But because he was black, had been arrested DOZENS of times, was overweight and on PCP while fighting cops and died on the way to the hospital, it’s a HOMICIDE!
I hope a jury has more common sense then this dumbass in the medical examiner’s office (who’s either black or a guilt-ridden white moron.)
Look at the size of this SOB.
The coroner said Ronald Singleton’s July 13 death in Midtown was brought on by “physical restraint by police during excited delirium.”
The medical examiner also said heart disease and obesity contributed to the Kips Bay man’s death.
Singleton had 61 arrests on his record, including busts for drugs, assaults and weapons possession.
His heartbroken wife, Lyn Warren Singleton, 44, admitted that her husband of 19 years had a drug history and multiple run-ins with the police. The 5-foot-7, 210-pound man “went into a panic” when cops approached him, she said.
“He was never good with police,” she said. “He always went into hysterics — this is before he even started indulging.”
She blames the cops for not giving the father of four and grandfather of three the medical attention he needed.
“They didn’t pay attention to him when he was crying for help,” she said. “Someone having a heart attack is different signs than someone just bugging out.[...]
The cabbie flagged cops down after Singleton cursed and screamed at him during the 12 a.m. altercation. When Singleton tried to fight off arriving officers, cops restrained him, putting him in a protective full-body wrap known as a burrito. He was not arrested, police said.
An ambulance was taking Singleton to Bellevue Hospital for a psychiatric evaluation when he went into cardiac arrest, officials said. It was immediately redirected to St. Luke’s—Roosevelt Hospital, where Singleton died.
For most people, the thought of living in some small compartment on the ocean floor for two weeks is nothing short of horrifying. From the idea of the cramped space (you are forced to share with others), to the simple idea that you are so deep that if something goes wrong, there is probably little you can do to save yourself.
But you present the same opportunity to an oceanographer and it is like offering them a two week vacation in Cancun. The reason being, decompression and the bends keep divers from being able to stay under that deep for more than an hour at a time, and while living down there, they can get 2 years of work done in two weeks. Liz Bentley Magee is one of those people, and this is the story of her two weeks at the bottom of the ocean.
Which is better, America or Russia? Russian prankster Rakamakafo wanted to see which people are more caring, so he conducted this social experiment. In both Russian and America, he and his friend pretended to be hurt on the ground. In Russia, only one person came to his aid after an hour of filming. But countless people were quick to help in America. USA! USA!
Make sure to turn on the English subtitles by pressing the ‘CC’ button on the bottom right of the video.
And catch the ending where the black guy asks for money. How stereotypically pathetic.
That’s the difference between civilized people realize a scumbag needs elimination and a group of ground apes who’d defend mother rapers and child predators simply because a white cop shot him.
Brandy Smith told KCTV that police were there when her nephew, 18-year-old Joseph Jennings, had tried to kill himself with pills last week.
“Tonight is the night goodbye everyone!!!!! It was truly a good ride! And I’m sorry for who I might of hurted (sic) and people that I may of offended, But I love all my family and I hope you don’t hold this against me,” he reportedly wrote on Facebook before trying to overdose.
About 10 minutes later, Jennings swallowed 60 pills. And Smith said two officers took him to Ransom Memorial Hospital.
Jennings survived, and was released from the hospital two days later. But only three hours after that, he was on a “suicide mission” when he walked to Orscheln Farm and Home, according to his aunt.
Smith recalled that around six officers responded, and two of them had helped save Jennings’ life by taking him to the hospital after his overdose just days before.
“It was like six — six officers, and one cop yelled, ‘Bag him!’ And they bagged him,” she said. “And he kind of puffed up a little bit, and then they bagged him two more times, and then like 16 shots rang out, and they shot him. And he fell to the ground.”
Jennings was later pronounced dead at a nearby hospital.
Don’t they look dapper?
Here they are now.
Talking to the Kayes is like speaking to a couple perhaps 40 years younger. Maurice Kaye once had a flying lesson as a birthday present. That was in his younger days. He was merely 90 then.
