THE DAY KIRK PALMER WAS SHOT FIVE TIMES IN RIVERTON CITY

My people, there are some dates you remember because somebody wrote them on a calendar.

And then some dates are burned into your memory.

Monday, February 23, 1998, is one of those dates for me.

Riverton City.

Kingston 11.

But my day did not begin in Riverton City.

My day began at Norman Manley International Airport.

I had just returned to Jamaica after approximately three months of vacation leave in the United States.

Think about that transition.

A few minutes earlier, I was a passenger coming off an airplane with luggage.

Then my police team picked me up in an unmarked white Toyota Corolla.

They returned my M16 rifle to me.

One magazine.

Thirty rounds of 5.56mm ammunition.

My 9mm Browning semiautomatic pistol.

Three loaded magazines.

And just like that, Christopher Porter went from being a visitor returning to Jamaica—

to being a Hunts Bay policeman again.

We had barely reached the Harbor View roundabout when the police radio came alive.

"Hunts Bay Seven from Control."

We answered.

"Control from Hunts Bay Seven. Go ahead."

Then came the assignment.

Five heavily armed men had reportedly been seen at a premises in Riverton City, Kingston 11.

Our response?

"Control, Hunts Bay Seven. On the way."

Siren on.

Vehicle moving.

And I was heading toward the first police assignment of my return to Jamaica.

I had no idea that within a short time, one member of our team would be lying on his back with five gunshot wounds to the left side of his chest.

I had no idea I would be firing my rifle through wooden structures.

I had no idea Bobby Reds, and I would end up pursuing armed men through the Riverton swamp.

And I certainly had no idea that before the day was over, I would be sitting on a tree stump—

covered in mud—

when Detective Tony Hewitt placed his hand on my head and told me:

"Kirk is going to make it."

And I would burst into tears.

Because that day—

we came frighteningly close to losing Detective Constable Kirk Palmer.

And I was there.

FROM THE NORMAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT TO A GUN BATTLE AT RIVERTON CITY KINGSTON 11

The sun was up.

It was daytime.

People were moving around.

Life looked normal.

That is one of the strange things about violence.

Sometimes five seconds before gunfire starts, everything looks perfectly ordinary.

No music plays in the background to warn you.

No narrator tells you:

"Something terrible is about to happen."

One second, everything is normal.

The next second—

your entire life changes.

We arrived in Riverton City.

My team included men I trusted.

Detective Kirk Palmer.

Rock Stephens, whom we called Rocky.

Bobby Reds.

And me.

These were not names on a police roster to me.

These were men I worked with.

Men whose reactions I knew.

Men whose courage I knew.

Men with whom I had shared danger before.

And when you work that kind of policing, trust becomes everything.

Sometimes your life depends on whether the man beside you will move toward the danger—

or away from it.

That afternoon would answer that question permanently for me about Bobby Reds.

THREE SECONDS

One detail I will never forget.

Bobby Reds and I had just left the side of a house.

Not ten minutes before.

Not an hour before.

We had just moved.

I estimate it was a matter of seconds.

And then—

the shooting started.

Gunfire erupted.

BAP! BAP! BAP! BAP!

Then the rapid burst of heavier gunfire.

Everything changed instantly.

And through that chaos, I heard Kirk Palmer.

He shouted words that have remained in my memory:

"Porter, dem come dung pon me!"

Immediately I knew something was terribly wrong.

That wasn't a casual call.

That wasn't Kirk saying somebody had fired in our direction.

Something had happened to Kirk himself.

I was crouched down.

Bobby Reds was taking cover beside me.

My training took over.

I brought my M16 rifle into position and returned fire toward the direction from which the attack was coming.

Bobby Reds returned fire as well.

Then—

the incoming gunfire subsided.

And I moved.

DETECTIVE KIRK PALMER ON HIS BACK

I went back around toward where I had left Kirk Palmer and Rock Stephens.

First, I saw Rocky.

He was on his back.

For one terrible second, you don't know.

Is he hit?

Is he dead?

Is he alive?

Rock was okay.

No gunshot injuries.

Then I moved toward Kirk.

And there he was.

On his back.

Looking at me.

And smiling.

That smile has stayed with me because it seemed completely inconsistent with what I was seeing.

The left side of Kirk Palmer's chest was covered in blood.

In my memory, the blood looked as though several small pipes had been turned on.

That is how severe it appeared.

Blood was coming from multiple wounds.

I immediately applied pressure with my hand.

I asked him:

"Kirk, are you hit anywhere else?"

He indicated that the injuries were on that side.

Five gunshot wounds.

Left side of the chest.

Think about that.

The heart is there.

The lungs are there.

Major blood vessels are there.

Five bullets in that region.

And yet Kirk Palmer was conscious.

Looking at me.

Talking.

Alive.

