
Mom of Brooklyn man shot by cops during road rage clash says he has severe mental illness
The mother of the man shot by police in Brooklyn for refusing to drop a box cutter said her son suffers from severe mental illness, and for years she has been worried he would meet an untimely end.
Adiel Vassell-Cox, 32, was shot in the chest on Avenue K near Utica Ave. in Flatlands Wednesday after cops say he wouldn't drop a box cutter during a fight with another man.
'He has mental health [issues],' Vassell-Cox's mother, Joan Vassell, told the Daily News on Thursday, shocked to learn of the shooting.
Vassell said her son, who was diagnosed with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, lives in a group home in East Flatbush more than 2 miles away from where he was shot.
'He's a good, kind, quiet kid, stays by himself,' the distraught mother said. 'He grew up in the church, he's a church kid.'
'I keep on telling him whatever medication they're giving him, it's not working.'
Vassell said Friday that her son is in a coma at Kings County Hospital, his heart failing, and has undergone two surgeries because his colon has been destroyed.
The altercation began around 1:50 p.m. when Vassell-Cox threw an object at a passing BMW, causing the driver to stop, get out of the car and confront him, Chief of Detectives Joseph Kenny said during a news conference Wednesday.
As the men struggled, two passing detectives from the 63rd Precinct's detective squad who had just finished lunch spotted the fight and pulled over to intervene. Vassell-Cox was armed with a box cutter.
While trying to separate the men, one of the detectives spotted the weapon and ordered Vassell-Cox to drop it multiple times, Kenny said.
Vassell-Cox ignored the detective and walked away from the officers, around the parked BMW and back toward the driver, but one of the cops got in the middle of them in an attempt to deescalate the confrontation.
But Vassell-Cox walked toward the detective, box cutter in his right hand, and the cop fired off one shot, striking him in the chest.
'This person came within 3 to 4 feet of our detective with a boxcutter out in his hand, refused numerous directives to drop the weapon,' Kenny said. 'So the officer felt he was an immediate threat to himself and to the person this subject was originally trying to stab.'
Vassell said when Saheed Vassell, another Black man with mental health difficulties and a similar last name, was fatally shot by police on Utica Ave. in 2018, she rushed to the area where that shooting took place, fearing the worst.
'I ran over there, I thought it was my son. I thought my son was dead,' she said.
Vassell said her son went to school in Albany until he smoked marijuana laced with K2, causing a profound change to his mental health and went missing.
'Then he went crazy,' she said. 'We couldn't find him in 2019 to 2020. He ended up in Boston.'
'I thought he was also dead then,' said Vassell.
Vassell-Cox was transferred from a mental health facility in Boston to King's County, said his mother.
A witness to Wednesday's chaos saw the shocking incident unfold.
'I was standing right across the street,' said Faylynn Dube, 37, a security guard. '[The driver] got out the car and was screaming, 'What did you do that for?' He went into the trunk and pulled out a black metal object and he was using it like a weapon. The other guy pulled out a box cutter. They were in each other's faces. The undercover cop came and intervened. He was trying to stop him from stabbing him up.
'The guy with the box cutter went around the car and came at him,' Dube said. 'The cop pulled out a gun and shot him. It was one, clean shot to the chest and he fell to the floor.
'It was like a road rage incident. It didn't have to rise to the level of gun violence.'
Mother and son had made plans to get together the day before Vassell-Cox was shot, but he never answered his phone that day, said Vassell.
'I spoke to him on Sunday,' she said. 'I told him I was going to visit him and we were going to the movies on Tuesday.
'Even people who look sane have mental health,' Vassell said. 'It's a disease and my son has it.'
