Most new prosecutors toil in obscurity. But not Cody Berne, a former Portland police officer.

Days after he started six months ago as a Multnomah County deputy district attorney, Portland's activist community took notice. The hiring decision incensed protesters in an era when Oregon and the nation are embroiled in a heated debate over the killings of black men by police.

More than six years earlier, Berne was one of three white police officers who shot Keaton Otis, an African American man, 23 times during a traffic stop gone terribly wrong.

"He shouldn't be prosecuting anybody -- it's sickening," said Teressa Raiford, a leader of Don't Shoot Portland and a Black Lives Matter activist. "It speaks to our justice system, our un-justice system."

Berne's new job has inflamed long-standing tensions between the Portland Police Bureau and its critics in a case unusual for its staying power.

No other police shooting in Portland has sparked such a lasting response. A group - sometimes a handful of people, other times dozens - has held a vigil every month since May 12, 2010 - the day police killed Otis after he pulled a gun and wounded an officer.

But in another unusual turn, Berne is willing to talk publicly, the rare officer -- past or present -- to explain his actions leading up to a fatal police shooting, the aftermath and the divisiveness he's seen building between minority communities and police.

Berne recalls the instant he realized Otis started shooting at police, how he reacted by firing what he later learned were 11 rounds and then standing at the scene that evening as the first demonstrators began showing up.

"I remember sort of being shocked by that," he said. "I am still processing: This guy just shot my friend, a police officer. Now people are protesting? ... More than anything, I was just sad."

Berne is speaking now because many of the issues that led to Otis' shooting still exist today. And he thinks police officers - and people in government in general -- too often deflect difficult conversations that might help inform the community conversation.

Never forget

Protesters gather on the 12th of each month at the corner of Northeast Sixth Avenue and Halsey Street, where Otis died in the driver's seat of his mother's Toyota Corolla.

They bring a framed photo of the 25-year-old. They write dozens of names in chalk on the sidewalk. The list recognizes people killed by police here and across the country - 963 total last year, including 233 black people, according to statistics compiled by The Washington Post.

Blacks are disproportionately represented, the Post's numbers show: They make up 14 percent of the American population, but 24 percent of those killed.

To newcomers, organizers point out two bullet holes still visible in the brick wall of the apartment complex next to where Otis pulled over.

At one of the vigils last fall, about 40 people showed up. Last month, it was 17, but supporters noted it was the same night as a vigil across town for Quanice Hayes, a 17-year-old African American fatally shot by a Portland officer Feb. 9.

Regulars at the Otis gatherings include members of Portland Copwatch, Black Lives Matter and Showing Up for Racial Justice PDX, founded by a group of white people who believe they must speak out about injustices to minority people. But there also are others such as a Portland State University assistant professor who says both of his African American sons have had uncomfortable encounters with police, a woman whose son grew up with Otis and another woman who has no connection to Otis other than learning how he died.

"Because I'm a white person, I'm not afraid to drive," she said, "and that's not fair."

Jo Ann Hardesty, president of Portland's chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and a former state representative, is one of the coordinators of the vigil. She talks about Otis, but also about racial injustice in general.

"I'm really concerned when white women march, Portland officers put on pink hats and smile," Hardesty said at February's vigil, referring to the Women's March the day after President Trump's inauguration. "And when black men march, they put on riot gear."

Allegations of cover-up

Skeptics, including Hardesty, aren't convinced that Otis ever fired a gun. This despite the discovery of a bullet recovered at the scene with the wounded officer's DNA on it. Police say they traced the bullet back to Otis' gun.

Hardesty and others suspect police planted a handgun in Otis' Corolla to hide the truth and that the wounded officer got hit by friendly fire.

They offer no concrete evidence of their claims other than deep-rooted mistrust of police. A grand jury found no criminal wrongdoing by the officers.

Supporters of the group "Justice for Keaton Otis" point to a cellphone video taken by a woman who recorded the shooting from her home across the street. The video is blurry and the audio is indecipherable in parts, but Otis' father paid to have the sound enhanced before he died in 2013.

A captioned video claims that Otis shouts "I got my hands up!" before an officer yells "Let's do it!" and 32 rounds ring out in seconds. It's impossible to make out the words with the ear alone. It was posted to YouTube two years after the shooting.

Multnomah County Chief Deputy District Attorney Don Rees, who presented the shooting case to the grand jury shortly after Otis' death, said the enhanced video lacks any established or credentialed source and he considers the captioning added to it a "fraud and a fake."

Hardesty said she can't accept the "police narrative" of any officer-involved shooting because the city doesn't have an outside agency gather evidence and investigate.

Hardesty and others including Portland Copwatch and the Mental Health Association of Portland think Portland police detectives shouldn't be investigating their own colleagues. They see it as a clear conflict of interest.

"That's what we see over and over again -- police officers circling the wagons, trying to make sure they don't discipline each other," Hardesty said. A bill she backed in the Oregon Legislature to require an outside investigation fizzled.

More should be done to help people in mental distress, she said, and the first line of response shouldn't be Portland police officers, who undergo 40 hours of crisis intervention.

"I've always said Portland police are not the best first responders," Hardesty told the crowd at the February vigil. "Somehow because they've had 40 hours of training, they're going to be good at de-escalating mental-health situations?"

