An Interview with George Zimmerman on the Eve of His Trial

Zimmerman breaks five-year silence after learning police don't trust him

Hands up. Who was surprised at the verdict of the George Zimmerman trial a few years back?

Seems there are a lot more of you than I thought. I wish I was one of you, but about twenty years ago, when my father stopped a kindly old shopkeeper from forcing this little Black kid to open his jacket on the wrongheaded suspicion that he stole some comic books, I learned that would probably never be the case.

Five years ago, the rest of America had to re-learn that lesson, one which a majority of people, of every color and creed and orientation, seem to forget every time the news cycle reboots itself after 12-hours. Strange fruit been hanging on the vines of our trees since forever, only difference is the names change ever few years. Normally, the perpetrators are unassailable, representatives of the law, but George Zimmerman was different. He was a civilian. Or maybe Batman or The Punisher or The Fist of Goodness. Whoever he thought he was, he was not police. He was also, apparently, not guilty of the murder of a 17-year-old.

But that was half a decade ago, and today, George Zimmerman lives just outside of San Luis, Arizona with his wife, Shellie, and four-year-old son, Bobby. Today, he has twice the hair and half the weight. He is also preparing for trial after being charged with aggravated assault on Yuma County Police Officer, Martin Raymond, who Zimmerman claims profiled him as an illegal alien when he was pulled over for Reckless Driving and Operating a Motor Vehicle with a Malfunctioning Taillight.

Prior to being charged, Zimmerman was living under the protection of the United States Marshals as a protected citizen. His charges have forced him to shed his WITSEC identity and return to the public eye after years of hiding. I was privileged to sit down with Mr. Zimmerman and speak with him about his thoughts on his upcoming trial, one that is rife with unsettling parallels to his controversial trial five years ago for the murder of Trayvon Martin.

Even though he was flanked by his wife and lawyer, Mark O'Mara, Zimmerman was noticeably nervous when we first met at his home just miles north of the Mexican Border. He kept his eyes to the ground unless he was answering questions, and he constantly wiped away a small layer of sweat would from his brow when he offered anything more than a one word answer.

I tried to put him at ease by asking how he was doing. He didn't sweat.

I eased into asking him about his recollection of the night in question, or at least as much of his recollection that he was free to talk about. It was about 11:00pm on a Thursday. It had just stopped raining. He recalled going about 50 on highway when he saw the red and blues in his rear view. He barely remembers if he saw the cruiser before that moment, but he has a vague memory of seeing a black and blue Taurus on the side of the road a few miles prior to the stop.

His lawyer interrupted with a slight shake of the head. Zimmerman backtracked, stating that he wasn't sure if it was a Taurus or a Sonata.

As he moved on to his memory of the traffic stop, his lawyer handed him a handkerchief. Zimmerman began by describing how Officer Raymond approached his car with a flashlight in one hand and the other on the handle of a pistol. He hesitated a bit as he told of how the officer circled the rear of the car and shone his flashlight in each window, starting with the one closest to his son, who was sitting in the back. The officer then shone the light on the passenger's side. It was strong enough to make her recoil. Through these first moments, Zimmerman did his best to remain calm. He told his wife, "It'll be okay." He peeked at his son through the rearview and asked, "Are you okay, Buddy?" His son trembled as he nodded. Zimmerman didn't believe his boy, but he said he couldn't spend much time focusing on him and, instead, asked his wife to hand him his license and the car's registration.

Before he could pass the registration to the officer, Officer Raymond shone the flashlight in his eyes and asked, "You were all over the road back there. Have you been drinking tonight?"

Zimmerman said he said "No" right before he tried to ask the officer why he pulled him over. He never finished the question. Instead, the officer snatched his license and registration and reviewed it before barking a question at Zimmerman.

Zimmerman's lawyer tapped him on the shoulder and whispered into Zimmerman's ear for ten seconds. Zimmerman contests that the officer didn't bark as much as ask in a measured tone.

Officer Raymond, a tall wide man with a light beard and tiny eyes according to Zimmerman, then asked if Zimmerman knew why he was being pulled over. Zimmerman shook his head and responded with a wide eyes a dropped jaw and a "no".

That's when things, by Zimmerman's admission, got weird. Zimmerman's WITSEC-appointed name was even more at odds with his brown skin than his given name. While he was not at liberty to reveal his name to me, he assured me it was not an ethnically distinct name, at least not in his estimation. The officer, Zimmerman alleges, was unconvinced as to the authenticity of Zimmerman's documentation. His disbelief lead him to snatch open Zimmerman's door and order Zimmerman to exit the vehicle.

