Kiwi at sharp end of New York justice

Glen Waterhouse

Sixteen-year-old Javaughn Higgins made the news in New York this year when he was charged with helping beat Bangladeshi immigrant Mofizur Rahman into a coma before stealing his cellphone. The man died 12 days later. Awaiting trial, Higgins was freed on US$150,000 bail - outraging police and the city's mayor, Michael Bloomberg, who called it 'turnstile justice'. One evening last month, police said, Higgins and three others used an imitation handgun to rob three men. Then they came across New Zealander Glen Waterhouse. He describes what happened next.

I am a 28-year-old New Zealander, raised in Wanganui before moving to Auckland for work. I transferred to New York on an accounting secondment in January 2004 for four months, and instantly fell in love with what I truly believe to be the greatest city in the world.

After the four months, I arranged another accounting job at the international firm BDO and have been working here since November 2004, becoming a loyal Yankees fan within seconds.

I am relocating to Sydney in December and will miss this crazy city immensely. Never a dull moment with the most tangible energy on the streets of any city I have visited. I'll definitely be back.

They say that you are not a true New Yorker until you have been mugged. If so, then I well and truly earned my stripes on the evening of Tuesday, October 25, in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn.

My girlfriend Jessica has been living on St Mark's Ave for close to seven years now and has never had any trouble whatsoever in the neighbourhood. A New Zealand friend of mine lived there with Jessica for half a year and never had any trouble. It's a beautiful neighbourhood, with a troubled past that is rapidly succumbing to gentrification.

So the odds of running into a convicted murderer out on bail, who had used a stun gun on a 57-year-old Bangladeshi shopkeeper then beaten him to death for a cellphone and a few dollars, on this street, a mere 40 metres from Jessica's apartment, are more remote than George Bush admitting that invading Iraq was a mistake.

I was making great time after having been issued with strict instructions to not be late this time. For some reason, I decided to take a different train to Brooklyn, the 4/5 instead of the 2/3 which docks closer to Jess' house purely cos I felt like a walk up Flatbush Ave. I decide to further extend my boyfriend greatness by popping my head into Garry's Liquor Store and picking up a cheeky little bottle of New Zealand pinot noir.

Exiting the store, I place my headphones on, press play on the iPod and notice a young chap walking past who is staring directly at me, and it gives me an odd feeling in my stomach. A feeling akin to having just finished a second helping of Wanganui Collegiate School battered luncheon on a Wednesday afternoon prior to a rugby match against City College. So I cross the street earlier than usual and let them pass, thinking no more of it, listening to the Kings of Leon, Slow Long, Slow Night, happily reminiscing of my trip to Atlantic City with my friend Guy to see them play over the summer.

I turn on to St Mark's and notice a guy cut in front of me about 10 metres ahead. Three others are about 25 metres ahead. I am now fully aware of the wine bottle and the black plastic bag cutting into my fingers, and I grip it tightly and muse over the thought of me having to whack this guy in front of me if he tries anything. The thought of me, an accountant, doing that amuses me no end and I conjure up images of warding him off with a frightening deferred tax calculation.

He stops.

He turns around.

He pulls a gun out of his jacket and points it to my chest.

"Give me your cash or I'll ****ing shoot you"

"No problem. Which album do you want? Live at Folsom Prison? American Recordings? Both are excellent."

Instead of saying the above line, I am now freaking out, truly thinking I am about to be shot, so I thrust forth my bag and tell him that I don't have any money. I imagine Jessica's eyes rolling and explaining to my assailant, "Believe me, you're wasting your time, he doesn't carry cash, and I've threatened him with no loving!"

I am a clumsy oaf at the best of times and I think this is agitating the gun toter no end by fumbling through my bag, trying to demonstrate that I don't have cash. He confirms my suspicions that he is frustrated by informing me "This is taking too ****ing long, hurry up or I'm going to shoot you."

I watch him take my iPod from my bag and then he demands that I empty the contents on to the ground. I'm begging for him not to shoot me, over and over again. He takes my credit cards and my passport. Then he walks around the back of me and searches my back pockets for cash. To my dismay he finds a few crumpled greenbacks and I am fearful this is going to upset him further.

The whole time I am aware of people walking past us on the street. It is utterly surreal.

He turns and walks away. He just walks away casually. He turns again, I hold my breath and he throws my passport towards me onto the pavement.

