Three Years Later: Remembering Philant

My cell phone rang early one morning in May 2006 while I was preparing to head to work. It was the Atlanta City Councilman’s office, the one I had done a lot of communications work for in the past. His chief of staff said, “Did you hear about the shooting” ? I hesitated to wait for her to clarify which one. She said, “The one in Cincinnati involving T.I.” I told her yes, it was very sad that a young man was killed. She replied, “The family of Philant Johnson is receiving a lot of media requests and need someone to handle the press for them. Would you be willing to do this”? That is the first time I ever heard the name Philant Johnson. The things that would unfold over the next few days would never allow me to forget his name.

Although I was trying to reduce the number of pro bono accounts I service it was hard to say no to this one because it was so tragic and it was a person from my own community. People from southwest Atlanta are a close knit group even if they don’t know each other personally. We are connected through mutual friends, neighborhoods, events and associations. If you are from the SWATS, as it is known in hip hop circles, you are family. In my field, the first step to servicing an account is information gathering. This is where you begin identifying the major players and discovering what you are dealing with so you can assess the situation, create a strategy and develop a plan of action. This one qualified as crisis management although some people would disagree. Many in my field consider crisis management a corporate issue that involves some type of disaster like the situation in Savannah, Georgia when a sugar refinery blew up killing several employees. I knew seconds after placing the first phone call to obtain information this was a crisis.

I was given the name of a few family members and the head of the company where Philant worked. I just knew I could handle this quickly and easily while taking care of my paid accounts. I was wrong. The first call was to a male cousin. When I identified myself he seemed closed, reserved. I discovered during the conversation I had attended high school with one of the family members so a connection was instantly made. I grew up only a few blocks away from Fredrick Douglass High school, the school Philant attended. I knew instantly this young man was not going to be a stranger. I knew what type of people came from that neighborhood. With the exception of a few pockets of rough areas, it was a quiet bedroom community that had a mix of lower middle to upper middle class homes. Like Philant, most people had two parent homes or at the very least had known both parents as part of their life even if through divorce.

He was only able to speak with me for a few minutes before hanging up. So I called another relative, a female cousin who was in public relations. I thought this would be easy since she knows what I am trying to do. She answered but before I could get a few words out she began crying. I felt so bad about having to push for information but I had to have more to do my job and do it well. Between sobs I was able to determine Philant was a young father with a baby daughter. I also discovered he was working when this tragedy occurred. I learned he was from a two parent home leaving parents behind who seemed to love him dearly. I decided not to bother his mother since she was making funeral arrangements for her son. Everyone told me the family was devastated but I had no idea how this situation would impact those around this family. My journey was just beginning.

I decided not to press her further and was sure I could get more information from Philant’s boss at Grand Hustle Entertainment. I called her next and could barely get my name out before she completely broke down into tears. I found myself trying to remain neutral but it was hard under the circumstances. She apologized and we resumed. She said Philant was a hard working employee who was reliable. She gave me only a few sentences before she broke down again into uncontrollable sobs making her answers incoherent. I gave her my condolences and told her I would leave her alone for now so she could grieve without having to answer questions. She gave me the name of T.I.’s manager to contact. Now I don’t personally know T.I. and was only distantly aware of his music. I knew he sold lots of units but I had no idea that he was the hip hop icon he had become. Not because I am immune to hip hop. It all started with my generation with people like Russell SimmonsRussell Simmons, Sugar Hill Gang and LL Cool JLL Cool J so I knew what the industry was about. I was just selective about the music I would listen to and tried to stay away from cuts that were overly violent or excessively misogynistic. I did tend to follow people from Atlanta like TLC, Jermaine DupriJermaine Dupri, Ludacris and Outkast because they were very much a part of my community.

But T.I. was younger and a lot of the hip hop music had evolved from revolutionary anti-establishment to gangster rap and exploitation of women. But I was not there for T.I. or to get a shout out or a hook up. I was there to help the world understand who Philant was and to make sure his image was correctly presented to the world during this tragedy. Time was running out and I needed more information to do my job so I started calling friends in the neighborhood who knew T.I. and Philant. This took me down roads I did not expect. First, my senior citizen mother who never heard the music of T.I. knew his father personally. Okay, that was interesting. I didn’t know his dad was much older than me. People described the two as normal kids who hung around the neighborhood. I found out Philant was a pretty good guy. No one had a bad word to say or anything negative to describe him. Close friends who knew him told me he was like a big Teddy bear, someone whose presence was imposing but whose personality was gentle and caring. I began to understand why so many people were devastated from this loss.