With Rocco Parascandola and Thomas Tracy

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Yahoo
2 hours ago
- Yahoo
Watch Me Whip rapper sentenced to 30 years in prison for killing his cousin
Silentó, the rapper behind the 2015 viral hit 'Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae),' has been sentenced to 30 years in prison for the fatal 2021 shooting of his cousin. On Wednesday, the 27-year-old Atlanta-based artist, real name Ricky Hawk, pleaded guilty but mentally ill to voluntary manslaughter, aggravated assault, possessing a gun while committing a crime and concealing the death of another. As part of his plea deal, another murder charge was dropped. Silentó was 23 when he was arrested by DeKalb County police and charged with the murder of his 34-year-old cousin, Frederick Roots III, in January 2021. At the time, police responded to a report of a person shot outside a home in a suburban area near Decatur, Georgia. When they arrived, they found Roots bleeding heavily from multiple gunshot wounds. He was pronounced dead at the scene. Police said they found 10 bullet casings near Rooks's body, and security video from a nearby home showed a white BMW SUV speeding away shortly after the gunshots. A family member of Rooks told police that Silentó had picked up Rooks in a white BMW SUV, and GPS data and other cameras put the vehicle at the site of the shooting. Silentó confessed about 10 days later, after he was arrested, police said. Ballistics testing matched the bullet casings to a gun that Silentó had when he was arrested, authorities said. Rooks' brothers and sisters told DeKalb County Superior Court Judge Courtney L. Johnson before sentencing that Silentó should have gotten a longer sentence, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution reported. Silentó was a high school junior in suburban Atlanta in 2015 when he released 'Watch Me (Whip/Nae Nae)' and watched it skyrocket into a dance craze. Silentó made multiple other albums, but said in an interview with the medical talk show The Doctors in 2019 that he struggled with depression and had grown up in a family where he witnessed mental illness and violence. 'I've been fighting demons my whole life, my whole life,' he said in 2019. 'Depression doesn't leave you when you become famous, it just adds more pressure,' Silentó said then, urging others to get help. 'And while everybody's looking at you, they're also judging you.' He added: 'I don't know if I can truly be happy, I don't know if these demons will ever go away.' Silentó had been struggling with his mental health in the months before the arrest. His publicist, Chanel Hudson, has said he had tried to kill himself in 2020. The rapper was arrested twice in 2020 — once following an incident involving a hatchet and another time on reckless driving charges. Additional reporting by The Associated Press


Boston Globe
3 hours ago
- Boston Globe
‘Where was God?' The Mother Emanuel AME Church shooting 10 years later.
Get The Gavel A weekly SCOTUS explainer newsletter by columnist Kimberly Atkins Stohr. Enter Email Sign Up This was quite remarkable, because less than 48 hours earlier, on the night of June 17, 2015, Sanders had just closed her eyes in benediction — during Bible study at her beloved Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church — when she was jolted by an explosion of gunfire. The 57-year-old woman, a fourth-generation member of 'Mother Emanuel,' the oldest A.M.E. church in the South, dove under a table and pulled her 11-year-old granddaughter down with her. She squeezed the child so tightly she feared she might crush her, instructing her to play dead as a 21-year-old white supremacist methodically assassinated nine of the 12 Black worshippers in the basement fellowship hall. Those she watched die included her 26-year-old son, Tywanza Sanders, who had tried vainly to distract the shooter, and her 87-year-old aunt, Susie Jackson, who was shredded by 10 hollow-point bullets. At one point, Sanders smeared her legs with the blood pooling at her feet so that the killer might think he had finished her off. It worked. What happened in court two days later, a procession of forgiveness by Black victims for a remorseless racist murderer, both awed and befuddled the world. Many found it to be the purest expression of Christianity they had ever witnessed and could not imagine ever being graced in any such way. With the help of a soaring and melodic eulogy for the victims by President Barack Obama, the church known as Mother Emanuel soon became an earthly emblem of amazing grace. FILE - Tyrone Sanders and Felicia Sanders comfort each other at the graveside of their son, Tywanza Sanders, on June 27, 2015, at Emanuel AME Cemetery in Charleston, S.C. (Grace Beahm/The Post And Courier via AP, File) Grace Beahm/Associated Press Now fast-forward to December 2016. Felicia Sanders is back in court, the lead witness in the death penalty trial of Dylann Roof. She is under cross-examination by Roof's attorney, who is trying to establish that Roof threatened to kill himself that night, a desperate stab at a psychiatric defense. This time there is no nod by Sanders at forgiveness, no prayer for the soul of her son's unrepentant executioner. 