THERE WAS A TIME WHEN CARRYING A 9MM PISTOL IN THE JAMAICA CONSTABULARY FORCE MEANT SOMETHING.

Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I am taking you somewhere very personal.

If you want to understand Bobby Reds, if you want to understand Chris Porter, if you want to understand the Hunts Bay CIB team, the bicycle patrol, the dangerous streets we worked, the friendships we developed, and how two young policemen became brothers through police work—you have to go back to the beginning.

And at the beginning of this story, in my account, stands one man:

Ivanhoe Thompson.

Before many people knew our names, before the stories, before the reputation, before Bobby Reds received that 9mm pistol, before people would come to recognize the partnership between Bobby and me—decisions were being made that helped put the pieces together.

And Ivanhoe Thompson was there.

Tonight, I am going to tell you why I believe this man helped start it all.

But this story is bigger than one man.

It is about Bobby Reds.

It is about loyalty.

It is about friendship.

It is about courage.

And it is about something that younger police officers today may find difficult to understand:

There was a time when carrying a 9mm pistol in the Jamaica Constabulary Force meant something.

It wasn't simply another firearm.

It could represent status, confidence and responsibility.

And Bobby Reds was a District Constable.

Some people apparently didn't believe Bobby should cross that invisible line.

But I knew the man beside me.

I knew his courage.

I knew his work ethic.

I knew what he was prepared to do when everybody else was looking for somewhere to hide.

So when opposition came, I defended Bobby Reds.

And then ACP Granville "John" Gause stepped in.

What he said that day—and what happened afterward—is part of the Bobby Reds story that I will never forget.

So stay with me.

Because tonight you are going to understand why, when I say Bobby Reds was special, those aren't empty words spoken because the man has passed away.

I believed it when he was alive.

And I am going to prove to you why.

BEFORE THE LEGEND, THERE WAS A BEGINNING

Every great story has a beginning.

People normally meet you after you have already established yourself. They see the finished product. They hear the stories years afterward.

But they don't necessarily know who opened the first door.

They don't know who made the first decision.

They don't know who recognized something in two young policemen before everybody else could see it.

That is why I want to talk about Ivanhoe Thompson.

When I say that Ivanhoe Thompson was responsible for everything from the beginning, understand exactly what I mean.

I am speaking about my recollection of our history and the role I believe his leadership and decisions played in setting events into motion.

Without understanding those early decisions, you cannot completely understand what came afterward.

You cannot properly understand Bobby Reds and Chris Porter.

You cannot understand why we became so close.

You cannot understand why we trusted each other.

And you certainly cannot understand why losing Bobby Reds all these years later feels like losing part of my own history.

Because Bobby wasn't somebody I met last year.

This goes back decades.

This was police work.

This was friendship.

This was brotherhood.

This was history.

TO EVERYONE WHO CALLED ME: THANK YOU

Before I continue, I need to stop here.

I want to acknowledge something that has touched me deeply.

Since Bobby Reds passed away, people who knew us—people who knew our history, people who remembered seeing Bobby Reds and Chris Porter working together—have reached out to me.

Some of you called me.

Some sent messages.

Some left comments.

Some said:

"Porter, I'm sorry."

And sometimes two or three words are all that are necessary.

So tonight I want to tell every single one of you:

Thank you.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for the kind and comforting words.

When somebody dies, people sometimes don't know what to say.

You don't have to find the perfect sentence.

Sometimes knowing that another human being remembers the person you lost is enough.

And Bobby Reds was remembered.

That means something to me.

Even my biological father felt Bobby's death.

Think about that.

My father understood what Bobby meant to me.

He understood the history.

So when Bobby died, the effect didn't stop with me.

My family felt it too.

That tells you that this relationship had moved beyond two policemen working the same shift.

Bobby had become family.

YOU HAD TO KNOW BOBBY REDS

I don't want Bobby's passing to cause me to exaggerate the man.

I don't need to exaggerate him.

His record in my memory is enough.

Bobby Reds was one of the bravest, most fearless, and meticulous police officers I ever worked beside.

Notice the three words I used:

Brave.

Fearless.

Meticulous.

Because bravery without discipline can become recklessness.

Fearlessness without judgment can hurt everybody around you.

But Bobby had something else.

He paid attention.

He watched.

He learned.

And when it was time to work, Bobby worked.

Now, don't misunderstand me.

I have worked with some exceptional police officers.

Detective Inspector Reuben Gunter?

Different category.

Rock Stephens?

Different category.

Those men have their own stories, and they deserve their flowers too.

I am not taking anything from anybody to give something to Bobby.

But Bobby Reds?

Bobby was special.

There was something about him.

And part of what made him special was that Bobby didn't start with all the advantages other people had.

He was a District Constable.

That distinction mattered.

WHEN A 9MM MEANT SOMETHING

Now let me take the younger viewers back in time.

Today, somebody hears "9mm pistol" and thinks:

What's the big deal?

No.

You have to put yourself in that period.

Within the policing culture I experienced, being entrusted with a 9mm could carry a certain prestige.

It could communicate:

This man has arrived.

This man is trusted.

