraternal organization for black policemen, the Guardians were a potent force within the Department. Initially, their mission had been to improve the lot of black policemen, who were confined to predominantly black precincts, disciplined more harshly than their white counterparts, and rarely promoted within the force. However, with the 1963 March on Washington, the urban riots, and growing black awareness of the 1960s, the Guardians came to assume a far more diverse role. By the time Sheffey was elected President in 1971, the organization was actively lobbying for more progressive police attitudes toward the black community.
To the Guardians, the death of Clifford Glover underscored the “white cop—black victim” formula that was all too familiar to each of them. Following Frederick Ludwig’s pledge to seek a reduction of the charges against Shea, Sheffey had written to Governor Rockefeller, Mayor Lindsay, and Commissioner Cawley demanding a full investigation of the shooting. On the evening of Tuesday, May 1, Sheffey was at the Guardians’ clubhouse in Brooklyn with forty fellow members when the 16th Division Command telephoned for help. The 103rd Precinct, Sheffey was told, desperately needed black policemen to ease the crisis.
At Sheffey’s urging, three dozen members of the Guardians drove to South Jamaica. There, dressed in civilian clothes with shields pinned to their jackets, they labored for several hours to calm community members and keep the increasingly edgy white cops from losing perspective. By evening’s end, order had been restored. Four policemen were injured; eight persons arrested. The Guardians had done their job well. But as Sheffey departed, he issued a word of warning: “This is the last time we come as a group to control our own people.”
Wednesday, May 2, saw the crescendo of discontent continue. A community affairs officer reported to Glanvin Alveranga that the Black Liberation Army had recruited several rnembers of the Black Assassins street gang to kill policemen in retaliation for Glover’s death. The Seven Crowns youth gang announced its intention to descend upon Public School 40 and “savagely beat” all white teachers. Flyers advocating a “People’s Trial of Thomas Shea” were distributed throughout South Jamaica, proclaiming, “The 103rd Precinct has traditionally been known for harboring trigger-happy, head-knocking policemen.” Several bomb threats were relayed to police headquarters. A reporter for the Daily News received a small box wrapped in brown paper in the morning mail. Inside was a .38-caliber bullet, a picture of Thomas Shea with a hole through the forehead, and a note that read, “We want an end to police brutality and mass murder in our black community. Shea must die.”
By Wednesday evening, the 103rd Precinct station house had come to resemble a fortress under siege. Heavy wood barricades cordoned off its entrance from the street. Two hundred tactical patrolmen had been bussed in from other precincts to deal with the ever-present crowds. In the hope of dispelling rumors, a special communications center was set up to allow area residents to telephone the police with questions and statements about the shooting. Police Commissioner Donald Cawley sent a letter of condolence to Eloise Glover, expressing deep regret over “the tragic incident which took the life of your son.”
Still, disorder continued. Roving bands of black youths hurled bottles and stones at storefront windows and passing cars along New York Boulevard. Five persons were arrested; four more cops injured.
“This is nothing,” Alveranga told a subordinate as the night wore on. “The funeral is tomorrow.”
The death of Clifford Glover had struck a responsive chord throughout New York. Millions of people had witnessed Add Armstead recite his tale of woe on television. The city’s three major newspapers were saturated with blaring headlines and photographs of the dead boy. No segment of the populace had been left untouched.
“I know it’s hard,” a suburban housewife wrote to Eloise Glover. “But thank God that in 1963 a black child named Clifford Glover was born.”
“I’m a cop and would rather remain anonymous,” another letter read. “But I’m truly sorry for what happened. As a policeman, I feel a special sense of loss.”
Benjamin J. Malcolm, New York City’s Commissioner of Corrections, wrote:
Dear Mrs. Glover,
I am acting as an agent for a group of inmates incarcerated in the Queens House of Detention for Men. These inmates, immersed in their own grief, are reaching out to you in light of the tragic loss of your son, Clifford, to express their sympathy.
