[In the Shadows is a new biweekly column in which Mercury crime and cop reporter Matt Davis explores Portland’s underbelly.—eds.]
Last Thursday afternoon, January 31, Nathan Wilson stood
outside the Williams Market Barber Shop on the corner of N Williams and
Fremont, gold teeth gleaming, talking on a cell phone in the rain.
Opposite the shop, bulldozers were demolishing what was once a
Wonder Bread factory to make way for condos. Wilson had to repeat
himself to be heard over the din. When he was done, I followed him
inside the barbershop and showed him a picture of Portland Police
Officer Mark Zylawy—an officer who was killed in a tragic
accident while driving to work at the Northeast Precinct, five days
previously. Did Wilson know him?
“Of course I knew the Z-Man,” he said. “When he got off work he came
in here. He helped keep the traffic flowing in front of my place. He
was more of a community friend than a community police officer.”
For a white cop in a predominantly black neighborhood, Zylawy was
highly regarded.
“He was a good dude,” said Wilson’s fellow barber, Bryant Moore. “He
was one of those dudes that would give you a chance.
“A lot of cops try to hide behind the shield,” Moore continued, “but
he was more respected because he wasn’t disrespectful. He’d give you a
break because this country doesn’t have a clue [when it comes to its
treatment of black people].”
Across the street, a middle-aged man in a hooded sweatshirt made eye
contact with the driver of a black Cadillac Escalade, who looked to be
slowing down. Both men saw me approach, and the driver sped up
again.
“Did you know this guy?” I asked, brandishing the picture of
Zylawy.
“He arrested me two years ago for having a pipe,” the man said. “He
got me into treatment. I’m going to school now.”
“Really?” I asked, admittedly doubtful.
“He tried to help people,” the man continued. “It was a messed-up
thing, what happened.”
And without giving his name, he continued his slow journey up
Fremont.
Meanwhile admitted crack user Randy Johnson waited, cross-eyed and
looking frazzled, outside the Union Market on the corner of NE Martin
Luther King Boulevard and Failing, with a sleeping bag in a garbage
sack at his feet.
“I knew you were English… I’ve been everywhere,” he told me, his
breath smelling strongly of alcohol. “Germany, France, Vietnam… you
name it.”
He went on: “Z-Man arrested me a couple of times for possession of
crack. But he would give you chance after chance after chance. I was
sober for five years, but had a relapse. Z-Man got me into
treatment—but it didn’t work. You have to really want it.
“It’s a sad loss,” he said, when asked about Zylawy’s death. “I’m
here for the memorial march.”
The march wasn’t due to start for an hour. So Johnson waited. He had
the time to spare.