Zimmerman's wife interjected, saying she would have yelled at the officer at that very moment if not for her sons burgeoning tears. Tears ran down her rosy cheeks, and Zimmerman places his hand on hers. He said the officer gave him only a second to get out before he began shoving him towards the rear of the car. Once they reached the rear of the car, Officer Raymond told Zimmerman to sit on the ground with his hands placed behind his head. Zimmerman's wife couldn't hold back and yelled loud enough for the sound of her voice to carry through to the back of the car.

"Why are you doing this? Stop it! We have a child back here!" 

Zimmerman watched as Officer Raymond unsnapped his holster and moved back to the front of the car, pointing his finger at Zimmerman's wife, and said, "Be quiet!"

She didn't.

Raymond leaned into the car at that point, close enough for the spit from his mouth to rain down on her face, she says, and said, "If you don't shut up now, I will pull your ass out here with him!"

Zimmerman desperately wanted to move but remembered the last time he moved against the wishes of the authorities.

Six years ago in a gated enclave in Sanford, FL, Zimmerman was patrolling his neighborhood as part of the neighborhood watch that formed after a series of burglaries were reported in the area. The burglaries were allegedly committed by a group African-American youths. On the night of February 26, 2012, Zimmerman spotted an African-American youth wearing a hooded sweatshirt and walking through the neighborhood. Zimmerman followed the youth to see where he was headed then approached the youth. A confrontation ensued and at the end of the night, Trayvon Martin was dead and Zimmerman was in police custody. Weeks later, he was charged by Florida prosecutors with 2nd Degree Murder. More than a year later, he saw the trial for that murder end with his freedom.

His freedom brought him to this moment on the side of the road in San Luis, Arizona, right on the border of San Luis Rio Colorado, Sonora, Mexico but more than hundreds of miles from his mother's native Peru, where he found it in his best interest to stay put until his family was threatened. He stayed seated and kept his hands behind his head, but still yelled to Officer Raymond, "come on, man, leave them alone! They didn't do nothing" 

He remembers hearing every crunch of the officers boot heels on the pavement as he stomped back towards him. And he couldn't forget how officer Raymond leaned into his face and exclaimed, "Where did you get these from?"

Zimmerman was so stunned he could barely get a word out. "They're legit" he said. Officer Raymond retorted they don't look legit. 

Zimmerman's wife co-signed, "He's legal. Please stop. He's an American citizen!"

Officer Raymond reached for his weapon, and Zimmerman forgot his lesson. He rose up and shoved the officer in order to defend his family. He struggled with the officer for what seemed like an hour but was actually about five minutes. They wrestled on the ground of the desert road, grappling at each other and throwing wild punches--one of which cut Officer Raymond's lip, the other breaking Zimmerman's nose in roughly the same place as it was broken on the night of Trayvon Martin's death--until Officer Raymond overtook Zimmerman and put the barrel of his pistol to Zimmerman's forehead. 

Zimmerman could barely keep his tears and urine inside as he looked into the barrel. He claims the officer cocked the hammer and held it for almost five seconds before he release the hammer and engaged the safety.  

Zimmerman and his wife simultaneously wipe away faint tears as he finishes that part of the story. It takes them about six minutes to compose themselves and continue. 

After Officer Raymond removed his pistol from Zimmerman's head, he cuffed Zimmerman and left him laying face down on highway until backup and the paddy wagon.

Zimmerman spent the rest of that night in a county lockup. He says his cell mates were mostly illegal aliens and undocumented workers who crossed the border from nearby Mexican state of. Few barely spoke English; many shared Zimmerman's brown skin and once stocky frame. His three-person cell was crammed with almost nine prisoners, and he was so frightened that he did not use the bathroom or eat until he was released on bond after a night court session where he was charged with Aggravated Assault, Reckless Driving, and Operating an Motor Vehicle with a Malfunctioning Taillight.

His wife and son remained in the police station all night, both so terrified of what may happen that they could not be moved by any of the officers or station staff.

Zimmerman has been out of custody for a month now, and his trial, a jury trial, will begin on June 28th. 

Thinking of the upcoming trial makes his body shake. He is concerned that the court will not value his word over that of Officer Raymond. He plans to testify this time. He wants his story to be heard because he feels he was denied that right both on the night of his arrest and during his murder trial five years ago.

He affirms that he is not a killer nor an illegal immigrant. He is an American citizen, with all the rights that entails, including access to a fair trial by a jury of his peers.

Jury selection for Zimmerman's upcoming trial ended weeks ago, with many sources claiming that the jury is primarily composed of males, three of which are reported to be white males over the age of thirty-five; two are possibly Hispanic, and one is an African-American male under the age of forty.