I have enclosed for you the sum of $68.17 they have collected in his name for your family. They have truly given all they can. I can only add my own sympathy to their magnanimous gesture.
On Thursday, May 3, those who raged and those who mourned, the vitally interested and the merely curious gathered together for the funeral of Clifford Glover. Three hours before the scheduled noon ceremony, the pews in the Mount Zion Baptist Church on 107th Avenue in South Jamaica began to fill. By eleven, all seats had been taken and a crowd of 800 onlookers stood outside. Twenty minutes earlier than planned, Reverend John Mason stepped to the pulpit and welcomed the congregation.
Dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and silver tie, Add Armstead sat in the first row, staring at the white casket in front of him. Eloise Glover was at his side, her two-year-old daughter Patricia asleep in her arms. Behind the last row of pews, Captain Glanvin Alveranga stood alone—the only uniformed cop in attendance.
Against the advice of staff members who feared for his safety, Alveranga had insisted on attending the funeral.
Joining as one, the congregation sang “Jesus Keep Me Near the Cross” and “Trouble in My Way.” Reverend Mason read several passages from the Bible. Two more hymns followed. Then Reverend Vaster Johnson stepped to the pulpit.
Inside the crowded church, the temperature had risen well above eighty degrees. Ventilation was poor. The air was heavy.
“Clifford Glover was not so much the victim of a bullet as he was the victim of a vicious system,” Johnson declaimed. “His sun went down long before noon. Is there any difference from a rope one hundred years ago in Alabama or a gun now in South Jamaica? I wonder if it was the price of being black, standing before a gun with a white finger on the trigger.”
The congregation seethed as Vaster Johnson concluded his oration. Fearful of what might follow, the Reverend Albert S. Johnson, who was to deliver the eulogy, strode to the pulpit. Speaking with a mastery that had come from years of dialogue, he calmed the crowd.
“This little boy is in the presence of the Lord,” Albert Johnson cried.
“That’s right,” the congregation answered.
“He ain’t here no more.”
“That’s right,” they said.
“But if he was here,” Johnson went on, “he’d ask his black friends to cool it. We don’t believe in black and white. We’re all brothers. There are only two groups of people where our Lord is concerned. Those who are saved and those who are not. Anytime you walk the streets hating the white man, you’re on the way to hell.”
At 1:30 P.M., as rock star Stevie Wonder, who attended the service, sang “Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” Clifford Glover’s casket was carried from the church to a waiting hearse for transport to Plain Lawn Cemetery in Long Island. As the pallbearers moved through the crowd, most of whom had been standing in the hot sun for hours, an angry rustle stirred. Then a handful, followed by a dozen, and finally severai hundred persons surged forward, brandishing upraised fists in a black power salute.
“If the cops kick one black ass in South Jamaica tonight,” Alveranga murmured, “this city will explode.”
Fourteen blocks from the Mount Zion Baptist Church, the 103rd Precinct station house stood prepared to receive the funeral-goers. Barricades manned by tactical patrolmen surrounded the building. Inside and in buses several blocks away, one hundred additional policemen awaited instructions. In the distance, the voices of five hundred marchers could be heard.
“We want Shea,” the crowd chanted. “We want Shea.”
The cops at the barricades tensed and stood their ground. Their orders from Queens Borough Commander Charles McCarthy were specific. They were to hold ranks and make no arrests.
“We want Shea,” the crowd chanted.
PBA Trustee Charlie Peterson looked apprehensively at the approaching mob. “Cops Are Pigs” one placard read. “Momma, Momma, Hide Your Child, The Filthy Cops Are Running Wild” decreed another.
“We want Shea,” the crowd chanted, surrounding the station house.
A bottle crashed behind the patrolmen manning the barricades, then another. Several rocks hurtled toward them.
“Hold ranks,” a TPF supervisor shouted. The rain of rocks and bottles continued.
“That’s all,” Peterson shouted, heading toward McCarthy. “I’ve had it. My men won’t stand here like Kewpie dolls waiting to be hit. I forbid it. Either you let them make arrests or I’m pulling them off the job.”