Officer's view

The time for helping Otis was in the months and years leading up to the shooting, Berne said, not the minutes before, when officers first saw him. Society failed to help Otis, and that's a tragedy, Berne said.

"The police shouldn't be the frontline for dealing with the mentally ill," Berne told The Oregonian/OregonLive. "Why was Keaton Otis -- who is mentally ill -- driving around with a gun? I think the community should do better. Where is the outrage here?"

Officers are thrust into incredibly difficult situations, he said, often encountering people in their worst moments, upset over lost jobs or failed relationships, in mental or emotional distress.

Public's perception of Portland police

The city on Friday released the results of a community survey on perceptions of Portland police.

Among the findings:

-- 90 percent of people who called police for help thought they'd been treated fairly.

-- 44 to 45 percent thought police used more force than necessary with African Americans and people in mental crisis.

-- 78 percent of African-Americans worried about racial stereotyping by police.

To read the full survey results,

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"So many problems are bigger than police," Berne said. "These are problems that police cannot solve. ... Most officers are out there for the right reasons, trying to do the right thing."

Berne, a graduate of Beaverton High School and son of powerhouse Portland civil lawyer Gary Berne, decided to become a street cop at age 22 after getting a degree from Pomona College in politics and economics.

He spent his first few years assigned to the night shift in Northeast Portland, responding to human trafficking crimes, drugs, domestic violence, assaults, car break-ins and shoplifting. He then joined the Hotspot Enforcement Action Team.

He focused on building trust with 14 to 18 year olds and keeping guns out of their hands in hopes of ending the cycle that plagues some families for generations.

"You start seeing this happening over and over again," he said. "We talked to mom, grandma, aunt, dad. ... They didn't want their son getting into that. But the typical response, unfortunately, was, 'I don't know. He's 18 and he's out of control.'"

Berne said it was a tough job but rewarding to have a hand in stories that don't make headlines like shootings do: the kids who stay out of of trouble, graduate and find success at a job or in college.

Berne said he didn't leave the police force because of the shooting, but because after six years as an officer, he felt he could have a greater impact as a lawyer.

He also acknowledges he left at a time when it was getting more difficult to do good police work with fewer resources and a growing distance with the community.

"The challenge for police, especially in Portland, is dealing with more calls while staffing is extremely low," Berne said. "When all you do is respond to calls, you don't have time to get out and get to know the neighborhood."

That, in turn, weakens the bond with the public.

"I think for many officers, they find that frustrating," Berne said.

In the moments before Otis' death, Berne remembers another officer calmly telling Otis to put his hands on the steering wheel, the sounds of Otis' screams in response and Otis pulling out a gun and firing at police twice. He later learned that Otis had struck Officer Chris Burley with gunshots to both of his legs.

Berne said he had no choice but to return fire and he did almost instinctively. He remembers firing again and again because he was trained to stop the threat. He had never before fired his gun at anyone.

"It's not a situation any police officer wants to be in," Berne said. "The use of force is ugly. It looks terrible. It's terrible to be involved in."

Six months in

Berne, now 34, is enthusiastic about his ability to work in the criminal justice system as a deputy district attorney.

He rose to the top of a pool of about 50 applicants for the job and left behind a coveted private sector job. With a starting salary of roughly $75,000, Berne took at least a $50,000 pay cut last August to begin his entry-level position handling a wide assortment of misdemeanor cases, ranging from accused shoplifters to drunken drivers.

Berne has been accepted into the courthouse community -- by defense attorneys and judges alike -- with an open mind. He has many supporters -- his former law school professor, his colleagues from his last job at a civil law firm and even a judge or two -- all who say he's hard-working, smart, impressive.

But Dan Handelman of Portland Copwatch worries that as Berne continues to field cases as a prosecutor, he will instinctively side with police and fail to accept alternative versions of events.

"He's coming from being a police officer and having that mentality," Handelman said.

Indeed, some defense attorneys said Berne's background is showing: He has a deep knowledge of criminal justice, but he also has tended to side with police in settlement negotiations leading up to trials.

Berne said he's on the job to represent the state, not police.

Multnomah County District Attorney Rod Underhill said he knew hiring Berne would upset some people. But Underhill said he's confident police didn't cover up the circumstances of Otis' death and that Berne was an officer responding to a tough situation.

After the grand jury reviewed the case and cleared the officers of any crimes, the DA's office released the transcripts of the secret proceedings to foster openness, Underhill said.

Berne was a top-notch candidate for the job, Underhill said. He attended a competitive law school, the University of California Davis. As a law student, he helped an African American man convicted of two murders prepare to argue for parole and fought for better living conditions for inmates at the Yuba County Jail.

He graduated in the top 10 percent of his class and got a job at Portland firm Miller Nash Graham & Dunn. There, he won a young lawyer's award from the Multnomah Bar Association for donating more than 100 hours in 2015 to represent victims of domestic violence or elder abuse.

Underhill said Berne so far has lived up to the high expectations he has for any prosecutor in his office.

But Berne also is being watched more closely than most, given his past as a police officer.

"And I think he accepts that," Underhill said. "I accept that."

-- Aimee Green