It was just like I remembered it — the car I learned to drive on when I was 16 years old.
 
That year, 1966, my dad handed me the keys to his brand new Sunbeam Tiger, a British-made sports car with a Ford V-8 engine, and said, “Try not to grind the gears.”
 
All I can remember from that day is sitting in the driver’s seat with my twin sister Martha next to me with the car rolling about 60 mph backwards down a steep hill as I tried to figure out how to use a clutch, the gear shift, the gas pedal and the brake all at the same time.
 
Now, 46 years later, I am driving that car again, heading to a small farm-style arts community in upstate New York where we plan to bury my dad's ashes.
 
For the past 10 years or so, the Tiger had been sitting in the garage in that upstate home. The garage was unheated but the car was a comfortable winter home for squirrels, mice, chipmunks and a range of mountain vermin who nestled into every nook and cranny of the car from the engine block to the seats. An axle had dropped. The car was undrivable.
 
So in the fall of 2009, I took it and brought it to a specialty refurbishing place near Hopkinton. I planned to have it back the next spring for dad to see, not drive, even though he still was driving at age 90.
 
It was not to be. I got it back earlier this month — 7 months after Dad died. A breathtaking rehab. But it still smelled the same, and drove the same — it’s gassy, and fast and hard to control. I was nervous. So I drove it around Boston suburbs for about 60 miles before I dared take it on a 250-mile jaunt on the highway.
 
I took off around 4 p.m. on a beautiful crisp blue Friday afternoon, top down, engine roaring in idle. I had not gone 2 miles before I started getting beeps and thumbs-up. By the time I reached the end of the Mass Pike a hundred cars and large trucks had honked — startling me every time — hands flying out the windows signaling their approval.
 
The last 38 miles of the trip were through mountain back roads, which I know well. I thought about Dad. I remembered him telling me he once hit 140 mph on Interstate 87. I floored it — hitting 90 before I felt the new Nardi wheel begin to rattle and I backed off. It was exhilarating.
 
And so Dad, who had never ridden in the passenger seat, much less the small back landing where the dog and grandkids used to perch, got a final ride after all. We put the burled maple urn containing his ashes in the back and drove his beloved Tiger to the cemetery where we revved the engine a few times before placing him in the earth. We left a nip of Maker’s Mark while we were at it.
 
I’d like to say the story has a happy ending, but only kind of. The Tiger was packed for my return to Boston. The weather conditions were the same as when I arrived. I had one more person to see: the small-town guy who used to repair Dad’s car. I found him home. He said, “Car looks better” but “you’re losing antifreeze.” I left it there.

BOSTON — In 1968, a day after Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was killed, Boston famously played host to a James Brown concert at which Mayor Kevin White gave a speech that was supposed to inspire unity and peace:

"Twenty-four hours ago, Dr. King died — for all of us, black and white, that we may live together in harmony, without violence and in peace," he said. "Now I'm here tonight, like all of you, to listen to James. But I'm also here to ask for your help. I'm here to ask you to stay with me as your mayor and to make Dr. King's dreams a reality in Boston. This is our city, and its future is in our hands — tonight and tomorrow and in the days that follow.

But what did the fans think?

WGBH jazz host Al Davis was in that audience. He was 17 years old. And White's words didn't ring out so loudly to him.

"We wasn't really too impressed with Kevin White," he says now. "The reason he received that round of applause is because James Brown introduced him. James said he's cool? All right, we'll work with that." Brown was sort of a spokesman for young fans: "Whatever he said, we listened." In this case, Brown said the mayor was "a swinging cat."

The fans felt uncomfortable about the mayor, Davis says. "We knew what he was about. And we listened, but — we didn't listen. ... I personally didn't think he was really sincere because of what was going on at the time. But he had to do that because of the position he's in, being mayor. He had to make this presentation." 

They saved the listening for Brown, whose concert was "wonderful" — and who told everyone to go straight home after the show and not start trouble.

The start of the famous concert, with White's speech and Brown's first song:

BOSTON — Hours before Kevin White's funeral began on Wednesday, mourners lined up outside St. Cecilia's Church in the Back Bay. Then one by one, Boston's living political history made their way inside. Rep. Barney Frank, Sen. John Kerry, Gov. Deval Patrick, the Boston Redevelopment Authority's Peter Meade, former State Sen. President William Bulger, White's successor as mayor Ray Flynn — on and on it went. 

White, credited with revitalizing downtown Boston and shepherding the city through the court-ordered busing crisis in his four terms as mayor, died Jan. 27 at the age of 82 after a long battle with Alzheimer's disease.

Bagpipers led the funeral cortege. Arriving at the church, White's family cheerfully greeted his honor guard: a who's-who of the city's present-day founding fathers and mothers. White's widow Kathryn advised them to remember: This funeral was a celebration. 
 
White's lifetime companions were at his side as the casket rolled down the aisle and the church bulged with the family, friends and Everyman White had touched.

Boston mayor Tom Menino was the first to speak: "So much of what we love about our city began with him. The style, his wit, his big smile, he made us proud to be Bostonians. For those of us in public service, he showed us what difference one leader can make."
 
When he took the city's highest office, Menino said, "One of the first calls I made: 'Mayor White, it's Tom Menino.' To which he says, 'Wait a minute, hold it. I'm Kevin. You're Mayor Menino. I'm not Mr. Mayor. You are.' Which is when maybe I started to believe it myself."
 
But, Menino concluded, "on one point he was wrong. He will always be Mr. Mayor to us. May he rest in peace."

Rep. Barney Frank — unscripted and off the cuff — remembered what it was like being one of White’s young aides.
 
"Let’s get this right about Kevin: He was a great political leader," Frank said. "But he wasn’t somebody who thought it was necessary for himself to work 12 hours a day on the phone. He understood the values of delegating, but he also understood that if you were going to delegate to people, first you had to pick the best people for the right job."
 
