The picture of a large hand-held gun on the screen triggered a painful memory that Janice Kettles had not talked about in 15 years.

After driving a friend home from dinner one night, Kettles stopped for the traffic light at Clinton Place and Keer Avenue in Newark, her hometown. She heard a tapping noise on the driver's side of her window and when she looked up, Kettles saw a police officer with his gun drawn.

"I was terrified. I was scared to move," Kettles said.

The officer accused her of soliciting drugs in a high-crime neighborhood, she said, and after questioning her, he let her go, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

Kettles hasn't gotten over the experience, which brought her to tears on Tuesday. She shared the haunting flashback during a training program designed to get community members and police officers talking about how trauma impacts their relationship.

The Police/Community Initiative on Trauma-Informed Responses to Violence is run by Equal Justice USA, a national criminal justice reform organization that's been doing this work in Newark for more than a year to break down barriers and reduce violence.

Since 2016, nearly 200 participants - Newark police officers, residents and community leaders - have taken the three-day course so both sides can understand each other's perspective.

Unscripted and emotional, Kettles story was an unexpected gateway into a painful discussion about race, the history of policing in communities of color and the various forms of trauma.

"I didn't do anything,'' said Kettles, wiping away tears. "I didn't have a record.''

Inside a room at the Broadway House of Continuing Care, the 26 participants were quiet as they listened to the soft-spoken retired Newark school employee. This was the second time she had told the story to anyone.

"That's trauma,'' said Fatimah Muhammad, the director of the trauma initiative for Equal Justice, who is also the facilitator.

"Police don't get to hear that every day,'' Muhammad explained later. "They don't get to hear the impact of their actions on civilians.''

Civilians, however, must turn the page, too, and grasp what police officers endure. They need the community to see them as individuals, not scapegoats for officers who have mistreated the public decades ago.

"When I come to a scene I don't want to be looked upon like I'm part of the problem when I'm actually here trying to be part of the solution,'' said police officer Navasha Rawa.

Still, she sympathized with Kettles.

Rawa said she was stopped by police before joining the force 22 years ago, and that it's also occurred while she's been off-duty.

"When I take this uniform off, I get stopped like everybody else in this room,'' she said.

Officers say they face the same challenges in life as residents do. The job has caused them to miss birthdays and their children's ball games, only to find themselves grappling with traumatic situations from their police work that doesn't go away.

Detective Pete Bumanlag says that, even after five years, he still sees the face of the 16-year-old teenager with light skin and red hair who was bleeding from a gunshot wound. Bumanlag said he performed CPR on the youth, hoping the kid would live.

"He was looking at me, eyes half open.'' Bumanlag said. "C'mon breathe.''

Paramedics took the boy to the hospital, Bumanlag said, but he died from his injuries.

Both sides understood each other's plight on Tuesday as they took the first step toward bridging a chasm that has widened from years of mistrust. They still have work to do, however. One of the participants noted that community members sat together at different tables; the police officers did, too.

Endelea Meadows, a Newark parent, said she wished officers lived in her neighborhood so her children could have a relationship with them. Some officers said it's difficult to reside in the city where they work. There's never a time to unwind and get away from the job.

Misty Camacho liked being the neighborhood cop on the block. A gang member she arrested changed that. He told her that he knew where her son attended high school.

"That's horrible,'' Meadows said.

"I had to take my son out of school immediately,'' Camacho said. "I had to move.''

MORE CARTER: Newark girls tackle football and one of them makes history

Sakinah Cotton, a former police officer, said she was pleased to see the department involved in the program. Something like this, she said, could have helped her handle the trauma she faced when she worked the 2003 case involving 7-year-old Faheem Williams, a little boy found dead in a storage bin at a house in Newark. To this day, Cotton said, she won't use storage bins at her home.

She's hoping the trauma initiative can help in her position as operations manager for the Newark Street Academy, a program that works with high school dropouts, ages 16 to 24. Many of them, she said, are suffering emotionally and trying to survive day-to-day.

"In order to get them back in school, we have to find out what's wrong with them,'' Cotton said. "How can we help them make it to their 21st birthday.''

After five hours, many in the class said the training was needed. The next session is Tuesday.

For her part, Kettles still seeks closure on what happened that night 15 years ago.

"I want to know what makes them (officers) tick,'' she said.

By part three, perhaps, she'll be a little closer to releasing that pain.

Barry Carter: (973) 836-4925 or bcarter@starledger.com or

nj.com/carter or follow him on Twitter @BarryCarterSL