I do not care what anyone says—

When you see something like that, and the man survives, you understand why people use the word:

Miracle.

GET DETECTIVE KIRK PALMER OUT

Bobby Reds began collecting Kirk's equipment.

The Remington shotgun.

Kirk's pistol.

The magazine.

Loose ammunition that had fallen into the dirt.

Then we helped Kirk toward the unmarked police vehicle.

Rock Stephens got into position.

We placed Kirk so that Rock could support him and continue applying pressure to his wounds.

We told Rock:

Call Control. Get help. Get Kirk out of here.

And then Bobby Reds and I made a decision.

We were going after the men.

Now, sitting here decades later, I can tell you something that may sound unbelievable.

At that moment, Bobby Reds and I were not standing there calculating:

"What if we die?"

We weren't having a philosophical discussion about risk.

Our teammate had just been shot.

The suspects were fleeing.

Our adrenaline was high.

And our focus was immediate:

Find them.

That was the mentality.

FIVE GUNMEN, TWO POLICEMEN

We moved toward the rear of the premises.

And then we saw them.

According to my recollection, several armed men were moving away, apparently believing they had created enough separation between themselves and the police.

Then the shooting started again.

Gunfire came toward us.

We returned fire.

And suddenly Bobby Reds and I were in a running engagement with armed men through one of the worst environments imaginable.

Riverton.

Swamp.

Mud.

Garbage.

Black water.

Uneven ground.

Places where your feet could sink.

Places where you could barely move properly.

And the smell—

I can still remember it.

But when your adrenaline is pumping, and people have just shot your colleague, you are not thinking about how your clothes smell.

You are thinking:

Where did they go?

"ONE HAND TONY" THE LAST MAN FROM THE NATTY MORGAN'S GANG

During the pursuit, Bobby Reds recognized one of the men.

He identified him to me as a man known as "One Hand Tony."

Bobby told me that he knew him from previous encounters and described him as being associated with the Natty Morgan gang.

According to Bobby's recollection to me at the time, Tony had lost a hand in an earlier encounter.

That made this pursuit personal to Bobby.

He told me, in substance:

"Porter, that is One Hand Tony."

From that moment, Bobby was determined not to lose him.

We continued through the swamp.

The men began splitting in different directions.

That is a classic tactic when people are being pursued.

Instead of giving the police one group to follow—

you suddenly have several directions.

And every choice becomes a risk.

Follow one man—

you lose another.

Turn left—

someone may be waiting on the right.

Stop—

they gain distance.

Keep going—

you may walk directly into an ambush.

But we continued.

THE HARDEST PART OF THE PURSUIT

At times, the suspects moved near other people.

Including children.

And that changes everything.

A police officer cannot simply fire because a suspect is somewhere ahead.

You must know what is behind the person.

Who is beside them?

Who could be hit if your round misses?

That restraint is something people watching movies sometimes don't understand.

There may be an armed man twenty yards away—

but if a child crosses behind him—

you cannot take that shot.

So there were moments when we had an opportunity to see the suspects but could not safely fire.

We kept moving.

Through mud.

Through water.

Through vegetation.

And then we reached an area near the Riverton dump.

More open.

And ahead we saw a man whom Bobby identified as Tony.

He appeared to be limping.

He moved toward a small bridge spanning a dark river.

And when I say dark—

I mean water so black that you could barely make out anything beneath the surface.

He eventually disappeared among trees and vegetation along the bank.

REINFORCEMENT ARRIVES

By then, police reinforcement began arriving.

The first officer I remember reaching us was Detective Clayton "John" Squire, who was then stationed at the Flying Squad headquarters near Central Police Station in Kingston.

And when reinforcements arrive after something like this, the entire atmosphere changes.

Now you have manpower.

Now you can establish search areas.

Now people can follow blood trails.

Now hospitals can be notified.

Now roads and possible escape routes can be monitored.

More and more police officers began arriving.

Two additional blood trails were located.

They led toward another portion of the river.

Then—

the trails disappeared.

Hospitals were alerted in case wounded suspects appeared seeking treatment.

The search continued.

ONE HAND TONY

Eventually, the man Bobby had identified as One Hand Tony was found dead among the vegetation along the riverbank.

I remember him appearing to be holding onto vegetation near the bank.

The firearm we believed he had been carrying was not recovered there.

But for Bobby and me, the physical exhaustion was only beginning to register.

We were covered in mud.

Our clothes were soaked.

We smelled terrible from the swamp.

But none of that mattered.

Our adrenaline was still high.

Kirk had been shot.

We wanted to know:

Was he alive?

That became more important than everything else.

DETECTIVE TONY HEWITT

And then came the moment that later became part of my personal history.

I was sitting on a tree stump.

Covered in mud.

Exhausted.

Still processing everything that had happened.

