By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

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The first story the public hears after a police shooting is often a lie. In Minneapolis, the year 2026 began with the death of Renee Nicole Good. An officer from Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) fired the fatal shots. Initial government reports claimed her vehicle was a threat to the officer. However, bystander video soon told a different story. The footage showed the officer was not in the path of the car when he opened fire (mprnews.org). This pattern of blaming the victim immediately after a tragedy is something Black families know all too well.

In Illinois, the case of Sonya Massey reached a major turning point on January 29, 2026. Former deputy Sean Grayson received a sentence of 20 years in prison for her murder. When Massey was first killed in 2024, the narrative focused on her holding a pot of hot water. The police tried to make it look like she was the aggressor. Body camera footage later proved she was ducking and apologizing before she was shot (siu.on.ca). These cases show that without video, the "official version" of events often remains the only version people believe.

This "familiar script" did not appear out of thin air. It grew from the very beginning of American law enforcement. In the South, modern police departments evolved from slave patrols. These patrols had one job: to control the movement of Black people. They had total power, and their word was the only legal truth. During that time, a Black person could not testify against a white officer. This created a system where the official report was never questioned (gsu.edu).

After the Civil War, these structures did not disappear. They changed into a system of systemic forced labor and control through Black Codes. These laws were made to keep Black people from being truly free. Police officers, many of whom were former Confederate soldiers, used these codes to arrest Black people for minor things like not having a job. This history established the idea that Black people were "presumed guilty." Because the law was designed to control them, the police narrative always started with the assumption that the Black person was doing something wrong (jstor.org).

Source: Northwestern University (northwestern.edu)

As the Great Migration brought Black families to Northern cities, the script moved with them. In Chicago, historical records from 1890 to 1920 show a disturbing trend. During those years, Black residents made up only 3 percent of the city population. However, they accounted for 21 percent of the people killed by police. The most common excuse used by officers was "shooting to hinder escape." This justification was used in 41 percent of all police killings during that time (northwestern.edu).

Police chiefs back then used the same language we hear today. They described Black victims, even children, as looking "large for their age" or "dangerous." By framing the victim as a threat, officers avoided accountability. This shows that the habit of criminalizing Black people to justify violence is over a century old. The goal was to protect the officer's reputation and keep the public from looking too closely at how the police behaved in Black neighborhoods (northwestern.edu).

For a long time, the law allowed officers to kill anyone who was running away from a felony arrest. This was called the "fleeing felon rule." It did not matter if the person was unarmed or not a threat. Police used this rule to kill Black suspects at a much higher rate than white suspects. This rule gave officers a "right to kill" that was often used to terrorize communities. It was a broad legal shield that made the script very easy to write (litwaklawgroup.com).

In 1985, the Supreme Court case Tennessee v. Garner changed everything. The court ruled that shooting an unarmed, non-dangerous person who is fleeing is unconstitutional. While this was a victory, it forced the "familiar script" to evolve. Instead of just saying someone "fled," reports began to emphasize "perceived threats." Officers started claiming suspects "reached for their waistband" or "appeared to have a weapon." This shift made the officer's internal feelings the center of the story, which is much harder for a family to disprove without a video (jaxcriminal.com).

Today, technology is the biggest threat to the official script. In the past, it was just the word of an officer against a victim. Now, bystander video and body cameras provide a different perspective. A study of the Chicago Police Department found that body cameras made a huge difference. When video was available, the number of "sustained" findings for misconduct complaints went up by nearly 10 percent (policinginsight.com).

Body cameras also help close the "evidence gap." Investigations are 16 percent less likely to be dismissed for "insufficient evidence" when there is video to watch. However, video is not a perfect solution. Sometimes, police departments delay releasing footage. In some federal cases, up to one-third of the videos submitted by the defense are incomplete. They often miss the exact moments leading up to the use of force. Even with technology, the struggle to tell the whole truth continues (policinginsight.com).

Decrease in dismissal of investigations due to "insufficient evidence" after bodycam deployment.

Source: Policing Insight (policinginsight.com)

When someone dies in police custody, the script often looks for medical excuses. The case of George Floyd in 2020 is a famous example. The first press release from the Minneapolis Police Department was titled "Man Dies After Medical Incident During Police Interaction." It did not mention the knee on his neck at all. If a teenager had not recorded the incident on her phone, the world might still believe he just had a "medical incident" (sideeffectspublicmedia.org).

Another tactic is using a controversial term called "excited delirium." Police reports use this term to describe victims as having "superhuman strength" or being "impervious to pain." Critics say this diagnosis is based on racist tropes and is not a real medical condition. Major medical organizations have started to distance themselves from the term. They argue it is used to shift the blame from police tactics to the victim's body. Even so, it remains a common part of the script used to explain away deaths during restraint (sideeffectspublicmedia.org).

Accountability is even harder when federal agents are involved. In the case of Renee Nicole Good, the shooter was an ICE officer. Federal agents are protected by different rules than local police. While you can sue local officers for civil rights violations under a law from the Reconstruction era, there is no similar law for federal agents. This makes it very difficult for families to get justice in court (protectdemocracy.org).

Federal agents often claim "absolute immunity." Over the last 30 years, the Supreme Court has made it nearly impossible to sue federal agents for money damages. This means that even if a video proves the official script was wrong, the family might still lose their case. These legal barriers protect the system and the people working within it. Despite the resilience of Black kin, the legal system often feels like it is built to prevent accountability (thefederalcriminalattorneys.com).

For local police, "qualified immunity" is the ultimate defense. This legal doctrine protects officers from being sued unless their conduct violated a "clearly established" right. To win, a family must find a previous court case that is almost identical to theirs. If the exact same situation has not happened before, the officer can go free. This creates a "legal loop" where new cases are dismissed because there is no old case to point to (thefederalcriminalattorneys.com).

This rule applies even when the officer lied in their report. The court focuses on whether the officer's perception was "reasonable" at the time. This gives the "familiar script" immense power in the courtroom. Because the system prioritizes the officer's perspective, the victim's experience is often pushed to the side. Breaking this cycle requires shaping political power to change the laws that protect misconduct (american.edu).

Sources: mprnews.org (mprnews.org), davisvanguard.org (davisvanguard.org)

Prosecutors and grand juries are the gatekeepers of the justice system. When an officer kills someone, the prosecutor decides what evidence the grand jury sees. Because these proceedings are secret, the public does not know why an officer was or was not charged. Critics argue that prosecutors sometimes present a weak case on purpose. This allows the grand jury to return a "no-bill," meaning no charges are filed (northwestern.edu).

This process provides political cover for the "official script." If a grand jury decides not to indict, the prosecutor can say they followed the legal process. However, since the prosecutor is in total control of the information, the outcome is often decided before the jury even meets. This lack of transparency makes it very hard for the challenges families face to be heard by the public or the law (northwestern.edu).

The history of policing in America shows that the "familiar script" is not an accident. It is a tool used to maintain control and avoid accountability. From slave patrols to modern ICE operations, the system has consistently worked to protect state actors and blame the victims. However, the rise of digital evidence and community activism is starting to crack that shield. The 20-year sentence for Sean Grayson in the Sonya Massey case proves that the script can be defeated (siu.on.ca).

True justice requires more than just cameras. It requires changing the legal frameworks like qualified immunity that protect the script even when it is proven false. Families across the country are demanding a system where the truth is told from the beginning. Until the laws change, the digital eye of the bystander remains the most powerful tool Black communities have to ensure that the "official version" is not the only version of history (naacp.org, american.edu).

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.