No Justice, No Peace

No Justice, No Peace

by Myron MacHutchens

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No Justice, No Peace: A Cautionary Tale is a story that details what MacHutchens believes is the only way to break a nearly four hundred year American tradition of whites murdering Blacks without consequence. In his own words, he says, "This has to be the only means of African Americans to finally achieve the same measure of justice whites have enjoyed since they embarked on the genocide of the continent's native peoples. Were there any other possible way, it would have happened by now."

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781943958832
Publisher: Mythical Legends Publishing
Publication date: 09/30/2017
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 370
File size: 2 MB

Read an Excerpt


Jackson looked past the yellow police tape at the body lying in the street; another black man's body devoid of life in broad daylight, getting soaked in the persistent drizzle. Off to the side was the white officer, who had shot the man lying in the street, being debriefed by the ranking lieutenant with fellow officers keeping the growing crowd away from the shooter.

Voices were getting louder from the crowd, but no apparent family member related to the victim was present nor anyone who was with the man before he was shot.

Jackson pulled a monocular from his pocket and focused on the name tag of the shooter, seeing it said "Benson."

He jotted the name down and the number of the squad car he had driven along with the current date and time and tucked the notebook back into his pocket to keep it dry. He looked around to see if he could spot anyone who witnessed the incident.

Off to the side were a teenage couple under an umbrella surrounded by a small knot of people; several bigger men keeping officers at bay.

Jackson edged over to the group and eased up next to one of the men, black of course, standing between a Tampa police officer and the couple. He nodded at the man not bothering looking at the white cop as he made his way toward the couple.

"... no, he wasn't doing anything at all. He was walking carrying two bags of groceries, not bothering anyone," the young woman said pointing to the twin bags spilled on the ground.

"Then what happened?" Jackson quietly prompted drawing glances from several of the assembled.

Jackson Richards was a freelance reporter and Internet blogger standing six feet tall with a slight build with medium brown skin. His features were thin but pleasant, and his voice was smooth and soothing.

The young man picked up the story tipping the umbrella toward the man lying in the street. "He was walking along when the cop car drove up, and the cop rolled down the window. We couldn't really hear what was said, but the brother raised his hands, still holding his bags when the cop got out of the car."

"He wasn't doin' nothing, just holding the bags when the cop put his hand on his gun and shouted that he wanted to see some ID," the woman said.

"The brother lowered his left hand ..." the young man began.

"Was he still holding the bag?" Jackson interrupted.

"Sure was," the woman replied.

"He reached down to put the bag on the ground,; and when he reached for his back pocket, the cop shot him four times!" said the man.

"He didn't have anything in his hand?" asked Jackson.

"Hell, naw. And the first thing the cop did when the brother hit the ground was to look around to see who was watching. When he saw us, and that old man over there, he shouted for us to keep back," the young man said, nodding toward an elderly man talking to two police officers on the other side of the street.

"Did the officer touch the body?" Jackson asked.

"He checked the brother's neck, but he didn't do anything else. That cop in the white shirt took the man's wallet when he arrived, but there's no sign of a weapon, and they couldn't plant one on him with all of us watching," explained the young man.

"I do some online reporting for some Black news sites,; would it be all right if I contact you later about the entire incident?" Jackson asked. He then saw the young woman pull on the man's shirt as she whispered in his ear.

Jackson waited patiently while they made up their minds.

"Do you have a card? We can get back to you — maybe," the man said, holding out his hand.

Jackson gave the man his card and watched as the couple read his name and the Web site.

"Yeah, maybe we'll give you a call," the man said.

"Thank you. I would appreciate hearing from you. It's always best getting an observant, uninvolved party to help tell the real story, not the one the cops want to tell," Jackson said, watching the two nod in agreement.

"This is your cell phone number?" the woman asked.

"It is. Call me anytime."

Jackson slowly edged away from the couple, nodding to the same brother keeping the cop at bay, meandering through the crowd, eavesdropping.

The crowd had grown larger in the short amount of time Jackson had been on the scene. The humidity was cloying,; the air almost liquid. The temperature, in the nineties, jacked up the discomfort, and crowd, overwhelmingly black, was getting louder and angrier as the minutes ticked by.

Once he'd seen and heard enough, Jackson headed back to his rental car parked several blocks away. When he got into the car he turned his custom police scanner on in time to hear the call for the coroner's office dispatch to the site to pick up the body.

Jackson fired up his tablet and waited for it to log onto the Web. He made a quick stop at the Tampa Police Department page and did a search for officer Benson, finding out his first name, Earl, and that he was a six-year veteran of the force. He then logged into a secret, highly encrypted site that his tablet could only access because of a special app that managed the highly encrypted traffic.