Then Detective Tony Hewitt, who was associated with the Flying Squad and was one of the senior officers on the scene, came over to me.

Tony put one of his hands on my head.

And he told me:

Kirk is going to make it.

He is going to be alright.

That's when everything inside me changed.

I cried.

I cried because I had seen five wounds on the left side of Kirk Palmer's chest.

I had seen the blood.

I had applied pressure to those wounds.

I had watched him lying on his back.

And when Tony told me Kirk was going to survive—

the pressure inside me released.

People think policemen don't cry.

Police officers cry.

Soldiers cry.

Firefighters cry.

Strong men cry.

Sometimes the strongest thing a man can do is stop pretending that what he just witnessed did not affect him.

That moment with Tony Hewitt later became important because the Gleaner photographed me sitting down as he comforted me.

That picture tells a story that words cannot completely explain.

KPH

Bobby Reds and I eventually went to the Kingston Public Hospital emergency room.

There was Kirk Palmer.

Alive.

Receiving treatment.

Rock Stephens was there.

Kirk had an intravenous line in his arm.

And despite everything that had happened, Kirk was Kirk.

He wanted to know about the men.

He asked me words to the effect:

“Porter, unu get di bwoy dem?”

I told him that one man was down and that others were still being pursued.

Then Kirk looked toward Rock.

And what he said has never left me.

In essence:

"Rock, me tell you say Porter nah let dem get away."

Even lying there injured—

Kirk knew us.

He knew how Bobby Reds and I operated.

He knew how personally we took what had happened.

THE POWER WASH

Then the hospital staff looked at Bobby Reds and me.

We were filthy.

Mud.

Swamp water.

The smell of Riverton all over us.

Hospital personnel took us into an area where we were decontaminated.

They sprayed us down.

Washed us.

Afterward, we stood there in hospital gowns.

Imagine the picture.

Hours earlier, I had landed at Norman Manley International Airport from America.

Now I was standing at KPH in hospital clothing—

after a gun battle and a swamp pursuit.

But remember something.

My suitcases were still in the trunk of the police car.

So we went outside.

I opened one.

I had brought clothes from America.

I gave Bobby Reds a pair of jeans.

Two shirts.

A new pair of sneakers I had bought for him.

And even a bottle of Clinique Happy for Men.

Bobby laughed and said something that still makes me smile today:

It was almost as though God knew he'd need those clothes.

Because otherwise he would have been going home dressed like a hospital patient.

That is policing.

One moment you're facing gunfire.

The next moment you're laughing with your partner about cologne and clothes.

Humor becomes survival.

SUPERINTENDENT LOLA EVANS

Superintendent Lola Evans visited Kirk Palmer at the hospital.

She also came over to speak to us.

And Lola Evans was special to me.

Of all the female leaders I served under, she stood out.

She had a personality you never forgot.

When she saw me, she joked with me along the lines of:

"Man, you couldn't come back good? One of my police get shot?"

Then she commended Bobby Reds and me for pursuing the suspects after ensuring Kirk had been placed in the vehicle for treatment.

That mattered to me.

Because leadership is not simply giving orders.

Leadership is showing up when your people are hurting.

Lola came.

She checked on Kirk.

She checked on us.

And decades later, I still remember it.

That tells you the impact she had.

WHY BOBBY REDS CHANGED IN MY EYES

This incident permanently changed the way I looked at Bobby Reds.

We had already worked together.

I already respected him.

But after February 23, 1998—

my respect became something deeper.

Because here is the truth.

When one officer gets shot, not everybody reacts the same way.

Some people freeze.

Some people become cautious.

Some people focus exclusively on getting the wounded man out.

And none of those reactions automatically means cowardice.

People are human.

But Bobby Reds?

Bobby went with me.

Through gunfire.

Through the swamp.

Through mud.

After men who had just shot one of our teammates.

And I never forgot it.

From that day forward, there was something Bobby never had to prove to Christopher Porter again.

Courage.

I had seen it.

THE NEXT DAY

The search did not end that afternoon.

According to my recollection, the following day, two additional men were found dead in the Riverton area near vegetation leading toward Dyke Road.

The remaining suspects continued to be sought.

In the weeks that followed, police operations continued.

There were further armed confrontations involving members of our team, and firearms were recovered.

I want to phrase this part carefully because history matters.

My purpose today is not to celebrate anybody's death.

It is to explain the mentality and reality of violent policing encounters in Jamaica during that period.

When armed men shot at police officers—

there could be deadly consequences.

And every officer involved understood that the next person killed could easily be one of us.

THE MEN WHO DIDN'T ALWAYS COME HOME

This is where the story becomes painful.

Because not everybody on our policing journey survived gun violence.

Detective Bruce Brown was killed by gunfire.