He professes that he hopes that the jury will see that he had no intention of harming Officer Raymond and that he only intended to protect himself and his family. He added, "The way my family and I have been treated is unlawful and undignified. We are not criminals, and we should never have been treated as such."

A tear rolled down his cheek for maybe the forth time that day as he stammered, "It's not right." 

I placed my hand on his shoulder and told him, "I know how you feel."

This article was originally posted under the title How Quickly They Forget - Trayvon Martin, The Guy Who Killed Him, and The Penalty of Being Brown in America

No More Feet: A Rant Against Flip Flops

This has been a long time coming.

I know Spring is approaching, and I should probably lay off, but this has irked—maybe bugged is more apt—me for years now. When did it become acceptable to wear flip-flops year round? More to the point, when did the shoe become so popular?

Having worked on college campuses for the past seven years, I’ve seen more than enough busted toes and heard too much of that incessant flip-flap-flack noise( If there’s a worse sound than popping gum or nails on a chalkboard, it’s the rapping of those damn flip-flops). I’m not that old, but I vaguely remember a time when flip flops weren’t the footwear du juor. I remember when kids would get their Jordans roughed from them after school, when the punks, the goths and the moshers stomped the concrete with Doc Martens, when Reebok was still a viable shoe company and nobody dared wear shell toes with laces. But I guess I’m out of the loop now. Now it’s nearly high fashion to walk around with a flimsy rubber strap tangled between stubby digits, topped with yellowing cracked nails and sunburned to a hot dog red. From where I sit, there’s nothing worse than seeing those little piglets twist and tangle and bend (because of course no one wearing flip-flops can ever keep their feet still) and reveal those grimy, dirt encrusted feet bottoms, stained dirt black from repeated wears and less frequent washings. These days nothing turns my stomach more than the sight of dirty, crusty, grimy feet flittering between that rubber strap.

I guess it’s my fault for being overly observant, but I can’t help but notice when the majority of the kids—at least 7 out of ten--I pass on my way lunch have their gross tootsies dangling and twisting for all the world to see. I mean when did feet even become attractive. Just the other day, I’m watching Family Feud and one of the questions was: What do people say is the least attractive body part? Guess the answer, I dare you. Feet! That’s right a majority of surveyed Americans claimed that feet were the least attractive body part. Yet as soon as the sun breaks the clouds, out come the flappers. It doesn’t even have to be warm. I’ve seen kids wearing flip-flops in 20 degree weather. With Snow on the ground. And Ice falling from the heavens. Tell me, what would possess anyone with a shred of common sense to “rock” a pair of flip-flops in January.

Surely, those brave foot soldiers who defy mother nature must know something I don’t. Maybe it’s my pedigree. As a black male, one’s rep suffers ostensibly if caught rocking Abercrombie & Fitch’s latest sandal (for those that remember, remember poor Jay-Z, who was harassed mercilessly by Cam’ron for wearing chancletas.) Add to that, the fact that shoes have been a source of pride for many people (male, female, black, white, brown or otherwise) for years. Bearing that in mind, it really makes you think: Do people who wear flip-flops just not care? Are they too lazy to reach beyond the closest shoe they can put their hands on and actually consider a shoe that suits their outfit or the weather? Honestly, I can’t place the blame squarely on the shoulders of the foot soldiers.

I blame three culprits: mob mentality, Abercrombie & Fitch, and Global Warming. Mob mentality because apparently some people can’t think for themselves and use that scant bit of common sense to think, “Geez, it’s raining and it’s 20 below. Maybe, just maybe, I should leave the flip flops in the closet.” Let me tell you something folks, just because your roommate, classmate, and TA are wearing flip flops because they saw the sun shine on a frigid February morning doesn’t mean you should dust of the thongs. Try assessing the situation for yourself, your feet will thank you. I blame Abercrombie & Fitch for pioneering this whole “beach style” that’s popular with the kiddies now. I’m a city kid, to me the beach is nice two weekends out of the year, Labor day and Memorial Day. Outside of the summer holidays, I’ve got no place dressing like a So Cal surfer in the dead of November. And I’m not going to let some corporate sanctioned “counter culture” retailer force me to believe that summer is truly endless, no matter how strong the perfume is that wafts from those over-stylized huts they call store fronts. Finally, this isn’t a blame, but more of a confirmation, I recognize Global Warming. Yes the Earth is hotter and it’s all our fault, now let’s go celebrate by dressing like we live in Maui. As nice as summer is, I still enjoy four seasons and I’m not going to live in denial by dressing for summer year round. Global Warming does not equal endless summer, it does mean that weather patterns have changed globally. But just because weather patterns have changed it doesn’t mean that summer won, and there will be no other seasons. It means we should realize that sometimes it’ll be warm in the winter, not warm enough for flip-flops and board shorts, but warmer than average. It means that occasionally it’ll be chilly in early May, it doesn’t mean, “screw the wind-chill and the rainstorms, my feet need to breathe.” I’m going to assume that most people are reasonably intelligent, so I ask this: Think before you slap on a pair of flip-flops, the world, my ears and my stomach (the one that turns at the sight of dirty crusty feet) will thank you.

