Digital Extra: The shooting of Sgt. Cornel Young Jr.

How it all happened: A diner fight escalates, an officer is killed

The stocky 29-year-old man stood by the diner's cracked Formica counter, waiting for his usual, a steak club sandwich to go.

It was about 1:40 a.m. last Friday. The customer, Cornel Young Jr., and about 20 other patrons of Fidas Restaurant milled amid the grill smoke and restaurant clamor.

The manager recognized Young as a regular customer and a Providence police officer. Young, on his day off, was wearing street clothes, but he was carrying his department issue, a .40-caliber Beretta pistol. Department rules required Young to carry his gun even on his day off.

While Young waited for his order, five customers started to argue. There was shouting and breaking glass, shoving and pushing. The melee spilled into the diner's icy parking lot on Valley Street. The manager called 911.

Young watched as the brawl grew wilder, with cursing and fistfighting. One man waved a gun. In the distance, a police siren sounded.

A Providence police cruiser swung into the parking lot, and two officers jumped out.

Inside the diner, Young moved into action.

"Police," he shouted.

Young reached back into his waistband and drew his pistol.

Diners ducked underneath cramped booths or ran for cover.

Pushing patrons aside, Young headed for the diner's entrance. He cocked his gun and stepped through double doors into the frigid night air.

He aimed his pistol at the man waving the gun.

There was more shouting. The uniformed officers screamed, "Drop it! Drop it!"

The man waving the gun put his weapon down.

Young didn't hear the command.

The two officers shot six times. Three bullets knocked Young to the ground. His gun slid across the ice and rolled under a silver Camaro.

A short time later at the hospital, Young was pronounced dead.

THIS IS THE story of Young's death, the most complete account to date.

It is based on interviews with the police, a dozen witnesses and two participants in the fight. The Providence police spoke about the case because they believe the details will vindicate the officers that fired, showing they reacted properly in a volatile, split-second situation.

The death involves more than a police officer killed in the line of duty: Young was black and his shooters were white.

Critics say the patrolmen wouldn't have been so quick to pull their triggers if Young were white.

There are growing calls for independent inquiries.

At the center of the tragedy is Young, whose gentle demeanor was underscored by his droopy eyes, slight smile and infectious laugh.

A family friend, Irene M. Mendes, said "Jai" always wanted to be a police officer like his father, Cornel Young Sr.

Major Young is the highest-ranking black in the Police Department and the overseer of the community police division.

Patrolman Young worked the Police Department's midshift, from 7 p.m. to 3 a.m. He responded to the city's hot spots.

Young was on his day off Thursday night, when he ran into his boyhood friend Thomas Horton at Gerardo's Alternative Nightclub, at 1 Franklin Square.

Young and Horton spent two hours reminiscing about their childhoods, all those days when Young was wearing the coke-bottle glasses that made everyone say he looked like a little professor.

Pounding hip-hop beats and melodious rhythm-and-blues jams filled the nightclub, which is housed in a 21ł2-story brick building. Shafts of light illuminated the dance floor. There was a good but not capacity crowd.

At one point a fight broke out at the club. Young wanted to step in. Horton told him not to bother, security would handle it.

" 'This is my job,' " Young told him.

Before Young could intervene, the club's security forces had stopped the fracas.

Young returned to the orange juice he was sipping — Horton bought him four that night — and resumed the conversation.

Upon parting, Young said he was going to Fidas Restaurant.

ALSO AT GERARDO'S late Thursday were Juanita Vasquez, her friends Brenda Ruiz and Aldrin Diaz, all of Providence, and Diaz's girlfriend Christa Calder.

Ruiz, 23, and Vasquez, 30, had met through Ruiz's sister.

Vasquez and Diaz, 30, were companions since the sixth grade.

Diaz's girlfriend, Calder, 28, had driven down that day from Gray, Maine.

She brought with her a .22-caliber semiautomatic pistol. The police said she kept the gun unloaded.

Calder told the police she had bought the pistol from a Gray, Maine, gunshop in November, but detectives could not trace it and are investigating.