Several more rocks and bottles followed.
“Okay,” McCarthy said at last. “If they actually see someone in the act of assault, they can arrest him.”
The cops moved forward and divided the crowd into several groups. Then the demonstrators remassed and retreated in the direction from which they had come.
On New York Boulevard a group of youths pushed into a pizza parlor, scooped up slices of pizza, and ran on. Others smashed windows as storekeepers hurriedly lowered heavy iron gates to protect their wares. At Liberty Avenue, dozens of marchers began pounding on cars driven by whites. A sixty-year-old man was struck in the face by flying glass when a rock was hurled through the side window of his car. A young woman lost control of her vehicle when a brick flew through the windshield. Regaining control, she drove on, chased by a handful of people who shouted, “She just killed a black child. Stop her!” On Brinkerhoff Avenue, an appliance store was looted. On 109th Avenue, two liquor stores and a supermarket were stripped. A car abandoned by a white driver was set aflame.
Then the skies opened, and heavy rain began to fall. Slowly the crowd dispersed, carrying bottles of liquor, groceries, and cases of beer. By dusk, order had been restored. Seven civilians and four cops had been injured.
That night a fifty-three-year-old black man who, with his son, owned and operated a liquor store on 109th Avenue in South Jamaica inspected the ruins of his establishment.
“Every dime we had was in this business,” the man said. “Now we’re wiped out. They took everything we had. The shooting was only an excuse. These vandals don’t give a damn for anyone or anything. If they had any concern for the dead boy, they wouldn’t have done what they did on the day he was buried.”
As the community raged, so did the cops.
Many policemen in the 103rd Precinct genuinely believed that Thomas Shea had fired in self-defense. Others had grave doubts concerning the veracity of his story but identified with him as “a man who was doing his job.” Virtually all of them bitterly opposed the charge of murder.
In an effort to calm the men under his command, Glanvin Alveranga sought to address them each individually.
“I know you’re unhappy about the arrest,” he said time and time again. “But I want you to put yourself in another pair of shoes. Imagine yourself coming home one night and your wife telling you that your ten-year-old son has been shot to death in the back by a policeman. What would your reaction be?”
The Captain’s words had a calming effect on some. But the majority of cops continued to believe that Shea’s arrest was “politically motivated.” The presence of such “dignitaries” as Manhattan Borough President Percy Sutton at the Glover funeral reinforced that view. And the actions of Queens Borough President Donald Manes strengthened it further.
Shortly after Glover’s death, Manes (a white man) paid a condolence call on Add Armstead and Eloise Glover. Speaking stiffiy before reporters (who had been notified in advance of his visit), Manes expressed “the shock shared by many people throughout the city” and pledged, “There will be justice.” Then, holding a photograph of Clifford Glover in his hands, Manes announced the establishment of a “Clifford Glover Memorial Fund” to purchase athletic equipment for black children in South Jamaica.
At the close of the festivities, Armstead thanked Manes for his “very thoughtful” gesture. Then, after the Borough President had gone, the embittered father turned to Eloise Glover and complained, “Basketballs! That’s all they think we need. Ain’t he ever heard of books?”
On Friday, May 4 (the day after the funeral), the rift between rank-and-file cops and “the politicians” grew even wider. Responding to pressure from the Mayor’s office and the media, Police Commissioner Donald Cawley called a press conference at police headquarters in Manhattan to announce the creation of a special panel to screen out members of the Department who had shown “a chronic use of force in their work.”
Speaking to newspaper, radio, and television reporters, Cawley declared, “To clear the air, I am releasing the record of Patrolman Shea’s previous cases involving firearms.” He then summarized each of Shea’s previous shooting incidents and closed with a reference to the death of Clifford Glover. “I disagree with the charge of murder. But the officer clearly made a mistake and pulled the trigger when he shouldn’t have.”