In physical and verbal gestures eerily reminiscent of his father, Mark White said that life was always filled with the unexpected. 

Kevin White's casket arrives at St. Cecilia's on Feb. 1. (Jared Bowen/WGBH)

"I remember one Christmas morning when I was 13. We were all downstairs, the lights were on, the fireplace is roaring, we’ve already opened our stockings and are halfway through opening our presents. Suddenly in this Norman Rockwell–like setting, my father jumps up with those piercing blue eyes and leads us out the front door to Mt. Vernon Street to an awaiting surprise for us all. And there standing on the sidewalk was a horse. And a bright red bow around its neck."
 
That kind of thinking had ramifications for the whole city, Mark White said: "When my father would come up with what seemed at their conceptions to be equally disturbing ideas, absurd ideas, like Summer Thing, Faneuil Hall, Tall Ships, James Brown concert the night of Martin Luther King’s death, First Night and so many others, most of you had the same initial reactions that the horse and my mother had that Christmas morning: Kevin, what are you thinking."

The son concluded, "He was quite simply the most interesting, imaginative, fun and loving father and friend a son shall ever have. I shall miss him dearly."
 
Lifelong friend Bob Crane, former state treasurer, brought the crowd to tears and a standing ovation for his tribute to Catherine White.

Pallbearers carry the casket into the church. (Sarah Birnbaum/WGBH)

"Back when you were Kevin’s wife, he made a promise in church that went something like this: in sickness and in health, until death do us part," Crane said. "I’m not sure how long it’s been — nine years, 10 years, 11 years, since his illness began to take him from us, but what I do know is that through every painful step along the way, Mary and I have watched you keep that promise with the love and devotion that touched our hearts in ways I can’t begin to describe."
 
And Crane addressed Kevin White as well: "My dear friend, thank you for everything. Thank you for everything you’ve meant to me and everything you’ve meant for everyone here today. Surely, goodness and mercy did follow you every day of your life and you dwell of the house of the Lord forever. God bless you, Kevin. The song has ended but the melody lingers on."
 
Following the funeral services, White's funeral cortege resumed to the strains of the bagpipers' "Amazing Grace" and to applause. It marked the final passage of an era marked distinctly by White's successor, Mayor Ray Flynn. 

BOSTON — The wake for former Boston Mayor Kevin White took place Tuesday afternoon at the Parkman House on Beacon Hill. It's a fitting location, one that White loved, but also just steps away from where White faced a torturous political battle to save the city. 
 
It was a political standoff that pitted every conceivable stakeholder against one another. There was money, politics, gamesmanship and personalities.
 
… The City of Boston against the state.
… Teachers versus firefighters, police, and public works employees.
… The mayor against the City Council and the Boston delegation on Beacon Hill.
… And most of all, White against Gov. Ed King.
 
“It was a political battle that just would never end. It went on and on. The name Tregor still kind of gets me a shiver down my back,” said journalist Frank Phillips, who covered the story for the Boston Globe. "This was the end of White’s term. There was some arrogance." 

The need for a bailout
 
Boston was in dire financial straits: Firefighters and police were being laid off and the schools almost closed. White came to the State House for help. He needed the legislature to approve a bailout package, nicknamed the Tregor Plan, which he had spent months working out with the City Council.

> > Read an overview of the Tregor bill from the 1981 Christian Science Monitor. 

But the Legislature refused, largely because White all but ignored the Boston delegation at the State House. "He was willing not to deal with individual legislators, coming here to the leadership," Phillips said. "I think that was part of the problem: they undercut him and there were all kinds of battles after that.”

A clash of characters

One of White's many battles was with Governor Ed King, a fellow Democrat who froze property taxes and was facing a rematch against Michael Dukakis.
 
"Ed King had been executive director of Massport at the time when they were trying to get an extra runway. And White was mayor of the city and there was always a lot of tension that came out of that," Phillips said. Furthermore, "White came from the liberal wing of the Democratic Party, King came from the conservative wing of the Democratic Party, and I don’t think they trusted each other at all."
 
King refused to sign the Boston bailout, partly because it included a 15 percent parking tax.
 
White changes his plan

Then a pivotal moment occurred in April 1982. Coverage from WGBH's "Ten O'Clock News" shows a more humble White as he appeared before a State House committee and presented an amended fiscal plan for the members' approval. 
  
In addition to changing the city's "financial request," the mayor conceded power to the school board and City Council, which won significant budgetary oversight, scrutiny and review over the mayor's budget plans.
 
"These changes were made by way of compromise," White said. "Last year was a chastening experience … for my staff, for me and I think for all of us, and I hope in the long run has strengthened our relationships and enhanced the prospects of the passage of the bill."
 
With White conceding to many political forces, the Legislature passed the bill, which also led to the expansion of the Hynes Convention Center.

A compromise ... or a victory for the governor?
 
When King signed the bill in June 1982, political barbs flew, at first unnamed, and laughter rang out.

"That same high-ranking official who shall remain unnamed called me a political amateur. His political soulmate who shall also remain nameless is calling me a 'bleep' in paid advertising," he said.
 
Then, in what would seem unimaginable today by politicians who forged a compromise, King made it clear who won and who lost:
 
"When we began, the mayor wanted a 30 percent parking tax. There is no parking tax. The mayor wanted a new meals tax. There is no meal tax. The mayor wanted a new hotel tax. There is no hotel tax. The mayor wanted to borrow $90 million. We cut that in half," he said. "This bill is not the Tregor bill as mayor proposed it. It's not even a distant cousin … this is not a bailout."
 
King then took another swipe at White's next move: "Finally, before the ink is even dry on this bill, I'm told Mayor White is saying that he'll be back next year more state aid. … Since I plan on being here, he will need a lot of votes that he does not have."
 