I quickly decided my strategy would be to let the world know Philant was not in Cincinnati gang banging or committing a crime. He was there working alongside his co-workers and taking care of his family. Mainstream media tends to present the hip hop industry as filled with criminals and thugs. Many people still remember the unsolved murders of Tupac and Biggie and I was determined to make sure they would not treat Philant the same way. I needed to find a photograph of Philant. I was directed to the printer who was producing the funeral program. I had been up for almost two days at this point with very little sleep before the memorial services were to take place three days later. I managed to make my way to the printer’s house in West End after a full day of phone calls, meetings and business activities with paying clients. It was close to 11pm. Although I am familiar with the West End community, it is not where a woman driving alone wants to be at that hour. It is a good community housing the Atlanta University center (Spelman, Morehouse, Clark-Atlanta, Morris Brown, ITC, etc), West End Mall and one of the largest Black Catholic churches in the city. It was home to the Afrocentric Pan African base of the city with the Shrine of the Black MadonnaMadonna bookstore and a large Black Muslim community.

But it also has its dark side. Only a few blocks away from where I was traveling is the site where law enforcement say the former H. Rap Brown, Muslim cleric Jamil Abdullah Al-Amin gunned down two county deputies in a case that is prosecuted and closed but many still say has unanswered questions surrounding it. There are a few ominous stragglers walking the pitch black street I had to avoid before I made my way to the printer’s home. Walking inside I was stunned at the beauty of the artwork. I could barley pay attention to his words as he asked me to sit down and wait for him to burn a copy of the photo onto a disk for me. That is the thing about Atlanta. You could be on the worst block in the city and drive a few streets away to walk into one of the most beautiful homes you have ever seen. I could barely get out of the house an hour later after I had begged for a tour of the African art, sculptures and paintings that made his house look like a real life castle to me.

I got home just after midnight and had less than 24 hours to get a release out to the media announcing funeral arrangements and details on the celebration of life for Philant Johnson. Minutes after distributing the release that night my phone blew up from calls early the next morning. I released the information to local and state media markets along with Cincinnati and a few select national media. It was no surprise that Atlanta and Cincinnati reporters wanted more information on what I began to discover was a highly visible and volatile situation. I didn’t bother to gather too many details on the shooting investigation because again, my job was to focus on the life of Philant and not get too involved in the news angle. The first reporter called around 5am from the local urban station wanting an interview with a family member. After I told her one would not be available she asked me as the spokesperson to do the interview. Now some people are morning people but at 5am if you ask me to add 1 plus 1 it might equal three or more to me until I am able to thaw out my brain. I did get a little reprieve in that she gave me 30 minutes or more to get myself together before the interview would go live on the a-m show. Did I mention I still had not gotten more than three hours of sleep a night since I took this account?

Anyway I shook off the sleepies and conducted my first interview. It went exactly as planned. I was able to remind the community about the real Philant taking their minds away from his job and focusing more on his life. Many did not know he loved to cook, was considered a good chef and was known as a big man with a big smile. Many did not know he left behind a beautiful little daughter or that he attended high school right here in Atlanta. The interview went well so I thought I would grab a few more hours of sleep until the phone rang again with a reporter from Cincinnati. She wanted an interview with a family member. Again, I explained no one was available. She settled for me as family spokesperson and wanted to tape a phone interview she could add to her live TV broadcast.

This interview went differently. Since the case was not solved my goal was to help generate leads for police on behalf of the family. I was well aware of the no snitching rule in the Black community but have never been one to support such nonsense. When crimes are committed, especially against our own we need to yell from the roof to anyone who will listen until the crime is solved. During the Cincinnati interview I was able to plead to the community to drop the no snitching rule. I reminded them Philant was someone’s son, a little girl’s father and that he left behind parents who are heartbroken. I reminded Cincinnati residents that Philant was not in their town doing harm but doing his job when the car he was riding in was sprayed with bullets from unknown assailants. I pleaded for them not to stay quiet.