This man is operating at another level.

Bobby had spent years carrying a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver as a District Constable.

And let me make something clear:

That .38 didn't prevent Bobby from doing police work.

That .38 didn't prevent Bobby from going where danger was.

That .38 didn't prevent Bobby from standing beside us.

Bobby had already demonstrated his value.

The firearm wasn't going to make Bobby brave.

Bobby was brave before the 9mm.

The firearm wasn't going to make Bobby a police officer.

Bobby had already proved himself through his work.

That is the important distinction.

The 9mm didn't create Bobby Reds.

Bobby Reds earned the recognition that came with it.

BUT SOME PEOPLE DIDN'T WANT IT

And this is where the story gets interesting.

Because, according to my recollection, there were sub-officers at Hunts Bay CIB who opposed Bobby being issued the 9mm.

And I understood exactly what was happening.

This wasn't merely about a piece of equipment.

It was about what that equipment represented.

Giving Bobby that pistol meant recognizing him differently.

Here was a District Constable who had worked hard, worked alongside detectives, and repeatedly demonstrated courage.

But some people apparently weren't comfortable with Bobby being seen that way.

And I couldn't accept that.

Because I knew what Bobby had done.

I knew where Bobby had gone.

I knew what Bobby was prepared to face.

And I knew that when trouble arrived, nobody stopped to ask:

"Wait—who is a District Constable?"

Danger doesn't check your rank.

A criminal doesn't ask to see your service record before deciding whether you're a threat.

When things got serious, the question was:

WHO IS STANDING BESIDE YOU?

And Bobby stood beside us.

So yes:

I defended him.

Not because Bobby was my friend.

Because friendship alone shouldn't determine who receives police equipment.

I defended him because, based on the work I personally witnessed, I believed he had earned it.

THEN JOHN GAUSE STEPPED IN

And then came ACP Granville "John" Gause.

This is one of those moments that stayed with me.

Because leadership sometimes means deciding that everybody beneath you doesn't like.

Anybody can lead when everybody agrees.

Leadership becomes visible when somebody has to say:

"I heard your objections. Here is my decision."

And, as I recall, that is what happened.

Gause overrode the opposition.

And the reasoning was simple.

Bobby already carried a firearm capable of lethal force.

So the argument that giving him a 9mm somehow transformed him into something fundamentally different didn't make sense.

The man was already armed.

The man was already doing dangerous police work.

The man was already standing alongside us.

The man was already exposing himself to the same streets.

So what exactly were we pretending?

That is what I respected about John Gause in that moment.

He cut through the nonsense.

And Bobby got his 9mm.

THE DAY BOBBY GOT IT

I wish I could take every viewer back and let you experience what that moment meant.

Because when Bobby finally got that 9mm, I wasn't simply looking at a pistol.

I was looking at my partner receiving recognition.

I was looking at a man who had done the work finally receiving something that communicated:

WE TRUST YOU.

And that meant something.

I can imagine Bobby thinking:

"After all these years with this .38, dem finally upgrade me!"

[Laugh.]

But seriously, the important part wasn't what was sitting on Bobby's waist.

The important part was the man carrying it.

Same Bobby.

Same courage.

Same work ethic.

Same loyalty.

Same willingness to go.

The equipment changed.

The man didn't.

THE BICYCLE DAYS

And this brings me to another chapter that means so much to me.

The bicycle patrol.

Some people today hear "police bicycle" and think about recreation.

No, man.

Those bicycles became part of our policing strategy.

There were places a motorcar couldn't maneuver quickly.

Some communities were places where a vehicle announced your presence before you arrived.

But bicycles?

Different story.

We could move.

We could observe.

We could get close.

And sometimes the people causing trouble didn't realize the police were already there.

When I look back at Bobby Reds and me together, those bicycle days represent something special.

Two policemen.

Two bicycles.

And plenty of determination.

We didn't have drones.

We didn't have smartphones.

We didn't have GPS telling us:

"Suspect located 300 meters ahead."

[Laugh.]

We had eyes.

We had ears.

We had community intelligence.

And we had legs.

Strong legs!

Because after riding those bicycles all day, nobody needed a gym membership.

THE PARTNERSHIP

That environment builds relationships differently.

When you depend on another man in dangerous situations, you learn him.

You know how he thinks.

You know how he reacts.

You know when he is concerned without him saying anything.

Sometimes you don't need a conversation.

One look is enough.

That's partnership.

And Bobby and I developed that kind of relationship over years.

That is why his death hurts differently.

People see the funeral.

They see the photographs.

They hear me talking about him.

But what I see are decades.

I see Hunts Bay.

I see CIB.

I see bicycles.

I see investigations.

I see jokes.

I see arguments.

I see dangerous moments.

I see the .38.

I see the 9mm.

I see Bobby standing beside me.

WHY BOBBY WAS DIFFERENT

Let me explain something else about courage.

The bravest police officer isn't necessarily the loudest man in the station.

Sometimes the loudest man disappears when things become serious.

Every police station has somebody who can arrest twenty criminals while sitting around the desk.

[Laugh.]

Man is undefeated inside the station!