After the dust settled, a 1983 Boston Globe editorial said this period included some of the "pettiest, meanest politicking the city has seen in some time."
 
That same year, White decided he had enough — and chose not to seek re-election to the office he held for 16 years.

Additional reporting by Sarah Birnbaum.

"Greater Boston" examines White's legacy with Ted Landsmark, George Regan and former Boston mayor Ray Flynn, among other guests, and WGBH archival video.

TED LANDSMARK, president of Boston Architectural College; as a young lawyer he was attacked by anti-desegregation protestors in Boston City Hall Plaza in 1976, captured in a photo that went on to win a Pulitzer:

BILL OWENS, former Massachusetts state senator:

KENNETH GUSCOTT, president of Boston's NAACP branch from 1963–1968:

Photos by Will Roseliep/WGBH. Listen to the full conversation with Guscott, Landsmark and Owens. 

MICHO SPRING was chief of staff and deputy mayor to White from 1976 to 1984.

"It was very usual to get a phone call for a Sunday-afternoon meeting at the Parkman House because the mayor had been thinking all weekend about something he wanted done on Monday morning.

And I remember being called up one Sunday morning and I arrived and the mayor announced to us that as of Monday he was reversing Charles Street to be the other way. ... We all looked at him and said, 'Without any community meetings?' And he said, 'I’m doing it. I’m just doing it. It’s the right thing for the neighborhood. People are just going by Charles Street to get to the other side. It’s destroying the sense of community we have and the small shops and I’m just going to do it. I’ve talked to a couple of storeowners. It’s the right thing to do. It’ll be a much better thing for Beacon Hill as a neighborhood and I’m just doing it.' And we were all like, 'No, Mayor, you can’t mean this.'

"And course, A, he did it, and B, he was totally right and it changed the character of Charles Street big-time and the neighborhood loved it. But who today, would think about doing something like this without processing it?" Full discussion with Spring.

BOSTON — Mayor Kevin White presided over a tumultuous time of race relations. We look at his actions at three different crisis points and how they're seen today.

Haymarket, April 1968

In April 1968, network television anchors took to the air to report that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated. James Brown, the Godfather of Soul, had had a concert long scheduled for the following night at the Boston Garden. The young mayor of Boston, Kevin White, was uncertain about whether the concert should proceed. But city councilor Tom Atkins persuaded White that the concert could be a way to keep people out of the streets.

Twenty-four hours after King was killed, with racial tensions rising in other cities, Boston stayed calm as White spoke at the Garden.

"I'm here tonight, like all of you, to listen to James. But I'm also here to ask for your help. I'm here to ask you to stay with me as your mayor and to make Dr. King's dreams a reality in Boston," he told the crowd.
 
"That was important that he listened to members of the black community about what he needed to do in that situation," said veteran community organizer Mel King on Jan. 29 at his weekly brunch in the South End. But King had a different opinion of the mayor’s role in the turbulent years over school busing:
 
"On the other hand, I don’t know where he was when we were having the people in South Boston and East Boston and other places who were railing out against the desegregation order. I think it's important for people to understand that the leadership in the white community was very scarce around this issue."

South Boston, September 1974
 
In 1974, White presided over a severely balkanized city: Public schools were divided along color lines in violation of the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision declaring school segregation unconstitutional. Mel King said, "Very frankly, the problem didn’t get solved until the courts made it happen."
 
The vehicles for change were yellow school buses. They rolled into traditionally Irish and Italian neighborhoods as Judge Arthur Garrity’s desegregation order started to be implemented.
 
Listening to the WGBH archives paints a dramatic picture of a pivotal moment in Boston history. Take this comment from an unidentified little girl in Roxbury:
 
"When we go up there we’re going to get stoned. It’s not fair to me 'cause why isn’t it the other way around when they come up here? When they come up here we won’t mess with them so why when we come up there they mess with us?"
 
Michael Patrick MacDonald's memoir "All Souls" is about his childhood growing up in South Boston. He wrote of the desegregation riots:
 
"Smash! A burst of flying glass and all that rage exploded. We'd all been waiting for it, and so had the police in riot gear…. More bricks, sticks, and bottles smashed against the buses, as police pulled out their billy clubs and charged with their riot shields in a line formation through the crowds. Teenagers were chased into the project and beaten to the cement wherever they were caught. I raced away about a block from the fray, to a spot where everyone was chanting 'Here We Go Southie, Here We Go,' like a battle cry."
 
In an interview with WGBH News, MacDonald said, "I was only 8 years old at the time … none of us kids knew what to expect. But I really feel in retrospect that the adults, all of the adults involved, all knew what was going to happen. Of course violence was going to break out and violence did break out."
 
But others gave White credit for attempting to mediate a very difficult conflict rooted in age-old racial divisions and for being resolute in carrying out the court order. At a press conference in September 1974, reporters pressed White on this issue, asking him what it would take to get people in South Boston to agree to go to school outside their neighborhood.

White replied that it would take "obviously, time and patience by us. A willingness to stick it out. A willingness to know that none of us like the situation, the least being the police. But the fact is, we’re faced with the law and we’re charged with implementing it, and no matter how long it takes, that’s precisely what has to be done in this city and we’ll do it. I can’t give you a timetable."

City Hall Plaza, April 1976

Pulitzer–winning image "The Soiling of Old Glory" became the icon of racial tensions in Boston. (Stanley Forman/Boston Herald American)

It would take longer than many ever imagined. Over the next few months and years, violent protests against desegregation and bussing expanded way beyond the school zones. Fights, marches and often violent rallies spilled into the streets, onto Carson Beach in South Boston, outside of nightclubs in Kenmore Square and, most significantly, in April 1976, in the shadow of government itself.

On WGBH's "Ten o'Clock News," Pam Bullard reported, "Boston’s latest racial confrontation occurred yesterday in City Hall Plaza after months of building tension, a group of white youth viciously attacked a black attorney, Theodore Landsmark."
 