The four were out for a night on the town in Calder's silver Camaro. They agreed to go to Gerardo's.

At the club, Vasquez and Ruiz sipped glasses of Alizé, cognac splashed with fruit juice.

At one point, a man recognized Vasquez from Hope High School. The man was talking and laughing with a friend, then he approached.

"You look familiar," the man told Vasquez.

"You do, too," Vasquez replied.

Standing nearby during the brief conversation, Vasquez said, was Cornel Young Jr. He didn't speak.

Around closing time at Gerardo's, Vasquez and her three friends decided to leave for Fidas Restaurant.

As she walked out, Vasquez tucked a cocktail glass inside her coat pocket.

FIDAS, ACROSS the city from Gerardo's at Valley Street and Atwells Avenue, is a popular destination serving up standard diner fare to the late-night crowd.

From the outside, the restaurant resembles a miniature airport terminal, with large plate-glass windows.

Inside are rows of orange formica whose cracks are covered in duct tape, wood panels and chrome, lots of chrome.

The place looks every day the 28 years it has been in business, a time during which it has experienced more than its share of violence.

In 1982, a small-time hood, Anthony "The Moron" Mirabella, was murdered in a gangland slaying there, one of Rhode Island's most notorious.

Patrons have reported to the police being stabbed or shot. In 1997, the police arrested a man with a machete strapped to his waist.

Like several police officers, Young was a regular at Fidas.

The night manager, Mahmoud Kashk, said Young loped to the counter like he always did and ordered the steak club sandwich he always requested.

It was about 1:30 a.m.

Some customers stood by the counter near Young waiting for their orders; others sat at the 11 small tables that form four rows in the other half of the diner.

A student at Roger Williams University by day, John San Martino works as a cashier on the 11 p.m. to 7 a.m. shift at the Mobil Mart across from Fidas.

Thursday night started out as it always did at the station: customers trickled in.

San Martino watched a silver Camaro drive into the gas station, spin its wheels and pull into Fidas's small parking lot.

The Camaro carrying Vasquez, Ruiz, Diaz and Calder parked to the left of the diner's entrance.

Diaz remained behind the wheel. Calder sat in the front passenger's seat.

Ruiz and Vasquez strode toward the diner. Ruiz wanted a cheeseburger and fries. Vasquez wanted to use the bathroom and then get food.

Even before the pair made it into Fidas, Vasquez said, trouble started.

They came face to face with two women and a man. The police identified them as Stephanie Zoglio, 20; Diane Villafane, 19 and Alex George, 20.

Vasquez said one of the women blocked her path, saying, "Can I look at you?"

Ruiz made a comment, and then she and Vasquez brushed by and went to the restroom.

When they came back, more words were exchanged.

Vasquez said she took offense and told off one of the women, who unsheathed a knife and slashed Vasquez across the chest. Ruiz then punched the woman in the face.

Vasquez withdrew the cocktail glass stowed in her pocket, smashed it on the countertop and waved a piece of broken glass in the air.

The diner's night manager ordered them out.

"Look, if you want to fight, you'll have to take it outside," he said. "Get out. Get out."

At 1:41 a.m., the manager called 911.

He told the dispatcher four women were fighting.

"It looks like the fight is going to get bigger and bigger."

UPON SEEING the commotion inside of the diner, Aldrin Diaz jumped out of the Camaro and rushed to the diner, the police said.

But Diaz ran into the crowd as they were being thrown out by the manager, and he was pushed back into the parking lot.

Customers inside the diner gravitated to the doorway to watch the fisticuffs, a few even ventured outside. In all, about a dozen people watched.

The police said the fight included the breaking of two beer bottles. One of the bottles was thrown against the Camaro.

One of the women grabbed a dumbbell and slammed it against the car. Diaz ran at her, but he was tackled by her boyfriend.

The man knocked Diaz against the car.

A woman yelled, "Get the gun."

Calder, who had remained in the Camaro, reached into the glove compartment and grabbed her gun in its holster.

Diaz took the gun from her, walked around the front of the car and waved the gun at the man who had tackled him, the police said.