He logged in, then created an incident report with the date, time and officer's name, planning to get the victim's name and background information once it was released. He added some brief notes on the locale and then logged off.

In the fifty years since Ronald Reagan was elected President of the United States, a radical change in law enforcement occurred. Police departments in major cities and small towns alike, became virtual paramilitary forces. Their arms, uniforms and tactics became those of anti-insurgency units trained in war,; no longer simply civilian forces to uphold the law. And along with these changes came a corresponding change in the legal system where prosecutors, lawyers and judges became a direct conduit for nonwhites to be immediately incarcerated in a profit-driven prison system regardless of the evidence, that is when the nonwhite "offender" wasn't simply killed outright.

Despite national outrage, far too many in positions of power turned a blind eye to the activities of increasingly belligerent local police forces. And here America stood, a land of infinitely greater peril for any man of color, with young black men thirty-five times more likely to be shot and killed by a police officer than any white man.

The wealthiest four hundred families in America had been running the country using their lap dogs, the Republican Party, for decades. For nearly two generations they had propelled over half of the nation's wealth into those families' hands. And though Republicans hadn't seen the inside of the White House since the disastrous eight years under George W. Bush, they were doing their best to keep the country moving toward an oligarchy-run police state.

Conservative organizations like The American Legislative Exchange had been crafting laws for "Red States," extending the privilege of the non-consequential murder of black men and teens to white civilians. Laws like those grouped under the title "Stand Your Ground" were frequently used by whites in Red States like Texas and Florida where the killing of blacks was excused because white shooters felt threatened by the mere presence of a black male, and the juries all went along with the notion. White police officers and civilians had their automatic get out of jail free card for the murders merely stating, "I feared for my life."

The ubiquity of the dumbing down of America, which began with Richard Nixon having declared war on the intelligentsia, continued unabated. Elementary schools had been scoured of any classes that provoked analysis of the issues of the day, the same with high schools across America. Students were deprived of any classroom exercises that taught cause and effect, now with testing standards designed to graduate students just smart enough to make change at McDonalds.

College was only for the monied elite, or athletes who made the colleges and universities that great sports revenue and were often cut loose dumber than when they enrolled.

Republicans also made sure that middle and underclass Americans scrambled for the few remaining jobs across the country having presided over changes to the trade laws and tax codes that eliminated 46,000 manufacturing companies in a single decade. The number of jobs sent offshore were legion, leaving the United States absent the manufacturing capacity that once ruled the world. The world's economy was laid low by the criminal greed of the white elite bankers.

Whatever the machinations of those driving American culture forward, Jackson was invoking serious respect in online and broadcast media for his sober, factual coverage of the nation's police shootings. And though some local departments tried to refute some of the rather obvious conclusions in Jackson's reporting, even the FBI largely agreed with the statistics published in Jackson's blog, "Jackson's Real Deal."

In the fifteen years since the events in Ferguson, Missouri, little had changed despite a worldwide condemnation of the killing of unarmed, innocent boys and men of color with the now-familiar "Hands Up, Don't Shoot" and "I Can't Breath" refrains when history tragically repeated themselves. Jackson's Real Deal Web site contained thousands of comprehensive reports of police-involved incidents of violence against the very people they were supposed to protect.

Jackson Richards grew up in the northern suburbs of Chicago. He came from a family of culturally invisible African Americans. He was raised by his mother and father, both of whom had respectable, upper middle class jobs. His mother was the accounting department head for a medium-sized hospital while his father supervised a crew of engineers for the regional transit authority.

He attended public schools, and along with very respectable SAT and ACT scores, he easily scored an academic scholarship at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign campus in journalism specializing in digital media. He had no police record,; he had never been arrested. He didn't own a hoodie, nor did he sound like actor J.J. Walker when he spoke, except when it suited him. He favored jazz over rap and was an accomplished sketch artist by the time he graduated.

In his Sophomore year of college, Jackson created a Web site that aggregated over fifty college and university basketball and football scores, including game statistics, only stealing a half hour of his time each morning to aggregate. It became the go-to destination on his campus until word-of-mouth spread. Soon, he had two other students populating the content who he was able to pay out of local and national advertising as the site's popularity grew.

By his second year of online operation, he had to move the Web site off the campus network because it was drawing too much traffic. By then he was pulling in about $5,000 in advertising revenue each month, mostly from beer and sporting goods companies. However, he struck gold in his senior year when ESPN Sports advertised televised college games on his site. By the time he graduated he had $700,000 in the bank and a half dozen offers to buy the site, which he eventually sold to the ESPN Sports Network for more than enough money to retire on.

