Troy

Hours before James Cooper met with the mayor Wednesday, he was sitting on Ninth Street and grilling hot dogs. It was just around the corner from where police shot his nephew the evening before.

Cooper, who goes by the name Messiah, was angry. His neighborhood north of Hoosick Street was on edge.

"He don't carry no weapon," Cooper said of Dahmeek McDonald. "He was reaching for his wallet."

McDonald, 22, was wanted for an alleged parole violation. Police on Wednesday said they were still investigating and had not determined whether McDonald was armed when he was shot.

On Ninth Street, nobody was waiting for the official determination. The neighborhood is just blocks from Rensselear Polytechnic Institute and the city's reviving downtown, but it might as well be on a different planet.

Like others, Cooper was convinced the shooting was unjustified. He described the incident as part of a long pattern of injustice experienced by his neighbors. His language was fiery, even fatalistic.

Before we die on our knees, we will fight on our feet," Cooper said, a vow he would repeat often during the afternoon. "I'd rather die today, rather than wait until tomorrow."

Cooper, 52, is a recently laid-off maintenance supervisor and a 1984 graduate of Troy High School. He coaches Little League, he and others said. When he speaks, others seem willing to listen.

On Wednesday, with his long dreadlocks pulled into a ponytail, Cooper wore a T-shirt that said "Happy Father's Day" above a photo of three of his children. Men and women on the sidewalk leaned in as he spoke.

"They think poor people don't matter," Cooper said. "They'd beat white people in the ghetto just like they'd beat me. We're in this together."

At noon, neighbors and others upset by the shooting began to gather at the intersection of Ninth and Rensselaer streets. Cooper was at the front of the pack with a bullhorn in hand.

The crowd of about 100 people turned down Eighth Street as police looked on. They entered Hoosick, stopping busy midday traffic, before finding River Street and City Hall, where they stopped.

The crowd stood before the big Hedley Building and chanted. "No justice, no peace," they yelled again and again, their words resonating through the city.

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Cooper, with the bullhorn still in hand, stood at the front of the crowd. As police watched and kept traffic away from River Street, Cooper demanded to see Mayor Patrick Madden.

The crowd angrily chanted, on and on. At times, it had the feeling of an afternoon that could get out of hand.

Madden, flanked by police, emerged from the front door. To the surprise of the crowd, Cooper and another man, Kevin Pryor, also known for his work with city kids, followed Madden back into City Hall.

"He got to go where he wanted to go," said a friend of Cooper's.

The crowd chanted on. Two people unfurled a banner. "I Can't Breathe," it said, along with "F--- the Police." Cooper's friend didn't think he would approve.

The crowd's energy flagged in the summer sun. Some protesters wandered away. Eventually Madden, Pryor and Cooper returned. Cooper was handed a bullhorn.

"I told them we would give them time," he told the crowd. "We have to give them time."

Some in the crowd weren't happy with that. They were impassioned, impatient. They wanted quick answers, someone to blame.

But Cooper, speaking into the bullhorn, told them that was unrealistic. Let the police finish their investigation, he said, urging protesters to stay peaceful and respectful.

"We're going to have a good afternoon," the man known as Messiah told the crowd. "We're going to pray for Dahmeek. And we're going to pray for that officer."

Cooper said more than that through his bullhorn. It was as if he'd been waiting for the opportunity.

He said if people of color are unhappy with the quality of policing, more need to join the force.

He said the city needs to invest in its poorest neighborhoods, where kids find trouble because they have so little to do that is positive.

Cooper spoke of his own fatherless childhood and said parents, men especially, need to take responsibility for their kids. That was a path to a better world, he said.

"If we want police to be accountable, then we have to be accountable," Cooper said, as he began to lead the crowd back up the hill to Ninth Street. "We have to be men and women — civilized men and women."

By his own admission, Cooper has made mistakes in his life. He doesn't claim to be a perfect man.

But on a difficult day for his neighborhood and city, Cooper was a leader, a shepherd — and maybe even a hero.