It was two days after Michael Louis shot to death Preston Phillips, Stephanie Husen, Amanda Glenn, and William Love at the Natalie Medical Building in Tulsa, Oklahoma, on the campus of Saint Francis Medical Center, when my friend and I went to lunch. It was in another part of town, about twenty minutes away. The city, like the nation, was still on edge; the city, like the nation, had already moved on. We were sitting in a booth, when a police officer, Lt. Brandon Watkins, came in. I got up. We shook hands.
We’re not friends, but we know each other.
“We have a lunch every month or so,” he said.
The we, I discovered, were his fellow commanders, captains, detectives.
The hostess then took him to a table at the far side of the restaurant. Another cop came in, then another, then another — eight in all. They were all armed — of course they were all armed. Three officers sat in the booth, Brandon between them, three sat on chairs. One officer had his back to the entrance; one officer faced it. It was 11:30 a.m., so the restaurant wasn’t as packed as it would be in about 30 minutes; still, approximately 40-45 patrons were already there.
There was no safer place in Tulsa at the moment.
Right?
Right?
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