Diaz threatened the man; the police said he pointed the gun at the man and said, "Run. Run."

But the police said the man was too afraid he would be shot in the back if he fled.

At some point, the police said, the gun was loaded and it jammed. The bullet was lodged, crooked, in the chamber.

Vasquez said someone shouted: "They have a gun."

Diaz leaped into the Camaro and screamed at his three companions, "Get in the car. Let's go."

PATROLMAN CARLOS A. Saraiva attended the same police academy as Young. Like Young, he had been an officer for three years.

On Westminster Street Sept. 18, he shot an unarmed man in the legs while being attacked; state prosecutors cleared him.

Saraiva had only recently returned to active duty.

Patrolman Michael Solitro III was an officer for just two weeks. In a colorful City Hall ceremony Jan. 14, he had joined the department.

Like all rookie cops, he was paired with a more experienced officer. On Thursday, he was assigned to ride around with Saraiva.

While patroling the city early Friday, the partners received a report of women fighting at Fidas. Inside and outside. It was 1:43 a.m., according to the city's communications department.

The officers approached the diner from the north, on Valley Street. They weren't far away. They radioed in their arrival at 1:44 a.m.

Saraiva, who was driving, parked the car at an angle, blocking the Camaro from backing up.

Diaz, who was backing up the Camaro, was waving a gun out of the driver's window.

Saraiva and Solitro saw Diaz pointing his gun, the police said.

Saraiva took cover behind a utility pole in the parking lot. Solitro crouched behind the trunk of the Camaro.

They aimed their guns at Diaz just as Young burst out of Fidas.

MANUEL JIMINIAN was standing inside Fidas, by the booth closest to the diner's exit, when the fight started.

After a woman jabbed the air with broken glass, he said he saw the fray spill outside and intensify.

Jiminian looked out the diner window and saw a man waving a gun. Other patrons inside the establishment did, too. One shouted, "He's got a gun!"

An instant later, one of the customers was running for the door. "Police, freeze," he bellowed. It was Young.

According to the police, Young shoved aside fellow customers, who ducked under the tables; one ran to the back.

Young emerged from the diner, pointing his gun at Diaz.

He was in civilian clothes, wearing a black baseball cap over a wool ski cap. He had on a dark-colored coat.

The police said Young was coming to the aid of the officers suppressing Diaz.

But the on-duty patrolmen say they mistook him for a suspect.

The police said Diaz thought that Young was with the rival group and that Young was going to shoot him.

The police said Young was as close as 5 feet from Diaz. The officers were roughly 20 feet from Young.

Patrolmen Saraiva and Solitro yelled for Diaz to drop his gun.

Upon command, Diaz tossed his gun inside the Camaro and stuck both his hands outside the window. Saraiva shouted, "Get out of the car!"

Young held onto his weapon.

The patrolmen yelled at Young to put down his gun.

One witness heard Young say something, but couldn't make out what he was saying.

The police said Young did not identify himself as a fellow officer to the patrolmen.

According to figures close to the investigation, Saraiva saw the man in civilian clothes head for the Camaro, pointing his gun at Diaz.

They said Saraiva thought his partner, Solitro, was in the man's line of fire.

"Drop the gun!" Saraiva screamed at the man at least twice, the figures close to the investigation said. Solitro yelled the same thing at the man several times.

But the man kept walking toward the Camaro, they said. When he did not drop his gun, Saraiva and Solitro fired.

The police said they fired six bullets.

Vasquez recalled hearing the sound, then ducking as bullets smashed through the Camaro's window over her head.

One bullet hit Young in the head, another in the chest and a third in the stomach.

He fell to the ground. His gun fell from his hand and rolled under the front of the Camaro.

At 1:47 a.m., the police called for an ambulance.

Police officers poured into the parking lot.

Vasquez thought Diaz was the victim.

The police said one of the other women thought her boyfriend was wounded, and she ran to the fallen man.

A police officer rushed to the woman and tore her away.

Then officers looked to learn the bleeding man's identity.

"Oh," one officer shuddered. "That's one of ours."

With staff reports from Tom Mooney and Jennifer Levitz