I went to work on July 7th, 2016 but could do little or nothing, so instead, I watched video after video of unarmed black men killed by the police. My eyes were red as the waterworks kicked in; call them tears. I then went to one of our meeting rooms with a large card and a sharpie, made my protest sign, rolled it up, and planned to leave my car in the office garage and walk to the light rail station on Galatyn parkway a few feet away to board a train to the protest downtown.
As the clock ticked, the countdown to a dangerous moment was on. My brain triggered a surge of adrenalin, aware of the danger ahead, causing my heart to beat faster than usual, pushing my body into a different mode.

At 4.30 pm, I hopped on the train. The temperature was 98 degrees Fahrenheit, and I was sweating profusely, frightened that things, anything might go wrong and the result would be death(s). So I became weak since I had just been off work, and dinner time was creeping on.
Not to pass out, I entered the McDonald’s on Commerce street(downtown), a few meters away from where we were to meet at 6 pm and ordered a cheeseburger, some fries, and a large cup of coke.
Out of the restaurant, I strolled across the street and received a handshake from Alexander, one of the protest organizers. The other was a white pastor named Jeff. The protest was not a black lives matter event, but some have tried to pin that name on it.

We listened to speeches and marched through a chosen path downtown unmolested by the police. They were very friendly and happy to watch a peaceful protest. As night fell, we ended up at the old courthouse before dispersing.

By all accounts, the protest was over, but some people just lingered as I hurried back to the rail to board the train to beat the crowd. Once on board, my phone buzzed. It was one of my sons with the worst message of my life. “Dad, they are shooting downtown.”
Upon arrival at home, I turned the TV on in the breakfast nook and saw what looked like fireworks, but the gunpowder in the air was not for celebration, marking any pleasure. So this was an offense punishable by law unfolding in real-time, and worst still, these were law enforcement officers gunned down by someone who was not a protester.

My heart beats, but Michael Krol, Lome Ahrens, Michael Smith, Brent Thompson, and Patrick Zamarripa had no pulse. That breaks my heart.

PS: With five officers dead, and nine plus two civilians wounded, Dallas police made sure Micah Xavier Johnson would have to talk to a robot strapped with a bomb. He was blown to pieces.

We acknowledge good policing: