My father—Hendrick Bernard Johnson—who was gunned down by the sheriff’s deputies in 1987 when I was 9 years old, left my mother a widow, and me looking for a model to follow. It was heartbreaking for me, and it took some time to get over it. My father had two strikes against him, and I’m told an addict for some reason lied and said he had a gun. The end began with a long chase, but concluded with my father being shot 21 times on 92nd and Central Avenue. The deputies believed he was reaching for a gun, but no gun was found.