Within hours, the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association reacted. Speaking at a hastily called press conference of his own, PBA President Robert McKiernan attacked the release of Shea’s record as “despicable,” adding that the treatment received by Shea had “upset other policemen and perhaps made them reluctant to perform their duties.”
Noting that Shea had made more than two hundred arrests and assisted in an additional three hundred, McKiernan angrily declared, “We wish the Commissioner would stop releasing statements to the press about Patrolman Shea until he has had his day in court. As a matter of fact, we demand it. If necessary, we will seek to have the judge in this matter call Cawley and order him to make no further statements regarding the case.”
“Cowardly police administrators,” McKiernan closed, “are robbing law-abiding citizens of the protection they pay for and deserve. The Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association regretfully informs the general public that we are recommending to our men that they be extremely careful and cautious before taking any action against suspected criminals. Policemen have been sold out again by politicians, and this city slips still further towards anarchy.”
With McKiernan’s statement, polarization within the Department over the arrest of Thomas Shea reached new heights. The PBA was and remains a potent force in city life. As the union and collective bargaining agent for the police, with a membership roll that includes 99 percent of the city’s patrolmen, it holds extraordinary influence over millions of New Yorkers. Indeed, if Cawley doubted the political strength of the PBA, he had only to look at the results of a 1966 referendum that decided the fate of New York’s Civilian Complaint Review Board.
The purpose of the Board had been to evaluate complaints of alleged police brutality. The referendum had pitted the PBA (which wanted the Board out of existence) against the panel’s supporters (including New York City Mayor John Lindsay and Senators Robert Kennedy and Jacob Javits). The city electorate sided with the PBA by an overwhelming two-to-one margin.
Now, with rank-and-file cops voicing open opposition to their Commissioner, a near-intolerable situation existed. In precincts across the city, renewed rumblings of a police walk-out were heard. Demands for Cawley’s resignation sprouted. In South Jamaica, the burden weighed heaviest on Glanvin Alveranga who, as the first black precinct commander in Queens, had to lead his men in a manner consistent with his responsibilities as a police officer and his convictions as a man.
Four days after Clifford Glover’s funeral, Alveranga posted a memorandum on the bulletin board of the roll-call room in the 103rd Precinct station house:
TO ALL MEMBERS OF THIS COMMAND
As commanding officer, I wish to take this opportunity to thank each member of this command for the high level of performance that has been maintained during the recent disorders. The level of professionalism, the intelligent, prompt response to emergencies and the forbearance displayed by you in dealing with the extreme provocations of recent days makes me proud to be in command of such a fine body of police officers.
Then, dressed in uniform, Alveranga toured the churches of South Jamaica for several weeks, speaking before Sunday congregations. In answer to a reporter’s query, the police captain said, “I want to assure members of the community that they will have my complete assistance with any type of problem. I think Sunday is a good day to talk with them.”
Reverend John Mason of the Mount Zion Baptist Church (where Clifford Glover’s funeral had taken place) told reporters that Alveranga was “warmly received by my parishioners.”
Deputy Commissioner for Community Affairs Roosevelt Dunning said later that Alveranga’s sensitivity was “a major contributing factor in the restoration of calm to South Jamaica.”
But throughout his travels, despite his mission of bringing peace to others, Alveranga found none for himself. One particular thought kept gnawing away at his insides.
Alveranga felt nothing but revulsion over the death of Clifford Glover. Not once during his own tenure on the force had he fired his gun except for police training. He was convinced that Shea and Scott were lying about the shooting. But if the Shea-Scott story was false, then one very troubling question remained.
Thomas Shea wasn’t the only cop who had fired a gun on the morning of April 28, 1973. By his own admission, Walter Scott had fired too. Scott claimed that he had shot at Armstead in self-defense after Glover had been struck by Shea’s bullet and passed a “black revolver” to his stepfather. But if there had been no gun and Armstead was unarmed, then Scott was lying about the cause and timing of his own shot.
Everyone had come to assume that Thomas Shea shot and killed Clifford Glover.
Alveranga wasn’t sure they had arrested the right cop.