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Friend. Father. Son.

  • Updated
Friend. Father. Son.

Pictured in a funeral service program, Walter Scott dreamed he would rent an RV, load up all of his children, “stepdaughters” included, and take them to Disney World. Scott was killed by a North Charleston police officer after a traffic stop on April 4. The officer, Michael Thomas Slager, has been fired and charged with murder.

Walter Scott always wanted to be famous. He used to tell his friends he could’ve made it as a singer.

His voice was buttery smooth and soulful, like Marvin Gaye’s or Luther Vandross’. He liked oldies, disco, house music — anything you could dance to. If Scott were to record an album, he’d belt out gospel ballads or croon rhythm and blues. And he didn’t mind stepping on stage.

He sang solos in the choir at W.O.R.D. Ministries Christian Center.

He performed the national anthem at his graduation from Miller-Motte Technical College.

On the last Friday in March, one of the last nights they spent together, he sang “Sara Smile” by Hall & Oates as he and his cousin, Romaine Scott, drove home at 1 a.m. from her brother’s house.

Easy-going. Always smiling. Outgoing yet soft-spoken. They’d laugh until their sides hurt. After his death earlier this month, Romaine met so many people who called Scott their “best friend.” He had a way, she said, of making everyone feel special.

So when his family and friends heard that Scott had been killed by a North Charleston cop in what should have been a routine traffic stop, they were in disbelief. Scott had gotten into some scuffles when he was younger, but there was no way, they said, he wrestled a Taser from an armed officer. “That’s not Walter,” Romaine remembers saying.

And she knew the truth would come out eventually, just not in the way it did. Watching the video footage, captured on a bystander’s cellphone, she said was like seeing the Twin Towers fall. There was Scott on national news, running from Patrolman Michael Slager. Eight gunshots cracked. Five struck him. His body jerked. His legs buckled. He crumpled to the ground.

Talk to any of Scott’s closest friends or family members and here’s what you’ll quickly find out:

He was a fervent Dallas Cowboys fan, but dominoes was his game. A self-proclaimed “master,” Scott played religiously with his friends. He carried a tin box of them wherever he went. He even had a blue and white Cowboys set that he stowed in a glass curio on display. He was an honest player, but he talked a lot of trash.

“I’m gonna shut you out! Now watch,” he’d say. “I’m gonna make you eat those bones!”

Scott wasn’t much of a cook either, but he was a big eater. He loved macaroni and cheese, spare ribs, ham and Church’s fried chicken. He could eat an entire roll of Jimmy Dean sausage by himself.

He had recently proposed to a woman named Charlotte. They’d been together for five years and most people assumed they were married. They were inseparable. He was Charlotte’s “knight in shining armor,” Romaine said, who had rescued her from a bad relationship. And Charlotte was the love of his life. They called each other “baby” and “boo boo.” When Scott played dominoes with his friends, Charlotte would wrap her arms around his neck. Wherever they walked, he kept his hand on the small of her back. And he loved her two daughters as his own.

One day, Scott dreamed he would rent an RV, load up all of his children, four biological kids and “stepdaughters” included, and take them to Disney World. He didn’t have much money, but he did what he could.

John Singletary, a local photographer, remembers meeting Scott some years ago at Father to Father, a program to help men who had fallen behind on their child support. Singletary was an employment specialist there and Scott had recently been released from jail for not making his payments. Singletary helped Scott get a job at a construction company. Scott was “elated,” Singletary said. He could tell Scott wanted to be a better father.

When Scott was pulled over on Saturday, April 4, in a used Mercedes he had recently purchased, Romaine could picture what he must have been thinking. He had just taken his coworker at Brown Distribution, 30-year-old Pierre Fulton, to a food pantry at a nearby church so Fulton could get food for his family. He was taking Fulton home.

After the officer approached Scott’s car, Romaine imagined her cousin bracing the steering wheel, trembling in fear. He didn’t want to go to jail. He had a fiancee and children to provide for, a job he couldn’t afford to lose.

He needed to go home. As the officer walked back to his car, Scott slid open the driver-side door.

And then he ran.

Scott was a middle child, but he was his “momma’s baby,” as his older brother Anthony put it. He was born pigeon-toed and wore special shoes to correct his gait, but he still managed to keep up with his brothers.

He went to C.E. Williams Middle School and St. Andrew’s Parish High School, where he represented the “Rocks” on the football team. He played at the YWCA after school and went to “Operation Shipmate,” a mentorship program for inner city kids, at the Naval Base every summer. He called Anthony the “best big brother in the world.” They said they were each other’s “protectors.” And Scott, just like his brothers, was something of a troublemaker.

At their two-story house on Meadowlawn Drive in North Charleston, Rodney remembers how Scott used to duck out of chores and put off washing his dishes until minutes before their mom returned from work.

On a recent Tuesday, before noon, the Rev. George Hamilton, Scott’s pastor for the last 18 years, paid a visit to Judy and Walter Scott Sr. at that same house. They stood in the living room, held hands, and prayed.

“Bring them closure,” Hamilton said. “Find peace in what had taken place.” He asked God to “intervene into their hearts” and forgive the officer who killed their son.

“Unless we forgive others,” he said. “God will not forgive us.”

But for Romaine, forgiveness isn’t easy. That ugly video replays in her head. Charlotte can’t sleep in the bedroom she shared with Scott, so she spends her nights on a chair in the living room. Sometimes Romaine catches her boyfriend, one of Scott’s closest friends, sighing quietly to himself.

And Romaine still waits for Scott to knock on the door, to give her a call so they can all play dominoes under the carport at his house.

“In church, they said it was ‘divine sacrifice.’ That this was what needed to happen for people’s eyes to be opened and things to be revealed, but I don’t believe that,” Romaine said. “I believe he’s just as angry and pissed off and mad that his life was taken away from him like that. ... There’s nothing that justifies that.”

Reach Deanna Pan at 937-5764. Cynthia Roldan contributed to this story.

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