Constable Errol "Ghatta" Thompson was killed by gunfire.

Other members of our team survived shootings.

Detective Leslie Ashman.

Detective Reuben Gunter.

Detective Rock Stephens.

Men who were shot and lived.

Some more than once.

And somehow—

through all those years—

Bobby Reds and I were never shot.

Not once.

I don't say that with arrogance.

I say it with gratitude.

Because bullets passed close enough.

Danger came close enough.

We buried enough colleagues.

We visited enough hospitals.

And when I look back now, I realize how easily my name or Bobby's name could have been added to that list.

OUR MOTHERS

And there is another part of this story people rarely think about.

Our mothers.

When Bobby Reds, and I were out working late—

our mothers waited.

If we didn't reach home—

they stayed awake.

They prayed.

They worried.

They listened for the vehicle.

They listened for the gate.

They waited for the sound that told them:

My son is home.

My mother prayed constantly for me.

Bobby's mother prayed for him.

And when I look back at some of the things we survived—

I understand why faith became so important to us.

At the time, we were young.

We believed we were almost untouchable.

Today, I understand differently.

We were not untouchable.

We were fortunate.

Very fortunate.

BOBBY REDS IS GONE NOW

And this is the part that hits me hardest today.

Bobby Reds is no longer here with us in the flesh.

When I tell this story now, I am not only remembering Kirk Palmer's shooting.

I am remembering Bobby.

The man beside me in the swamp.

The man firing beside me.

The man who walked into danger with me.

The man I later gave jeans, shirts, sneakers, and cologne from my suitcase because we'd both ended up covered in Riverton mud.

He's gone.

And for the first time in my life, I have started thinking seriously about something I rarely considered when I was young.

One day—

Christopher Porter will also leave this earth.

The man from the "Belly Of The Beast."

The young detective who thought he would never get shot.

The policeman whose mother prayed for him every night.

The man who ran into danger because he believed that was what he was put here to do.

One day I will become part of somebody else's memory.

And that realization changes the way you tell these stories.

WHY I AM TELLING IT NOW

That is why I preserve photographs.

That is why I search newspaper archives.

That is why the February 24, 1998 Gleaner matters.

Because memory fades.

People die.

Stories get distorted.

And eventually somebody who wasn't there starts telling the story differently.

But I was there.

I heard the gunshots.

I heard Kirk's voice.

I saw him bleeding.

I pressed my hand against his wounds.

I saw Rocky.

I went through the swamp with Bobby.

I saw Clayton Squire arrive.

I sat on that tree stump.

I felt Tony Hewitt's hand on my head.

And I cried when he told me:

"Kirk is going to make it."

Those aren't statistics.

Those are memories.

"THE NEWSPAPER PRINTED IT. WE LIVED IT."

Monday, February 23, 1998.

I began the day coming off an airplane.

Three months away from Jamaica.

Suitcases in the trunk.

Within hours—

my rifle was in my hands.

Gunfire was ringing through Riverton.

My colleague was lying wounded.

My partner and I were running through swamp water after armed men.

And that evening I was standing inside Kingston Public Hospital wearing hospital clothes.

Think about that journey.

Airport.

Harbor View.

Police radio.

Riverton.

Gunfire.

Kirk down.

Swamp.

Hospital.

All in one day.

And the following morning—

Tuesday, February 24, 1998—

Jamaica opened The Gleaner and saw the story.

They saw a newspaper report.

They saw photographs.

But Bobby Reds and I—

lived it.

And today, when I look at the old photographs, I don't just see young policemen.

I see men whose lives were tied together by things most people will never experience.

Kirk Palmer.

Rock Stephens.

Clayton Squire.

Tony Hewitt.

Leslie Ashman.

Reuben Gunter.

Bruce Brown.

Errol "Ghatta" Thompson.

Bobby Reds.

And Christopher Porter.

Some are still here.

Some have gone ahead.

But their stories deserve to be preserved.

And when I think about Bobby Reds today, I remember February 23, 1998, as one of the days when he showed me exactly what kind of policeman he was.

When Kirk went down—

Bobby didn't run away.

He ran toward the fight with me.

And I never looked at him the same way again.

So wherever Bobby Reds is today—

Brother, I remember.

And wherever Kirk Palmer is today—

I remember that Monday afternoon when five bullets entered the left side of your chest—

and somehow—

you lived.

My people, that is why this is more than a police story.

It is a life story.

Friendship.

Courage.

Fear.

Faith.

Mortality.

And memory.

Because eventually every one of us becomes a photograph.

Everyone of us becomes somebody's story.

And every one of us leaves behind a question:

What will people remember about the way we lived?

This is Christopher Porter.

Jamaican Young Police.

Substance Over Popularity.

Informer fi live.

Give me the book and not the gun.

The newspaper printed the story.

But we lived it.