Then the radio says something is happening outside:

"Control, repeat the location?"

Suddenly the man can't hear!

[Laugh.]

Bobby wasn't that type.

When work came, Bobby was prepared to work.

That's the Bobby Reds I knew.

That is why I use the word fearless carefully.

Not because he believed nothing could happen to him.

But because fear didn't prevent him from doing his job.

There is a difference.

GUNTER AND ROCK

And because history must be fair, I want to say this again.

Reuben Gunter.

Rock Stephens.

Those men deserve tremendous respect in my recollection of that period.

They belong in a category of their own.

Every strong police team has different personalities.

Different strengths.

Different experiences.

Different levels of judgment.

And sometimes those differences are exactly what make a team effective.

So when I praise Bobby Reds, I am not rewriting history as though Bobby and I operated alone.

Absolutely not.

There were exceptional policemen around us.

But this particular chapter is Bobby's chapter.

And Bobby earned the right to have his story told.

WHAT JOHN GAUSE'S DECISION REALLY MEANT

Years later, I don't think the importance of that 9mm story is actually about a firearm.

It's about recognition.

How many hardworking people are overlooked because somebody has decided:

"You are supposed to stay at this level."

How many people outperform their title?

How many people demonstrate ability beyond their official position?

And how many organizations make the mistake of valuing rank more than results?

Bobby's story reminds me of something:

Recognize good people while they're alive.

Don't wait for funerals.

Don't wait until somebody is lying in a casket to discover twenty wonderful adjectives.

Tell people what they mean while they can hear you.

I defended Bobby while Bobby was alive.

John Gause made that decision while Bobby was alive.

And today, with Bobby gone, that gives the memory even greater meaning.

IVANHOE THOMPSON: BACK TO THE BEGINNING

And now we come full circle.

Because when you trace this story backward—from Bobby's final salute, through the years of partnership, through Hunts Bay CIB, through the bicycle patrol, through that 9mm story—you eventually arrive at the beginning.

That's why I put Ivanhoe Thompson on this thumbnail.

Not as decoration.

Not for sensationalism alone.

But because in my personal account of this history, his decisions helped set the chain of events into motion.

Decisions make history.

One person assigns somebody somewhere.

One supervisor sees potential.

One officer gives somebody an opportunity.

And twenty or thirty years later, you realize:

If that decision hadn't happened, how different would everything have been?

That's why we have to remember the people at the beginning.

TO THE YOUNG POLICE OFFICERS

To the young police officers watching me:

Your greatest professional relationship may be standing beside you right now.

That young constable you take for granted?

Twenty years from now, that may be the person whose photograph brings tears to your eyes.

That District Constable whom everybody overlooks?

He may become the bravest person on your team.

That supervisor who gives you an opportunity?

You may still be saying his name decades later.

Don't underestimate people.

Don't let rank blind you to character.

And don't wait until somebody dies to tell the world:

"That was a good police officer."

Tell him today.

BOBBY REDS WAS SPECIAL

Bobby Reds was not perfect.

Neither am I.

No police officer is.

But when I evaluate the man based on the years I personally worked beside him, I can say without hesitation:

Bobby Reds was special.

One of the bravest.

One of the most fearless.

One of the most meticulous.

And one of the most dependable men I worked with.

That isn't funeral praise.

That is my testimony as his former partner.

There is a difference.

THANK YOU FOR REMEMBERING MY FRIEND

And finally, I want to return to everyone who contacted me.

You may never understand how much those calls and messages meant.

When you told me you remembered Bobby and me working together, you weren't simply remembering him.

You were helping me remember an entire chapter of my own life.

You reminded me of Hunts Bay.

You reminded me of those bicycles.

You reminded me of the investigations.

You reminded me of the laughter.

You reminded me of the danger.

You reminded me of the .38.

You reminded me of the day Bobby finally got that 9mm.

You reminded me of John Gause standing up and making the decision.

You reminded me of Ivanhoe Thompson and where this story began.

And most importantly:

You reminded me that Bobby Reds will not be forgotten.

Even my father felt this loss.

That's how deeply Bobby became connected to my life and my family.

So to everybody who called:

Thank you.

To everybody who sent a message:

Thank you.

To everybody who attended his final farewell:

Thank you.

And to those young police officers who never met Bobby Reds but are learning his story through this channel:

Remember the lesson.

Rank doesn't manufacture courage.

A firearm doesn't manufacture courage.

A title doesn't manufacture courage.

Character reveals itself when circumstances become difficult.

Bobby Reds demonstrated his character long before anybody placed a 9mm in his hands.

THE 9MM DIDN'T MAKE BOBBY REDS. BOBBY REDS EARNED THE 9MM.

And somewhere near the beginning of this remarkable journey was Ivanhoe Thompson—a man whose role, in my recollection, helped put the pieces into place.

That is why this story had to be told.

Bobby Reds, my brother, my partner, my friend—rest in peace.

Your watch has ended.

But your story?

Your story continues.

This is Chris Porter.

This is the Jamaican Young Police Channel.

Substance over popularity.

And Bobby Reds—

we will never forget you.