Mission accomplished. I fielded several more calls the rest of that day and tried to relax. It was Friday and I was only two days away from a Monday memorial service where I had to field more interviews. I saw this as a time to take a break and regroup. The next day I attended an outdoor barbecue at a close friend’s house. It is around 10pm. I am relaxed and sunburned from the sweltering Georgia heat of the day. I am happy to put the tragedy behind me for a moment when my phone rings. I am sure that since it is late Saturday night, it must be a personal call. Instead it was a reporter from a Cincinnati paper asking questions about the investigation. I could barely hear her as the live jazz band in the background is kicking into full gear and people are laughing and enjoying themselves. I quickly scatter to find a quiet place to hear the questions. The reporter asks, “There are rumors that people in the Bankhead community of Atlanta where T.I. is from are planning a retaliation hit in Cincinnati. Can you tell us anything about this?” I am caught a little off guard as I explain to the reporter that I represent the family of Philant Johnson and am not involved in the police investigation. I did add there was no mention of retaliation in the local media and no published reports of a planned revenge act here. I hung up and do the best I can to have fun for the next hour before heading home to get some much needed rest.

I arrive early at the church Monday to wait for the throngs of press who will attend the memorial because of the high visibility of the tragedy. I also want to beat out all the anticipated extra onlookers and hangers on showing up because they want a glimpse of T.I. A few media trucks are already positioned in place as I enter the parking lot to organize my copies of the release and put on my identifying badge so media will know who I am. I spot an officer who I know as a contact from other accounts I serviced and pull him to the side. I want to prepare myself just in case another reporter asks about a planned retaliation hit. I repeated what the Cincinnati reporter said to the officer as he begins to break into a grin shaking his head side to side. I suspect I already know what he is about to say because I am quite familiar with the Bankhead area. In fact there is no Bankhead community per se but a long street connecting downtown Atlanta near the Georgia Dome to the NW suburbs that used to be called Bankhead until the city decided to rename it Hollowell after legendary attorney Donald Hollowell, Atlanta’s version of Johnny Cochran. He was largely responsible for the legal battle to desegregate the University of Georgia among his many accomplishments. There are pockets of rough areas and subsidized housing along the stretch of the street formerly known as Bankhead and many areas of high crime. Once a showcase of Black pride and businesses it had long since deteriorated into a danger zone. He answers, “We heard that story repeated to us from Cincinnati law enforcement. They called to let us know to watch out for it but I don’t see much to it. Most of the people on Bankhead can barely afford to get a MARTA (transit) card to get downtown so how can they make it all the way to Cincinnati?” I began to think maybe Cincinnati police need to focus their time on solving the case of who murdered Philant rather than occupy their time with retaliation rumors.

I position myself near the front door of the church so I can be ready when the funeral entourage approaches. When they arrive I am amazed and unprepared for what I see…people with faces that look like they have barely lived more than two decades of life struggling to get out of limousines. Youthful and strong people who should be able to sprint out of the car into the church were in need of wheel chairs and walking canes to move. It dawned on me that these are the people who were in the vehicle with T.I. and Philant in Cincinnati. It is a sad and tragic sight. They looked like they had been hit by a bomb in Desert Storm. This was the carnage left behind, the collateral damage from people who chose a violent response to resolve an issue. It brought to the forefront the real life and death seriousness of the situation. More people could have died and many others will be left behind with permanent scars and afflictions from this senseless act of violence. For the first time, I am choking back tears trying to understand this world we live in.

I make it inside after a few quick media interviews. On my way to the media section I see a huge pictorial tribute to Philant. I look at the beautiful innocent eyes of his daughter. I see the fun and lovable way he and T.I. posed in photos like they were blood brothers. I see a life cut too short that had so much potential. I make my way to the balcony only to be deluged with media wanting to get more information. I had ordered a stack of funeral programs to pass out because I knew from my media days that a funeral program was a critical tool for a reporter to file a story. It told the biography of the deceased, had an array of photos but more importantly allowed the reporter to select from the host of speakers to prepare stories. I tell everyone to just be patient. Programs are on the way. In the meantime I have to fend off a church worker who decided she would chastise me for having my cell phone on. It didn’t ring. It was on silent. She saw me using it to quietly call another church worker who was bringing the programs to the media section. She threatens to throw me out and I ask God to please help me avoid this lady since I am operating on a few hours sleep and don’t need any hassles from this want-to-be-in-charge and want-to-be-important person.

