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In February work by Masino and other officers resulted in 18 arrests. To keep the gangsters from returning, Masino and officer Brian Kornegay opened a substation in one of the units. They gave a cell phone to the woman whose phone lines had been cut. When Masino pulls up now in his patrol car, that woman's seven grandchildren, no longer confined to the house, climb into his car to play with the lights and loudspeaker.
This kind of work provides a vital, unseen ballast as Phoenix is rocked by Atkinson's murder and by the ugly reaction from some quarters that there should be a crackdown on "the Mexicans" who should be sent packing. What could be a breakdown in race relations is defused by a quiet, powerful counter-demonstration--a defining moment in city history.
In response to the racist outbursts on talk radio, Hispanic leaders called for a peace march and a prayer vigil for Tuesday evening, four days after Atkinson's murder, with such short notice that no one knew how many people might show up. At 6 p.m., they started to gather in a field not far from the bar where Atkinson's chase had begun: adults and children, first in a trickle and then in a swelling stream. Michael Hernandez Nowakowski, a radio-station general manager, had bought hundreds of candles, and people began lighting them.
By 7 p.m., 800 people had gathered, and now police officers were joining in, clearing a path for a twilight procession along the course of Atkinson's pursuit. Children carried photographs of Atkinson. A mariachi band played De Colores, a song about the rainbow after the storm.
As the marchers approached the site where Atkinson died, some left flowers or novena candles; others left poems or notes of thanks, many in Spanish. And then Davila spoke, in Spanish, then in English, thanking the throng for turning the place of Atkinson's death into sacred ground. State senator Joe Eddie Lopez followed him, asking Davila to tell his officers "that we love the work that you do, that we are slow to express it as much as we should, but that the safety of our children and our families rests in your hands."
After the vigil broke up, about 100 people stayed behind and said a rosary. Karen Atkinson was there, along with Marc's mother, brother and sister, and strangers went up to them to say--some in Spanish, some in English--that they were sorry. It would be the first night since her husband's death that Karen Atkinson slept.