But it was the photo taken of the attack that made this incident stand out. The image — which would go on to win a Pulitzer Prize — showed Landsmark being grabbed from behind by one white youth while another lunged toward him with a long pole flying the flag of the United States of America.
 
Then–State Sen. Bill Owens spoke for many African Americans at a press conference following the attack, saying, "People of color are not safe to come here to Boston, and we’re asking people of color across the country to stay away."
 
Over three terms, White had led an infrastructural transformation of Boston, with new skyscrapers, high-rise condos, translucent office towers and a revitalized downtown commercial district. The Landsmark incident threatened to cast a permanent shadow over the mayor’s shiny "city on a hill." At that point many around the country were comparing it not to New York, but to Little Rock in 1957. 

"If Boston, state officials will not protect us, we must ask for federal protection," Owens said at that same press event. He accused White of allowing City Hall Plaza to become a venue for anti-busing rallies. And Owens declared, to applause, "I supported the re-election of mayor Kevin White. Today, I’m withdrawing that vote of confidence that I gave him in September and November."

The aftermath

Mayor White owed his first of four terms to a coalition of Italian, liberal and black voters. And African American leaders often reminded him of this. In the aftermath of the Landsmark incident, the mayor called for greater enforcement and tougher penalties against racial violence. Black and Latino leaders also pointed out that City Hall was largely devoid of people of color. That also began to change.

Donna Bivens, director of the Boston Busing/Desegregation Project, said White's legacy on busing is mixed:

"He’ll be remembered by different people affected by the crisis in different ways: mediator, as a politician, someone that’s expedient, sometimes someone who was caught in the middle," she said. "I remember him as trying to juggle a very complex situation that I don’t think that he totally understood at the time. But I don’t think that most of us understood the depths of systemic racism and how entrenched some of the things we were trying to change are, for people working for and people working against it. He did the best that he could at the time with what he understood."

The best that he could at the time with what he understood. It's a point, said Bivens, that was driven home by White in an address just days before the busses started rolling in September of 1974:

"I will employ every resource available to me to guarantee the well-being of these children. And I have a duty as mayor to give every child in this city access to school, and I will fulfill that responsibility, to the best of my own ability."

BOSTON — In February 2011, when a New York grand jury did not indict anyone involved in the shooting death of DJ Henry, Henry’s family called for a federal investigation.

Assistant U.S. Attorney General Thomas Perez heads the Justice Department’s Civil Rights Division.
 
“When these shootings occur, oftentimes you will have a local investigation and we monitor that investigation very carefully, and at the conclusion of that we will make a judgment as to whether or not the facts support a criminal civil rights prosecution,” Perez said.
 
When the division reviews a case, the team works with a series of experts that often include former police chiefs, Perez said. “So we can go in, analyze training policy and procedures, identify challenges and weaknesses, and correct them. We are able to play a very constructive role because our teams that conduct these reviews are teams that include not only lawyers but experts in effective policing.”
 
It is not known when the Justice Department will offer its opinion.
 
The Henry family has moved ahead with a $120 million civil lawsuit against two police forces in New York.
 
Aaron Hess, the officer who shot and killed Henry, recently sued a liquor store that he alleges sold alcohol to the underage football player. He claims it was alcohol that led to the incident.
 
Hess was also injured that night. His lawyer Mitchell Baker claimed the officer’s life had been turned “upside down” since the shooting.
 
“His knee is terribly injured. Several broken bones, broken kneecaps, torn ligaments, tendons. He has been out of work for eight months,” Mitchell said. Hess is undergoing rehabilitation; his ability to return to police work is in doubt.
 
In the broader culture, DJ Henry case has become a cause célèbre, inspiring a tribute from hip-hop artists Kanye West and Jay-Z, and postings on YouTube and Facebook. 

His hometown of Easton, Mass. has just named a sports field after him and his family has established the DJ Henry Dream Fund, a nonprofit providing resources for promising young athletes. 

Angella Henry said she thinks of her son all the time.

"I imagine him with us at the dinner table, coming to church with us, coming out of his room in the morning,” she said, her voice shaking. “I still think he’ll call at night. I think he’ll be home. There’s not a day that goes by where we don’t imagine him here.”

The October 2010 shooting death of Danroy “DJ” Henry Jr., the Pace University football player from Easton, Massachusetts, has continued to stir controversy on a number of levels that go well beyond this single incident. 

As part of his ongoing coverage, WGBH News' Phillip Martin explored those issues in a special four-part series, DJ Henry and the Training of Police, that won a 2011 PASS Award from the National Council on Crime and Delinquency. You can read and hear all Martin's stories on the subject via the timeline on this page.

> > READ: The complete story lineup

Part 1: A Crowd, a Car and a Gun

Who was DJ Henry? And who was Aaron Hess, the former U.S. Marine who was on duty with the Pleasantville police force that night? Henry's best friend remembers October 17 and the events that brought the football player and policeman together — with fatal results. Read Part 1.

The Emily Rooney Show: A Family Still Searches for Answers, Justice

Hip-hop stars Kanye West and Jay-Z considered DJ Henry's case an example of another black man dying young of violent causes. They dedicated this song, from their 2011 album "Watch The Throne," to Henry.

Murder to Excellence (clean) - Jay Z & Kanye West by Imagem Creative

Part 2: DJ Henry, Eurie Stamps and Race

A grand jury did not proceed with a case against Officer Aaron Hess. But some continued to question the role of race in Henry's death — especially after a retired MBTA worker named Eurie Stamps was shot by a Framingham police officer in January 2011. Read Part 2.