If what they have could be bottled, they would make a fortune. Apart from the odd ache and pain, they are in good health, presiding over a family that loves them. They talk about their son, their daughter (and each of their spouses), their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren with the pride of people who know how lucky they are. Although luck hasn’t always been with them.
The couple – who began their marathon relationship when they stood before a rabbi in a London synagogue in August 1934 – have suffered as much as they have celebrated. Two of their children died.
But they have also had a lot of fun along the way. The Kayes are keen bridge players, although their partners are all dead. “We don’t make plans now,” Helen says.
“Who knows how long we have got,” adds her husband. “It could be years, it could be weeks – it could be days.”
But years are what they have to look back on. It was love at first sight. “I suppose what I fell in love with,” says Helen, “was the fact that he had a car. Not many young men did in those days.”
She doesn’t wink when she says it, but Maurice takes it in good part. “I remember that car. It was a dark red Morris Oxford.”
Helen was 17 when she met Maurice, a travelling salesman for his father’s women’s wear firm. She worked in her mother’s shop in south London.
“He phoned me up for a date,” Helen recalls. “We used to go to a club in Brixton and we went to the Astoria for dancing. Joe Loss was conducting the band. A very nice man. We got to know him because we went there dancing so often.”
Maurice’s family lived in Hoxton, east London. Today it has been gentrified but in the 20s and 30s, he recalls, “It was rough – my schoolmaster used to let me leave early so that I wouldn’t be set upon.”
Helen was born in Warsaw and came to the UK aged six. “I learned English in about a year. We lived in the East End before going to south London – I remember how different it was from Poland.”
Maurice and Helen Kaye on their wedding day, 27 August 1934. Maurice and Helen Kaye on their wedding day, 27 August 1934.
Two years after their marriage ceremony on 27 August 1934 at Borough synagogue, Sir Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists was on the rampage. “People said I looked like Mosley,” he says. “I had a little moustache and even wore a black shirt with a rolled collar – just because I liked it. I fought against him in the Battle of Cable Street.”
When war was declared in 1939, Maurice joined the army. He was a tough fellow in those days, and athletic – so he became a physical training instructor. It didn’t last. “I had a fight with a soldier who made antisemitic remarks. I punched him so hard they thought he was going to be blinded. I was court-martialled and sent off to Iceland to get me out of the way.”
Then just before D-Day in 1944, the Kayes’ south London home was bombed and Maurice was given compassionate leave. His comrades all went to Normandy. “My detachment disappeared – nobody knew what happened to them. Before long, I heard they had all been killed. I thanked God we had been bombed.”
After the war, the couple moved to Bournemouth. “We loved it immediately,” says Helen. They opened the first of what was to become a chain of five women’s wear shops. After 10 years of marriage they had a baby boy, Anthony, then another, Larry.
Anthony fell ill aged four and a half. “Doctors couldn’t find what was wrong,” said Helen. “They said he had measles but he died from a burst appendix. I was so broken-hearted, I tried to commit suicide. I tried to drown myself in the bath, but I couldn’t.”
Maurice shows me photographs of the children. There’s one of Anthony, with his knitted school tie draped around it. On another wall, is a portrait of Lesley, their daughter, who died in her 30s in 1991 of a brain tumour, leaving three small children. Without Anthony and Lesley, they have concentrated their lives around Larry, who was not quite two when his brother died, and their surviving daughter, Tina, who has also had a life-threatening illness in recent years.
The Kayes say they have had a perfect marriage despite the tragedies. They allow themselves the luxury of the occasional row, however. Until a few months ago, Helen used to be seen in the local supermarket, wheeling a trolley. “I find walking difficult now, so I let our housekeeper do it.”
“Yes, you tell her to buy too many things,” says Maurice.
“No, I don’t,” says Helen.
“Yes, you do. When it comes to meals, always too many potatoes, too many …”
“That’s not true,” she says.
Maurice has one regret. He would love to drive. His children persuaded him to stop after he turned 100. “I was a good driver,” he said. “I loved my Mercedes.”
“Yes,” says Helen, “but your reactions are not that good.”
“Of course, they are,” he says. “When were my reactions not good?”