He's gone. I'm desperately scrambling for my things on the ground, so much so that later, I discover I have acquired a few autumn leaves from the pavement in my bag. I'm thankful I'm OK and I ask an elderly gentlemen who is walking past to stay with me for a while. He leads me to the police station just around the corner. I am shaking.

After giving my description of the guy to the police, there is general chaos over the airwaves as we hear that the "Perpetrator" has been found.

Gunshots. Three or four of them.

A male and female police officer then instruct me to go with them in the car to identify the "Perp". I'm running towards a police car with two officers in Brooklyn, New York, feeling like I am in a movie.

Gunshots. Fifteen of them.

I find myself sitting in a car with four beefy detectives, driving towards the shooting to identify a man who has been shot. I am petrified about seeing the three other gentlemen that were with my assailant. I am even more petrified of seeing him. They all leave the car and I am sitting by myself. I'm acutely aware that the time is 7.15pm and Jessica will be livid at home, completely unaware that all this chaos happening right outside her window involves her boyfriend, again being a tardy Kiwi.

There are about 25 police cars with red and blue lights illuminating the beautiful brownstone buildings in every direction. People standing outside on their stoops, hanging out of apartment windows, watching the drama unfold. It seems like every cop in Brooklyn has arrived at the scene.

I am led to the ambulance through a multitude of officers placing flashlights on the ground, revealing spent bullet shells. This is quite a strange moment in time. I've never seen someone who has been shot before. What if it isn't him? Does he even deserve to be shot if it is him? Will I be able to recognise him? More pressing on my mind is, will he recognise me? How the hell do I feel?!

There he is on the stretcher. A policeman's flashlight is scooting over his face and I instantly see a gunshot wound to the cheek and his eyes are closed. I tell the police that I'm pretty sure it's him. I ask to see his clothes and immediately recognise the hat and jacket, take another look at him and tell the police that it is indeed him. They start screaming into their walkie talkies "Positive ID! Positive ID!". I remember wanting to identify the gun, my iPod just to be sure in my mind that this was him, to put all doubt that I had made a mistake out of my mind. I remember feeling instant remorse for a young boy who had just thrust a gun in my chest and threatened to kill me, now lying on a stretcher with two bullet holes in him. How on Earth does someone that young get to the point where he is shot over something so trivial as an iPod?

Then begins a long saga of questioning back at the 77th Precinct from 8pm through until 11.30pm when I was moved to the 78th Precinct for more questioning until 3am. Jess came down to the station and we ate some pizza. She said to a police officer that she felt sorry for the mother, which started an argument between the two in the first moments she was there. A beautiful, simple sentiment in the face of the "rah rah" attitudes of some of the officers. "You'll be pleased to know we got him twice for ya!", although it must be said that some were extremely helpful and compassionate.

The gun was in fact a fake 9mm pellet gun, we discovered later.

I told the same story over and over. Internal Affairs. Homicide. Detectives from both 78th and 77th Precincts. District Attorney's. Interview after interview to the backdrop of the World Series match between Chicago and Houston. I found myself looking around, soaking it in, the accents, the smells, the cold coffee, the NYPDisms issuing forth from these cops, amazed at the fact I was here. That I was in a scene I have watched a hundred times on TV.

After getting to bed in the early hours of the morning, we slept in late, had a nice breakfast and almost choked when we read the New York Times who had printed the story the next day. Then the story broke on the 6pm news. My reaction to being the second story after Hurricane Wilma on the Fox network was again one of disbelief. Almost as surreal as the moment Jess informed me there were reporters from the tabloid New York Post and the Daily News downstairs wishing to interview me. They asked me if I was Australian. I informed them I wanted them to leave. All our information had been leaked by the police therefore I also had reporters come to my house, my work, leaving messages on my work phone.

Mayor Bloomberg, a mere week away from election date, even remarked on the event at a press conference. This story had become 15-minute election fodder. "I think this is a perfect example of turnstile justice" he said.

In the past week I've thought about it immensely, with conflicting emotions between sympathy for a kid who has resorted to this and incredulity that a kid who has been convicted of murder could be out on the streets after his mother posted US$150,000 bail coming from a house mortgage. More than anything, I'm just glad I'm OK. Coming home soon Mum, don't worry!