The Chair

Who has meetings at 8:30 on a Monday morning? What could be so urgent that you need to rouse people from in the wee hours of work, when our time could be better spent, I don’t know, sleeping, surfing the net or convincing ourselves to not turn around and call in sick? Apparently, an early morning gripe session with the Director of the Housing department is more important than those minor pleasures. I drag myself from my computer and my emails and my gossip sites to go sit in a room, count the panels on the floor, and do my homework while the “talented” professional babysitters--sorry, Hall Directors—discuss the perilous struggles of codling freshman and writing up kids for discovering the tart fizz of a tasty Heineken.

Because I run the front office for our unit, I actually have a little prep work today in the early morning, so this meeting has already proven to be doubly inconvenient. I wait for coverage from one of our student workers who gets to the office a little after 8:40, then I power walk across campus to the department’s main office and try to enter the meeting with as much discretion as I can muster.

Of course, there are no seats at the table. Everybody who arrived early got a nice, comfortable, thin-cushioned seat and ample space at the table to strew their book bags, binders and blackberries. But, not me. No place for the person who runs the front and can’t leave because nobody’s there to cover me. No place for the member of the staff who redirects your calls, schedules your appointments and makes sure the angriest kids never see you until they’ve cooled off. But why should I be bitter? They’re polite enough to offer me a corner and point to the stack of chairs in the corner that says “Come on, you didn’t really think they were going to help you out, did you?”

I fought to pry a chair from the stack for about thirty seconds, rattling the metal legs and being an overt disruption—which, I must admit, was great. I dragged the chair across the wood floor, scraping it just enough to make a slightly more annoying than scratching fingernails on a balloon. Because there was no space for me, I was forced into a space next to my supervisor. Lovely. I sit in the most awkward, distant position imaginable. Stuffed between my supervisor and one of our resident busybodies whose stuff claims the table, sitting a leg’s-length away from the table, balancing my pad on my knees, listening to the administrators sit with earnest disinterest as if they really want to hear the junior staff’s opinions on what they’re doing wrong.

My supervisor moderates the meeting and dares to ask if anybody has any concerns about meetings. I dangle on the edge of the chair to, at least, appear interested. Of course the cushion is to thin so every movement leads to a pip squeak that telegraphs the smallest discomfort. A few people offer typical opinions: meetings are too long, agendas are too rigid, committee meetings are too insular. I think to myself, “I’m graduating in four months and soon I’ll leave this job, so what the hell.” I lean up to the table, raising the back legs of the chair six inches above the floor and wait for a silence to interrupt. At the moment when no one else wants to complain I say,

“I think more attention should be paid to meeting attendance. I know, in my experience, that a lot of meetings I go to have nothing to do with my position or my daily duties. So I just sit there with nothing to contribute, listening to issues that only affect a specific segment of the staff. I don’t know about the rest of you, but in my position I have to be present because without coverage there’s nobody there. So, I have to find someone to cover for me when I go to a meeting, just to sit and not participate.”

The looks on their faces. A few brave ones nodded in agreement the others, the ones in charge and those overwhelmed with bureaucratic fear, put their chins to their collarbones.

That meeting and that chair was the closest I’ve come to a breaking point. At work, they—they being upper management—tell us that we should all feel welcome to participate in committees and decision-making regardless of your status or classification. Everybody is welcome to have a seat at the table. But I think it doesn’t matter if you’ve got a seat if they don’t feed you, or if they do feed you, it’s always scraps. Even after my catharsis, I could not avoid that simple moment of alienation. It festered in me the entire workday. I complained to my girlfriend on the IM, I started writing this blog, I grumbled at everybody who came in the office, staff, customer or otherwise. Everybody who came in the office, asked me a question or looked in my general direction caught the Look. The Look where emotion drains from your eyes, you purse your lips crookedly, your nostrils flare with frustrated breath and the only thing running through mind is that by avoiding speech I am preventing myself from exploding into an incoherent rage that will likely get me fired. All this because there were no more seats at the table. All they had to do was save me a place at the table. Was it really that much trouble to make space for one more? Was it really too much to ask for the seat I was promised?

Two days later, my supervisor asked—as if it was some secret—why I made that statement. Before I regurgitated my exact statement from the meeting, I remembered that he didn’t save me a seat either.