Our school's cafeteria head, a good, kind, gentle man named Philando Castile—we know him as Phil—was murdered tonight by police. He was pulled over for a busted tail-light. The officer asked for his id. Phil said he was licensed to carry. He wanted the officer to know that. He said his wallet was in his back pocket. He reached for his wallet. The officer told him to stop. Phil started to put his hands back up, and the officer shot him four or five times in the side, in the arm. His girlfriend, her little girl in the back seat, calmly narrates as Phil is swearing and dying beside her. The officer flips out, crying that it was Phil's fault rather than trying to give first aid. His girl friend, displaying remarkable calm, keeps narrating. They get her out of the car. They throw away her phone. She keeps narrating as they make her kneel and handcuff her. Her little daughter, who was in the back seat if the car, is asking for her mama, asking if her mama is hurt. Officers bring the daughter out. They put them both the girlfriend and her daughter in the back of a police car. His girlfriend keeps narrating, hand-cuffed, and asking her sister to come back and pick her up. They just dropped her sister off, could she please come back and pick her up. She breaks down once, sobbing, as her phone is close to dying, and her little daughter says, "It's okay, Mama, I'm here."
That is Phil. That is a good man. That is a murder. This is rage and grief.