The Callie Crossley Show: DJ Henry, Race and Police

Part 3: DJ Henry and the Police Response

Some police experts say the force needs to train officers to de-escalate conflicts and increase sensitivity to racial stereotypes. The six-month training program for new Massachusetts police was created to prevent the kind of situations that may have led to the deaths of DJ Henry and Eurie Stamps. Read Part 3.

 

Coda: The Henry Case Today

After the end of the local criminal investigation, the Henry family asked the federal Department of Justice to conduct a civil rights review. We follow up on the tributes, the lawsuits and the lives that were forever changed. Read Coda.

Complete Coverage

BOSTON — Friends and family of Danroy “DJ” Henry planned to hold a candlelight vigil Monday for the deceased Pace University football player. Henry was fatally shot by a police officer in Thornwood, N.Y. one year ago.

This afternoon, Henry’s family dedicated the DJ Henry Athletic Field in his honor in his hometown of Easton, Mass.

On Friday, friends of Henry who were with him on the night of the shooting filed several lawsuits against the Westchester County court and law enforcement systems.

Callie Crossley spoke about the case and racial profiling with Pastor William Dickerson; psychologist Philip Goff; and WGBH’s Phillip Martin, whose multi-part series this week examines DJ Henry and the training of police.

WGBH’s Phillip Martin and wire services contributed to this report.

BOSTON — In the living room of his parent's home in Easton, Massachusetts, Brandon Cox holds a weathered photo of his high school friend, Danroy "DJ" Henry. They met during Brandon’s freshman year. DJ was a sophomore. Their families meshed and the boys gelled over hip hop, old-school R&B, movies and especially football.

“Everything we did we kinda had that bond between us that not everybody really could understand,” said Cox.   

After graduation, both headed to college. DJ settled on Pace University in Pleasantville, N.Y. in Westchester County. Brandon studied closer to home at Stonehill College. Both played football and competed against each other in a much-anticipated homecoming game last October 16, 2010, said Cox.

“We ended up beating them pretty soundly. After the game we all came together and both our families went out to eat and it was just like being back home, just like high school again. All our families together, having a meal and just enjoying each other’s company,” Cox said. 

That night, Brandon Cox went back to DJ’s rental unit, played video games and then headed out on the town. They ended up at Finnegan’s, a popular bar and grill located in a strip mall, between a Chinese restaurant and a bank.

“They had a DJ in the back and they had cleared the floor to make like a dance floor. He was introducing me to people he knew from school and all of that. I didn’t see the incident that caused them to shut everything down, but they were shutting it down and telling people to leave so we said, ‘Let’s get out of here,’” Brandon said.

Pictures of DJ Henry's childhood and young-adult life fill the family's living room in Easton, Mass. (Jess Bidgood/WGBH)

DJ and four friends had arrived together in a Nissan Altima. He and Brandon Cox idled outside the bar waiting for the three remaining friends to pile in. Police had been called to the bar by the owner to quell a disturbance that, by all accounts, had nothing to do with the five boys. A crowd had gathered outside and police moved in to break it up. What happened next is to many still a very disturbing mystery.

Here’s how Cox explained it.

“So we’re in the car, and DJ had kind of got out to look for the guys. And when he came back he only came back with one of them, Desmond, so we were still in the car waiting for the other guys and we hear a loud tap on the window and it kind of startled us. The tap came again and we looked up to see that it was a police officer,” Cox said. 

And the officer instructed the driver to move along, said Cox.

“So DJ put the car into drive and starts to drive away. And as we come around the corner an officer with his gun raised runs between two police cars that were on the side of us and runs in front of the vehicle with his gun raised and as DJ starts to slow down, he opens fire and then the car speeds back up because there are bullets coming through the front windshield. And I had felt something hit my arm and I wasn’t sure what it was and look out of the corner of my eye and I can see the police officer on the hood firing into the car from the hood of the car,” Cox said.

The officer who fired the shots was 33-year-old Aaron Hess, a former U.S. Marine who served seven years on the Pleasantville police force after an initial stint as a cop in Manhattan. Hess’s attorney, Mitchell Baker, said his client recalls the incident quite differently.

“Mr. Henry was driving his automobile. He was directed by Officer Hess to stop his automobile,” Baker said.

According to Baker, Hess had four choices. “If he went to the left he’d get hit. If he went to the right he’d get hit. If he went backwards, he’d get run over. So what his training taught him was to jump on the hood of the car. Mr. Henry was further directed to stop his car. He did not, and that’s when the shots were had,” Baker said.

Chaoes reigned in the aftermath of the shooting, as Pace University students and others rushed to help their friend DJ who, according to multiple witnesses, though severely wounded, had been pulled from the car and thrown to the ground by police. 

“When we left our son about 6:00 p.m. Saturday evening, we hugged him we kissed him, we took a picture of him,” recalls Angella Henry, DJ Henry’s mom.  “When we saw him 12 hours later, he had scratches and bruises on his face that don’t comport with a gunshot wound to the chest. So we know he was treated poorly.” 
 
Angella Henry and her husband Danroy Henry Sr. were notified of their son’s death by two Easton, Massachusetts police officers, who arrived at their door in the early morning hours. They rushed to Westchester County Medical Center where Brandon Cox’s mother Donna and stepfather Tommy Parks were waiting. Also at the hospital was Officer Aaron Hess, whose knee had been injured during the incident. Dozens of fellow officers were milling around his room, said Cox's father, Tommy Parks.

“He seemed to be in good spirits. He was lifted up off of what I believe was a wheel chair and he lifted up to talk to an officer. He just didn’t seem bothered the way that we were. We were in total shock,” Parks said.

Four months later, in February 2011, a grand jury did not indict Officer Hess. The Westchester District Attorney’s office released a statement that read the grand jury “found there was no reasonable cause to vote an indictment.”

In the summer of 2011, hip-hop stars Kanye West and Jay-Z released the chart-topping album "Watch The Throne." The centerpiece of the album is the song "Murder To Excellence," dedicated to Henry.

