THE OTHER PHENIX
By Kenny Holston
PHENIX CITY, Ala. -- It took four police officers to arrest Antoineous Gaines on a recent Friday afternoon. They forced Mr. Gaines, a Black man who had driven around a traffic barricade, to his knees. They pushed his face and chest against a warm concrete bench, as his wife asked them to be careful, because he was a military veteran who suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder. They carried him to the patrol car and forced him inside.
And I witnessed all of it--a traffic stop gone wrong, something that a photographer rarely gets to see unfolding in front of him. Nobody died. But I knew that this was the kind of stop that was much more typical, where a motorist who disobeyed police orders ended up bloodied and bruised. As a Black man, I also knew why Mr. Gaines seemed like he was so afraid: George Floyd, Daunte Wright, Philando Castile.
In early October, I was asked to go to Phenix City, Ala., to help work on an investigative project for The New York Times about the dangers of police shooting at moving vehicles and Cedric Mifflin, a young unarmed Black man who was killed by a Phenix City police officer during a traffic stop in 2017.
I live in Washington, D.C., and I know the South. But Alabama was a state apart. It still unofficially recognizes state nicknames such as Yellowhammer (the nickname of Confederate soldiers) and Heart of Dixie (also from the Civil War). Before I left, friends told me, “Please be safe.”
In a way, the safe wishes reminded me of the times I headed into combat while in the military. For almost 14 years, I served as an Air Force photojournalist. I’ve taken photos of horrible things: casualties in combat in Afghanistan, autopsies of service members killed in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the personal effects that came back with bodies, like a cross necklace and a wedding ring.
I arrived in Phenix City late Oct. 6. The next day, I photographed the car that Mr. Mifflin was driving when he was shot and killed, parked in the backyard of a friend. I spent Friday, Oct. 8, doing the things that photographers always do: I woke up early, and by 6 a.m., was taking photos of scenes of Phenix City, when the early light makes everything look better. I met Dontrell Grier, Mr. Mifflin’s brother, hard at work in his small auto detailing shop in Columbus, Ga., which is right across the river from Phenix City. I thought I would be there for a half-hour; instead, I spent hours with Mr. Grier.
When I left, just before 4 p.m., I hadn’t eaten all day. I headed back to the Courtyard in Phenix City to freshen up before grabbing barbecue or a late breakfast.
Just as I was about to pull into the parking garage, I noticed something: a red car with a flat tire parked near the intersection of 14th Street and Whitewater Avenue, a curb where vehicles aren’t usually stopped. Nearby stood a Black man with dreadlocks, wearing a red shirt, gray sweat pants and dark blue Adidas sandals. He looked to be in his late 30s or early 40s. He was surrounded by four Phenix City police officers. I would later learn his name: Antoineous Gaines, and that police had approached him after he got a flat tire while driving around a traffic barricade set up for a street fair.
I immediately thought: “That’s a lot of cops. This doesn’t look good. They got him surrounded. He’s Black and he’s got dreads. He’s done.” A Black man with dreadlocks is typically seen as extra Black.
Quickly remembering that I was a professional photojournalist on assignment to work on a story about this very subject, I pulled over and jumped out the car with both my cameras and my credentials clearly visible.
Mr. Gaines seemed to be pleading his case, speaking passionately to the officers with anger and a hint of fear in his voice. He was voicing his concern, which is a no-no with police. I began taking photos.
One of the officers noticed me. He told me to back off, although I was already six feet outside of their radius, typically the distance that a reporter or photographer is supposed to keep when capturing this sort of encounter. I immediately told the officer that I was a photojournalist working for The Times. For whatever reason, that didn’t seem to register with him. Preoccupied, he dismissed our exchange and turned back to Mr. Gaines, who was being peppered with questions from the other three officers.
By now, the officers had confirmed that Mr. Gaines was unarmed. From my perspective, the officers seemed to have a lot of opportunity to defuse the situation with a man in obvious distress. But instead they continued to slowly close in on Mr. Gaines. Just as they backed him up against a concrete bench hinged to the red brick wall of a vacant parking garage, Kiswana Gaines, Mr. Gaines’ wife, showed up. She seemed to appear in my camera’s viewfinder out of nowhere; I later learned that Mr. Gaines called her as soon as police had approached him.
I pulled my camera down from my face to get a good look at her while trying to figure out where she came from. Ms. Gaines instantly tried to put herself between the officers and her husband, while repeatedly telling Mr. Gaines to calm down. For her to sacrifice herself in that way was telling. In most Black neighborhoods, she’d be called a “ride-or-die” --a woman who’s willing to stay in the trenches with her man even if it means her life is on the line.
Meanwhile, Mr. Gaines wasn’t doing himself any favors as he continued to spout off at the officers. At times his comments seemed to be all over the place, not clear or concise. I had to wonder if that had anything to do with fear. Here he was, in a similar situation as the long list of other Black men and women who had been killed by police officers.
I held steady, taking photos. Everyone’s voices grew louder as they all spoke over each other. Out of nowhere, Mr. Gaines grabbed his wife’s shoulder. That was all it took: The police officers snapped, forcefully grabbing Mr. Gaines.
They turned him around so he faced away from them and forced him down to his knees. Three officers then bent him over the concrete bench and cuffed him. Ms. Gaines, not giving up, begged the officers not to hurt her husband. She explained that he had mental-health issues. Officers proceeded to crank up the pressure. It was clear the idea of de-escalation was nonexistent.
“I just told you he has PTSD. Obviously, he has some mental issues, he has a disabled veterans tag! Obviously, he has a disabled…a disablement. Please do not mistreat him, please do not mistreat him,” Ms. Gaines pleaded.
She kept trying to approach her husband, but the officers boxed her out and repeatedly told her to step back.
“I want you to understand he is at risk to himself and the citizens around here, OK?” one officer said. “Ma’am, you need to step back, step back, ma’am,” he continued.
During this exchange, the officers picked Mr. Gaines up by all fours, so that he was fully suspended from the ground. They carried him almost 60 feet, to a police cruiser parked along the curb. He clearly did not want to be put into the patrol car and continued verbally making his case while physically struggling in the cuffs. The officers eventually forced him inside, but he refused to put his legs into the car. So, the officers forced them in. They kicked his now shoeless foot, while lifting the opposite leg. Two officers were eventually able to slam the door.
Then they drove away.
I approached the two officers who remained to ask their names and why Mr. Gaines had been arrested. The junior officer began to speak. His superior, a lieutenant who had taken a closer look at my credentials, realized I worked for The Times. “We can’t speak to you,” the lieutenant said.
I asked my questions once more, explaining that I just needed their names and a short explanation as to what had just happened and why. But I got nothing.