Jackson was smart, savvy. He approached everything he did looking at every angle he could think of before he chose the path to be taken,; this included his romantic life as well. It was no secret on campus he was well off while he was in school, attracting his share of co-eds interested in his attentions, and his money. But Jackson was no fool. He knew he was too young to be saddle with a wife or children while he was in school. Nor was he interested in forming a relationship with someone in school with the expectation that they would marry upon graduation.

When he did graduate, Jackson decided to take a rail tour around the United States. He first returned home to spend some time with his parents. Since it was summer vacation, his younger sister (by two years) was also home. The entire family took some time off together. They went to several concerts, the local amusement park where Jackson coaxed the entire family to ride the park's fastest roller coaster together; all-in-all, a good time was had by all.

Jackson discussed his plans to see the country by rail. His mother helped him plan out his route, sharing the task of researching the various long-haul Amtrak passenger lines, schedules and destinations. Over dinner they would all discuss various historical sites, national attractions and notable cities, planning the best routes to take and when the best times for layovers would be in the cities along the way. As it was approaching the beginning of July, they decided that arriving at the nation's capital for the Independence Day celebrations would be a great kickoff for Jackson's tour.

Armed with what his mother insisted was the necessary count of socks and underwear, a snazzy backpack equipped with solar cells to keep his mobile phone and tablet charged by sunlight alone, and a year's Amtrak Ameripass,; Jackson departed from Chicago's Union Station on the Capitol Limited with Washington, D.C. his destination.


"Good morning everyone, it is 6:00 A.M., and the temperature has already reached 81° in Manhattan. Time for the news," the radio announced before a hand slapped the button on the top of the clock to turn it off.

Andrew Simmons cracked an eye toward the clock knowing full well what it was going to show him. Simmons was one of the top urban planners working for one of the largest consulting firms in New York. In the eight years since he had left military service and joined the firm, Simmons had been all across the United States and in a dozen countries, first contributing to, then leading engineering and design projects in urban planning. His expertise was public transportation infrastructure which didn't much surprise his old friends from the army. His advancement through and deployment after US Army Sniper School was characterized by methodical planning and execution, often literally, of his missions. His missions inevitably paired him with white spotters, but his accuracy and attention to detail gave him a reputation of unbroken success without mishap, injury or a team member's death.

Now, he lived on Long Island and commuted to and from the firm's tony office suite in Soho reading the morning's news on his tablet during the commute.

Although he was staying home to get some work done in peace without everyone constantly asking him questions on this or that project, his attention was caught by the news of the shooting of another innocent, unarmed black man in Tampa by a white cop. He breezed through the story, did a search for more information about the incident and inevitably landed on the Jackson's Real Deal Web site. He read the reporting of the facts posted, including the shooter's name, noting that an internal investigation by the Tampa Police Department was underway.

Simmons shook his head after he finished reading, finding that the majority of the news coverage was just rehashed information from the initial Tampa newspaper report. His anger over the continued injustices fellow black males faced in the U.S. never showed. Neither did his feelings about the racist nonsense he faced in the military. His response to the racists crap he faced in the army was to be better than any other man he competed against and to do so without comment, letting his actions do all his speaking for him.

Once he left the service, he parlayed his Bachelors in Engineering into a nice gig with the company he still worked for, and with his same methodical way of doing things, worked his way up through the ranks. He was now one of the top three consulting engineers for the firm. In addition to making a very respectable seven figure salary, he brought in over one hundred million dollars in revenue per annum. This fact alone gave Simmons a great amount of freedom, specifically the freedom to manage his own time without interference.

Just as he was getting out of the shower he heard his mobile phone ring.

Dripping water across the bedroom, he grabbed the phone off the night table and answered.

"Hello?" he said, wiping water from his body with the towel he grabbed along the way.

"One Shot! What's up, killer?"

"Get the fuck out! Is that really you?" he replied.

"In the flesh, so to speak."

The caller was a voice from the past, Anthony Dawson, former USMC sniper who later went to work for the CIA. The two initially met in the African Congo where their individual assignments chanced to bring them together in a bar in Tanzania before Dawson was dispatched to Uganda and Simmons was off to Rwanda, both tasked to eliminate particularly vicious warlords with a penchant for killing hundreds of their own people at the drop of a hat to keep "order."

"Brother, you are a hard man to find, or at least you were, at first. Found out where you worked, called up and told them I was a buddy from way back and sweet-talked your number out of the nice chick who answered," said Dawson, chuckling.


Excerpted from "No Justice, No Peace"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Myron MacHutchens.
Excerpted by permission of Mythical Legends Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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