Murder to Excellence (clean) - Jay Z & Kanye West by Imagem Creative

In April, Officer Hess received an award as Policeman of the Year from the Pleasantville Police Benevolent Association.

And, for much of the past 12 months, questions have been raised about the case and about other cases. The legal process, gathering evidence, the political relationships between the district attorney and the local police force, and the overall treatment of blacks by white officers.

It raises questions about police training and responses to perceived danger, and whether such perceptions of danger are colored by race. Aaron Hess is white. Danroy Henry black.

In our next report, we'll look at what might have prevented the DJ Henry tragedy and a subsequent case in Framingham with many similar issues. 

BOSTON — Last week, three African women were awarded the Nobel Peace Prize: Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf, President of Liberia; a peace activist Leymah Gbowee, who helped to end Liberia's 14-year civil war, and human rights activist and journalist Tawakkul Karman of Yemen, who has been called "the Mother of the Revolution" in that country.

These three women follow in the footsteps of another pioneering African woman leader.

Making History

Last month, the world heard news of the death of Kenyan environmentalist Wangari Maathai (pronounced wan-GAR-ee mah-THI), who in 2004 became the first African woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize. Maathai was the leader of the Green Belt Movement, a women-led effort to plant trees.

Using segments from an interview in WGBH's Media Archive from the 1990 series Race to Save the Planet, former Nova producer Linda Harrar offered this personal remembrance.

"The first time I met Wangari Maathai, in 1988 in Nairobi, Kenya, she was a little reluctant to be interviewed. She shook her head and said, 'I get into a lot of trouble because I have a very big mouth!' Then she burst into laughter, flashing her unforgettable smile," Harrar said.

A Vision Is Born

As a strong critic of the government, and a courageous fighter for the environment, Maathai did get into a lot of trouble over the years because of her outspokeness. During the 1980s, Kenyan President Daniel Arap Moi labeled the Green Belt Movement "subversive." Maathai was arrested, beaten unconscious and thrown in jail for her protests to save parks and forests from development. But she managed to capture the attention of the world, and through her willingness to put her own life on the line, won many of her most important battles.

Maathai started her career wanting to work on preventing childhood malnutrition. In the process, she realized soil erosion was one of the root causes, and that planting trees would be key to solving it.

In the 1990 WGBH series Race to Save the Planet, Maathai said, "I know for certain that the soil is the sustainer of life. Without it, we cannot live. On this continent, we have seen too much suffering, starvation, due to degradation of the soil, and it has taken millions of years to build this topsoil. It is so important to protect it, because if we don't, we are on our way to the end."

Bringing Home The Brains

While Maathai received some of her education in the United States, afterwards she returned to live in Kenya for the rest of her life. Linda Harrar recalled why this was important to Maathai.

"Wangari hated the 'brain drain' of Africa's brightest students being lured away from home, and she believed that Africans need to develop their own leaders to solve the continent's problems," Harrar said. "But she also understood the need for foreign aid to get some promising programs started."

After earning her PhD in Kenya, Maathai founded the Green Belt Movement, which organized communities of poor women to plant trees and tend to them until they were strong. The women earned a small income for doing this work, in a land where jobs are very hard to find. The Green Belt Movement also taught children to grow green belts around their schools. And it taught farmers to plant trees in rows between their crops, which helps to restore nutrients to the soil.

Making The Mission Possible

Maathai wanted her movement to start with planting trees because it is something that anyone can do. The universality, she said, would help people access the movement.

"Then during the tree-planting campaign, you bring out all the other issues that are very much related: the issues of food production, firewood crisis, soil erosion. All these are part and parcel of what we are discussing, but when we first discuss, we start with the immediate problems, the local problems, the problems we can see every day," Maathai said.

Harrar says the movement planted over 30 million trees.

"Maathai would sometimes say that the healing of Africa is still only a dream. But she understood her own power to inspire people, of all ages and cultures to get behind her," Harrar said.

Maathai also had her human moments of doubt.

"Sometimes I get very discouraged because the problems are just enormous, and although the people are very willing, sometimes they really think that you can solve all these problems at once, and you can't," Maathai said. "But sometimes I also get very encouraged, especially when I see these trees growing in the nursery, or when they're so big that you see the farmers happy in their fields. It's very satisfying. So I go up and down all the time. And most of the time, I think I'm on the better side."

Crossing The 'Vale Of Tears'

What did Harrar find most striking about Wangari Maathai's work?

"Perhaps what I admired so much was Wangari's ability to keep fighting for what she believed in – and to inspire others not to lose heart. I last saw her just after 9/11, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, when she was comforting us as Americans for all that we had lost when the Twin Towers fell. One of her best friends had lost a daughter. She of course knew that life can be what she called 'a vale of tears,' but she would always find a way to find strength in what she believed in," Harrar said.

Maathai reflected on why the work mattered so much to her.

"I don't really know why I care so much. I just have something inside me that tells me there is a problem and I have got to do something about it, so I'm doing something about it," Maathai said. "I think that that is what I would call the God in me. And all of us have a God in us, and that God is the spirit that unites all life, everything that is on this planet. And it must be this voice that is telling me to do something. And I'm sure it's the same voice that is speaking to everybody on this planet, at least everybody who seems to be concerned about the fate of the world, the fate of this planet!" Maathai said.

Linda Harrar said Wangari Maathai's legacy should serve as a source of inspiration for all of us.

"So here's an idea. If you're feeling sad or depressed, or cynical about the many problems of the world, think of Wangari Maathai's example: Get out and plant a tree, get your kids to plant a tree. It's something you can do for the future. And it would make Wangari smile that dazzling smile," Harrar said.

