Murder, in Black and White

Why a Fairmount murder should be considered a hate crime.

by Brian Hickey

The Chinese-takeout joint and basketball courts near 30th and Jefferson just weren't cutting it on March 23, 2006. So three young friends set out to find something better to do.

The first stop was on 26th, where Quinzell McCall, George Graves and Dawud Thomas dropped by Quinzell's aunt's house. They'd emerge with a loaded .357-caliber German-made revolver with black tape holding its handle together.

Quinzell, 16, handed the gun to George, who stuck it in his hoodie. They all crossed the street and went inside the rec center, where they met three boys they barely knew. Unfamiliarity didn't stop Brian Crosland, Malik Loper and Dimitrius Tadlock from going along, though.

Ranging in age from 13 to 16, the six made their way south into Fairmount to play a game called "Who can catch the most bodies?"

So into "the white neighborhood across Girard" they went and, having passed a "white person" with whom they exchanged words but didn't rob, they walked up narrow Stillman Street. Crosland threw a bottle through an elderly resident's window, and the sound sent neighbors scurrying.

As the six fled, a neighbor ran to get her teenage son and his friends around the corner. After yelling up the street that "we'll get you white motherfuckers," the North Philly boys split up and regrouped a few blocks away. But when they got to 27th and Parrish, they were cut off by Robert Pierson, a lanky, athletic 17-year-old who smashed a Parrot Bay coconut-rum bottle he'd pulled from a recycling bin over Dawud's head. Robert's friends were streaming up Parrish Street behind him, and brawls were breaking out everywhere.

Then, according to at least one of his friends, Quinzell pulled out the gun that George passed off a few minutes earlier. He pointed the barrel at Robert and thrice exerted the 12.5 pounds of pressure necessary to fire before sprinting north on 27th and dumping the weapon under a car near the North Star Bar.

Quinzell, all five friends now say, won the game.

Because Quinzell, they admit, caught the most bodies.

As he emerged from the holding area off Courtroom 601 in the Criminal Justice Center 16 months later, Quinzell McCall hardly looked like a murderer. He didn't look remorseful, either. Sporting a blue button-up dress shirt and tan dress pants, he's a wide-eyed kid who briefly let a smirk cross his face before sitting down at the defense table last Monday.

He watched as six whites and six blacks were selected for the jury and told Judge Carolyn Engel Temin he'd like one last chance to talk to his mom about whether he should accept a plea that would land him behind bars for at least 17.5 years. Three weeks shy of his 18th birthday, Quinzell decided against it, which was just fine by Bobby Pierson, who doesn't have the luxury of visiting his son in prison. Even though Bobby was worried about the risks of a jury trial, 17.5 years just didn't seem fair, so he told Assistant District Attorney Carmen Lineberger to go to trial.

"Hold him accountable for the body he caught," Lineberger would forcefully implore in her opening arguments. "For the life of Robert Pierson."

Defense attorney David Nenner, an affable guy who sounds like a sports-talk host, countered that it "was a lot of idle talk by six young teens" who panicked when confronted by a white mob. Besides, they'd do anything to save themselves from hard time. "The commonwealth tightened its grip, and friends turned on friends to save themselves. All five got a get-out-of-jail-free pass and threw that young man under the bus."

In one sense, Nenner was right: Cooperation translated into dropped charges for everybody but Quinzell, who's facing life. During the next three days, each child testified for the prosecution, as did several police officers who listened to the youths' admissions; Robert's friend; his still-grieving sister who also had to speak at the trial of a gunman who robbed her a few months later; and a woman who says she saw Quinzell dump the .357 after telling George he "got" Robert.

(With a bullet tearing through his neck and esophagus, Robert would succumb three weeks later on Easter having never regained consciousness. The bloody clothes he was wearing would be set aside as evidence on property receipt No. 2648873.)

First up was George, a tall, steely-eyed kid who recounted punching "what's his name? Rob?" after the bottle smashed over Dawud's head. "I ran, but then I heard three gunshots and saw him on the ground," he continued. "Then, I heard the gun drop. I asked him did he get him." To which Quinzell said, "Yeah."

The next day, George continued, Quinzell's mom came by his house and "told me to stick to the story that Quinzell gave police." They'd blame Malik, the new kid in the 'hood. "I just said a'ight."

That "a'ight" earned him a thank-you card (since destroyed) and some money on his prison books. "He's my best friend," explained George, who relented during the investigation. "I didn't want to see him get locked up."

Over the next two days, Malik (now on juvenile placement for a separate robbery), Dawud (who said Quinzell and George also told him to blame Malik) and Dimitrius (who knew they were going to "jump somebody for no reason") would pin the blame on Quinzell. This, despite Nenner's diligent efforts to point out that they didn't actually see a trigger pulled.

Though this was a case involving a youth who died at the hand of other youths in a neighborhood not used to such violence, the trial seemed relatively rote until Brian Crosland took the stand. Depending on who you believe, Brian was either "high" on the stand (Nenner); failed by a putrid culture and education system (me); or "the way [he] think[s] is different than everybody else" (himself).

Infuriating survivors, he giggled, constantly swiveled in the witness chair, made faces and hid his eyes behind evidentiary documents when talking about going after "white people." ("They think it's funny because they're getting away with it," a Pierson supporter said.)

When his friends later told him that Quinzell shot somebody — he ran early, too — "I's like, yeah. Cause I saw him. He had it in his hand and was pointing it in front of him."

Lineberger finished with witnesses Friday morning and Nenner, apparently with little defense, took an hour to call several relatives and a minister before doing the same.

After the first couple of days, it seemed like there were enough minor contradictions in testimony and reasonable doubt to wonder about the potential verdict. Besides, Quinzell, still wide-eyed and nervously smirking, didn't take the stand to face scrutiny.

"There are a lot of indications," Temin said during a mics-off, away-from-the-jury colloquy, "that you'd hurt yourself if you testified."

Fifth Amendment aside, whoever pulled the trigger — I'd vote to convict even before Wednesday morning's closing arguments — hurt a whole lot of people more than he could harm himself by manning up. But here's what gets me as riled up as watching a dead kid's family suffer: Six black kids consciously decided to target white people for victimization, and that is no less a hate crime than dragging someone behind a pickup in Texas.

That they were teens, or that the prosecution needed their cooperation to get a conviction — which could've come as early as Wednesday afternoon — means nothing. They set out to catch a white body and they got one, leaving countless lives and families shattered on both sides of Girard in their wake.

If the races were flipped, this'd be a national scandal. But instead, it's just another day in Philadelphia's justice system, and at least five racist, violence-prone little punks will walk away scot free with enough life in their bodies to play their sick little "game."

(hickey@citypaper.net)

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