When the service starts I am able to put the faces with the names of people I had spoken to on the phone. I had told each I would identify myself at the service so they will know who I am. Things started out a bit subdued but quickly turned in a very sad and mournful occasion. Each person seemed to break down faster and faster after only a few sentences. The head of Grand Hustle Entertainment, one of the ones I was to speak with personally after services had to be escorted from the podium after a complete breakdown. She could not understand why someone would take the life of such a wonderful person. After a few more speakers, T.I. comes to the stage. He is wearing shades and appears to be in control. He manages to get through most of his words but not before he eventually breaks down in sorrow. I glanced at the parents left behind and my heart filled with empathy for their plight. They should not have to raise their granddaughter without her father under these circumstances.

The printed programs finally arrive and the media engulf me in a frenzy to get one. I save one for my records when a man outright lies and says he is with the media and needed one. I got his card later and found out he was a boot leg investigator from Atlanta who had no real role in this case from all outward appearances. While I am sure he may have been there to scope out people who are attending it seems to me the real suspects were hundreds of miles away in Cincinnati. I leave empty handed to handle more press and conduct more interviews outside after the services concluded. A cameraman from a local TV station positions me in front of the entourage and interviews me in the middle of all the chaos. I feel the eyes of everyone asking “Who is this woman?” Our interview is interrupted a few times by wannabes who are trying to get on TV. A few of the people in the limousines peer out in curiosity. I would rather a family member do this interview but again, this is my job. A few people who ignored me earlier run to me to ask who I am and try to get my card. I refuse. A few others hand me their cards. One is a bodyguard. I clearly understood his role for the day. I decide at that point not to approach any of the people I had arranged to meet in person. I wanted to leave them to grieve uninterrupted.

After the lot empties I am still doing interviews with a few left over media who came late or were still packing up and couldn’t find a subject to interview. I repeat my story for the last time to a reporter from Rolling Out magazine before I head back to my car which had been temporarily converted into a mobile office. I make notes on who I need to get photos to and who I need to follow up with to complete stories for the day. I am totally exhausted at this point. An hour later, T.I. returns to the church with several of his friends. They are contemplating whether to go inside for the repast. I had been invited to join everyone and needed a good hearty southern meal to recharge me. I want to approach T.I. on my way inside to offer my condolences. But I look down and see my feet are dog tired and I really did not want to put my shoes back on. I do a little more work and like T.I., decide to leave and head elsewhere.

From that day on, my mind was forever seared with the memory of the face of that beautiful little girl who lost her father. My memory retained the images of all the young people whose bones were shattered by the bullets in the drive by shooting. My memory held the sounds of the uncontrollable tears from so many family members and co-workers of Philant. I eventually spoke with his mother by phone who humbly thanked me for my work. I urged his cousin who was in public relations to generate some press on the one year anniversary to drum up leads in the ongoing investigation. When one year rolled around and I heard nothing I was tempted to pick up the phone and call the head of Grand Hustle Entertainment to remind her they should release a statement to the media. But I could clearly remember the pain the event had caused her and didn’t want to be the one who brought it back to the forefront of her mind. When T.I. was arrested on gun charges people called him all kinds of horrible names and criticized his actions. Right or wrong, I understood. I saw up close what damage it had done to his life and could understand how this would lead a person to seek an arsenal of protection.

Late last year, just before Christmas, three years shy of the murder of Philant, Hosea Thomas was convicted and sentenced in Cincinnati to 66 years to life for pulling the trigger. One of the prosecutors said Thomas was not a dangerous man overall. He was just a man who became dangerous when the combination of a quick temper, bad anger problem and access to guns came together. He had previously served eight years for a similar public shooting spree after his anger flared up at a different night club. His victim in that case was a pregnant woman who survived to testify against him after her premature delivery as a result of the shooting. Thomas should be eligible for parole when he is 100 years old.

I never met Philant Johnson. But it is odd how with all the pro bono accounts I handle this one ended up being the most challenging having the most impact on my professional career. I thought I would handle this quickly from a stern professional distance. Instead, the sadness and tragedy of it all brought to surface the reality of gun violence in this country revealing the damage it can do when a gun falls into the wrong hands. I am from the same neighborhood but traveled in different circles as Philant in southwest Atlanta. While his crew was probably at a night club on Old National Highway promoting music my crew was likely sipping coffee while debating politics at the Magic JohnsonMagic Johnson owned Starbucks on Cascade Road. Despite the different lifestyles he is still one of ours. And the tragic end to his life, the grieving family and friends left behind, the lessons taught and lessons ignored will forever be a part of his legacy and my memory.