BOSTON — With the loss of Steve Jobs, we have our own remembrance of him, in a superb WGBH interview from 1990. It's from a series called The Machine That Changed The World, a BBC-TV/WGBH Boston Co-Production. In it, Jobs talks about how that revolutionary device, the Macintosh personal computer, came to be and the particular gifts of the people who made it.

Here are some excerpts from the extended interview with Steve Jobs conducted for that series:

Steve Jobs: "I think the Macintosh was created by a group of people who felt that there wasn't a strict division between science and art. Or in other words, that mathematics is really a liberal art if you look at it from a slightly different point of view. And why can't we interject typography into computers. Why can't we have computers talking to us in English language? And looking back, five years later, this seems like a trivial observation. But at the time it was cataclysmic in its consequences. And the battles that were fought to push this point of view out the door were very large."

Jobs talked about the people on his design team and what they were like.

Jobs: "My observation is that the doers are the major thinkers. The people that really create the things that change this industry are both the 'thinker-doer' in one person. And if we really go back and we examine, did Leonardo [da Vinci] have a guy off to the side that was thinking five years out in the future what he would paint or the technology he would use to paint it? Of course not. Leonardo was the artist but he also mixed all his own paints. He also was a fairly good chemist. He knew about pigments, knew about human anatomy. And combining all of those skills together, the art and the science, the thinking and the doing, was the exceptional result."

"And there is no difference in our industry. It's very easy to say, 'oh I thought of this three years ago.' But usually when you dig a little deeper, you find that the people that really did it were also the people that really worked through the hard intellectual problems as well."

On Feb. 10, 1982, the Mac design group had a small party. Along with their cake and champagne, they each signed a large sheet of paper. Jobs had those signatures copied and engraved into the mold for the Macintosh case.

Jobs: "The people that worked on it consider themselves and I certainly consider them artists. These are the people that under different circumstances would be painters and poets but because of the time that we live in this new medium has appeared, in which to express one's self to one's fellow species and that's a medium of computing and so a lot of people that would have been artists and scientists have gone into this field to express their feeling, so it seemed like the right thing to do."

If you're the owner of a Mac128K, 512K, or Macintosh Plus, they signed your computer, too. When the new machine was presented at a shareholders meeting in early 1984, the design team was there.

Jobs: "The first few rows had all the people that worked on the Mac. About a 150 people that really made it happen were all seated in the first few rows and when it was introduced, after we went through it all and had the computer speak to people itself and things like that, the whole auditorium of about twenty five hundred people gave it a standing ovation and the whole first few rows of Mac folks were all just crying. All of us were. I was biting my tongue very hard because I had a little bit more to do. But it was a very, very emotional moment because it was no longer ours. From that day forward it was no longer ours. We couldn't change it. If we had a good idea the following day it was too late. It belonged to the world at that point in time."

You can view the entire unedited 45-minute Steve Jobs video interview on the WGBH Open Vault. Please be patient, the interview doesn't start immediately.

FOXBOROUGH, Mass.  — Myra Kraft, the wife of New England Patriots owner Robert Kraft and a hard-working philanthropist dedicated to numerous causes, died Wednesday. She was 68.

The NFL team said in a statement that Kraft died Wednesday morning after a battle with cancer.

"We are all heartbroken," the statement said, adding that the philanthropic community has "suffered a great loss."

Myra Hiatt Kraft was an active and powerful force in her family's foundation and served on the boards of varied community and charitable organizations. She managed the Robert and Myra Kraft Family Foundation and was president of the New England Patriots Charitable Foundation, which contributed millions of dollars to charities in the United States and Israel.

In 1995, she became the first woman to chair the Boys & Girls Clubs of Boston, a position she held until 2002. She served the past two years as chair of the board of directors of United Way of Massachusetts Bay and Merrimack Valley.

"She dove into everything that she was involved with," said Bob Lobel on WGBH's Emily Rooney Show.

Also on the show, Howard Jacobson, a cousin of Myra Kraft, said there had been an outpouring of support for Myra and her family. "(It's) heartfelt. People are not doing it in form, they're doing it because she touched so many people," Johnson said.

Jacobson reflected on Ms. Kraft's life's work. "There's a Hebrew Biblical tradition that says, 'It is our responsibility to help cure the world,'" Johnson said. "And that's the way she lived. It's remarkable."

"Myra led by example through her hands on commitment to bettering the communities we serve," Michael Durkin, president and CEO of that United Way chapter, said in a statement. "While Myra will be deeply missed, her legacy of kindness to all will remain a beacon of hope in trying times."

She also served as chairwoman of the Combined Jewish Philanthropies and was on the board of directors of the American Repertory Theatre, Brigham and Women's Hospital, the Boys and Girls Clubs of Boston, and Brandeis University, where she graduated in 1964.

"With her great heart and magnificent spirit, she lived her life in service to those who needed her help," said Barry Shrage, president of CJP. "Myra loved the land of Israel and the Israeli people and visited as often as she could."

Brandeis president Frederick M. Lawrence, chosen by a search committee on which she served, said, "She was always reaching out to students, faculty and other trustees and served as a model to all of us in so many ways. Myra was not just a philanthropist, she was a humanitarian in both a personal sense and a community sense."

Robert Kraft is chairman of the NFL's Broadcast Committee and a member of its Labor Committee. During his wife's illness, he has been deeply involved with talks to arrive at a new collective bargaining agreement and end the lockout of NFL players.

"On behalf of all NFL players, I want to offer my deepest sympathies to Bob and the Kraft family," NFL Players Association head DeMaurice Smith said. "I know how much he loves Myra. We mourn her loss and the entire player family is with heavy hearts today."

Heath Evans, a New Orleans Saints running back who played for the Patriots from 2006-2008, tweeted: "What made Myra Kraft special? Strong but Tender-hearted/Proud but Humble/Bold but Soft-Spoken/Extremely blessed but lived to be a Blessing."

