A Fleeing Man. Eight Bullets. A Hung Jury.

What does it take to convict a cop?

- Michael Sokolove

Walter Scott’s cellphone bill was current. In that small but not unimportant aspect of life, he was on solid ground. He had checked in with his elderly parents, called and texted friends. At 50 years old, Scott was a forklift driver, a dominoes aficionado, an extrovert with a buttery voice who sang soul music at social gatherings and spirituals in church. As a young man he’d served in the Coast Guard, but he was discharged after testing positive for marijuana. He drifted between jobs, earned a two-year degree at a technical college, and performed the national anthem at his commencement ceremony. He had four children from two past relationships and was chronically behind on support payments.

On the morning of April 4, 2015, Scott was driving a 1991 Mercedes sedan that he had agreed to purchase from a neighbor, though the paperwork had not yet been squared away. He had a friend with him. He was less than a mile from the home he shared with his girlfriend in North Charleston, South Carolina—genteel Charleston’s poor cousin, a city of roughly 108,000 people that is bisected by railroad tracks and dotted with pawn shops and payday loan outlets. In parts of North Charleston, it seems like just about anything of value—tire superstores, small industrial sites, even residences—is protected by high cyclone fences and barbed wire.