She married Robert Kraft in June 1963 while she was a student at Brandeis. But she was not, at first, an enthusiastic supporter of her husband's attempts to buy the Patriots, who play just 20 miles from where he grew up in Brookline. He became owner in January 1994, paying $172 million, an NFL record at the time, for a team that was 19-61 the previous five seasons.

"She thought it was nuts," he said in an interview with The Associated Press last January. "She was afraid it would affect our charitable giving and I said, 'We will do more for the community if we run this franchise correctly."

Earlier that month, Robert and Myra Kraft announced a $20-million gift to help attract doctors and nurses to Massachusetts community health centers.

Myra Kraft was the daughter of Jacob Hiatt, who grew up in Lithuania and moved to the United States in 1935. He settled in Worcester, where she was born. Hiatt became president of the E.F. Dodge Paper Box Corp. in Leominster in 1938 and stayed on when it was bought by Whitney Box. The company is now known as the Rand-Whitney Group which Robert Kraft bought in 1972. He now serves as its chairman and chief executive officer.

The Krafts have four sons, Jonathan, Daniel, Joshua and David. Jonathan is president of the Patriots. Daniel is president and CEO of International Forest Products, founded in 1972 by his father. Joshua is president and CEO of the Boys & Girls Clubs of Boston.

Material from the Associated Press was used in this report.

The Reverend Peter Gomes died Monday at the age of 68, after a more-than 40-year ministry at Harvard University.

Gomes' longtime friend, writer and columnist Mike Barnicle, met Gomes because the two would regularly spend early mornings at the same restaurant. "He was an education to sit with, next to, to listen to, a sheer education. Not just in terms of his moral values but his view on the world,” Barnicle told WGBH's Emily Rooney on Tuesday.

A black, openly gay minister, Gomes was a decided rarity. He came out about his sexuality in 1991. 

He was also politically conservative for most of his career, although he changed his political affiliation to Democrat to vote for Gov. Deval Patrick in 2006.

Barnicle said Gomes learned from his own experience being different, and set out to help others with theirs. 

"He was was an expert at honing in on the demonization of people," Barnicle said. "He could see people and institutions being demonized well before it would become apparent tthat they were being demonized."

That, Barnicle said, gave Gomes a sense of fairness that underguarded his political and religious beliefs.

“It’s not fair to go after people because of who they are, or because of their sexual orientation, or because of their color, or because of their income, or because of their zip code. That’s who he was, he was an expert in what’s fair,” Barnicle said.

Gomes was known for his soaring, intricate speaking style. "I like playing with words and structure," he said once, "Marching up to an idea, saluting, backing off, making a feint and then turning around."

"His sermons were actually high theater in my mind," Barnicle remembered.

Gomes did not leave behind a memoir; He said he'd start work on it when he retired, at 70. It's a shame, Barnicle said. "We need more of him than just a memoir, we need people like him every day."

Gomes reflected on his life's work — and his death — on Charlie Rose's talk show in 2007. 

I even have the tombstone the verse on my stone is to be from 2 Timothy. “Study to show thyself approved unto God a workman who needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.” That’s what I try to do, that’s what I want people to thnk of me after I’m gone. When I was young, we all had to memorize vast quantities of scripture and I remember that passage from Timothy I thought, 'Hey that’s not a bad life’s work.' And in a way I’ve tried to live into it. So my epitaph is not going to be new to me, it’s the path I have followed in my ministry and my life.

BOSTON — WGBH joins our community in mourning the loss of Aloyce Beth DuVal Deare, the former producer (1978-1988) of Say Brother (now Basic Black) and numerous WGBH documentaries. She died February 21 in a fire at her home in Newton.

Beth’s talents earned her 13 Emmys and a Peabody Award during her tenure at WGBH—among them, an Emmy for In the Matter of Levi Heart, a documentary about a Boston Police shooting. Her credits include Beacon to Freedom: Black Life in the Bay Colony, which she finished in 2008 while undergoing treatment for throat cancer, and American Experience’s Midnight Ramble, a 1994 film about the history of black filmmaking.  

Beth, who was battling brain cancer at the time of her death, taught in the English department at Bunker Hill Community College.

Her family issued this statement: “We take comfort in knowing that the cancer she fought for more than five years will no longer consume her and that her vast family and extended family–including students, and friends around the world–will keep her in love and prayer.”

“WGBH is saddened by this loss,” says WGBH Vice President for Communications and Government Relations Jeanne Hopkins. “Beth was a very talented producer and someone who helped connect WGBH with others in the community.”

Tributes have been pouring in from Beth’s friends and colleagues. We invite you to add your remembrances below, in the comments section. The DuVal family sent WGBH this statement: 

The family of Beth Deare is devastated by the news of our loved one's passing. We were informed early Monday morning that our sister’s residence was engulfed in flames and shortly thereafter learned that our fears were realized. The police confirmed that we lost our dear one in the tragic fire.

We will spend this time remembering that Beth’s life was full with incredible highs, ranging from her loving daughter and three grandchildren to her many awards and accolades for her acclaimed work in television and film, including 13 Emmys and a Peabody.

We take comfort in knowing that the cancer she fought so valiantly for more than five years will no longer consume her and that her vast family and extended family — including students, and friends around the world — will keep her in love and prayer.

We thank everyone for all the love and condolences already coming in from as far as the African continent. A "Celebration of Life" is being planned for Beth on Saturday, March 26, 2011, and a memorial fund is being established in her honor. A portion of the proceeds from that fund will help the other families impacted by the fire to rebuild. She loved them dearly and with your help we can honor them in her name.

Peace,

Lynn DuVal Luse and John Aki DuVal, Beth's loving siblings

Share your thoughts about Beth DuVal Deare, who lost her life February 21 in house fire in Newton, MA, after an award-winning WGBH career in filmmaking and 15 years as a passionate, engaging English professor at Bunker Hill Community College.