'He say he was going to kill himself, and I was counting on that,' Sanders responds coolly in her Lowcountry lilt, glaring at Roof from the stand. 'He's evil. There's no place on earth for him except for the pit of hell.' Roof's lawyer, blindsided, tries once more to prompt Sanders about Roof's suicidality. She is having none of it: 'Send himself back to the pit of hell, I say.' Had something changed about Felicia Sanders? Had she, in the 18 months between the Emanuel murders and the trial, forsaken the commitment to forgiveness that was such a hallmark of her faith and that had so moved the world? Not in the slightest, I concluded, while researching a book about the history of Mother Emanuel and the meaning of forgiveness in the African American church. To the contrary, Sanders and other church stalwarts helped me understand that the forgiveness expressed toward Dylann Roof had not been for Dylann Roof but rather for themselves. Those who appeared at Roof's bond hearing did not speak for everyone in the congregation, or even in their families. A decade later, some still describe the path to forgiveness as a journey they travel at their own pace. But the grace volunteered in June 2015 grew organically from the fiber of African Methodism, a denomination two centuries old. It obviously had deep scriptural roots — 'Forgive us our trespasses' and 'Forgive them, for they know not what they do.' But it also was an iteration of a timeworn survival mechanism that has helped African American Christians withstand enslavement, forced migration, captivity, indentured servitude, segregation, discrimination, denial of citizenship, and the constant threat of racial and sexual violence with their souls and their sanity still, somehow, intact. One year after the shootings at Mother Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, S.C., relatives and friends of the slain gathered to honor their lives. Grace Beahm/Associated Press Churches like Emanuel, which has roots in antebellum Charleston, have long served as physical and spiritual refuges from the scourges that confront Black Americans. Its own long history, a two-century cycle of suppression and resistance, illuminates the relentless afflictions of caste in the city where nearly half of all enslaved Africans disembarked in North America and where the Civil War began. Emanuel's predecessor congregation, which formed in 1817 after a subversive walkout from Methodist churches by free and enslaved Black Charlestonians, faced immediate harassment from white authorities. The police raided services and jailed worshippers by the scores. When an incipient slave insurrection plot was uncovered in 1822 and traced back in part to the church, 35 men were led to the gallows, nearly half of them from the congregation. The wood-frame building was dismantled by order of the authorities and the church's leading ministers forced into exile. Emanuel's founding pastor after the Civil War, Richard Harvey Cain, used its pulpit as a springboard into politics, winning seats in the state legislature and Congress in a career that mirrored at first the heady hope and then the stolen promise of Reconstruction. During the depths of Jim Crow, Charlestonians assembled at Emanuel to voice outrage over lynchings and jurisprudential travesties. Its civil rights era pastor, Benjamin J. Glover, also led Charleston's NAACP, staged peaceful protest marches from the church, and was repeatedly jailed. Congregants were urged to action there by Booker T. Washington (1909), W.E.B. DuBois (1921), and Martin Luther King Jr. (1962), and then, a year after King's assassination, by his widow, Coretta Scott King (1969). She came to support a hospital workers' strike that bore eerie echoes of the sanitation workers' strike that had drawn her husband to Memphis. Nearly five decades later, the first person shot by Dylann Roof on June 17, 2015, was the Rev. Clementa Pinckney, a remarkable prodigy who had been the youngest African American elected to South Carolina's legislature and was serving his fourth term in the state Senate. A horse-drawn carriage carried the casket of the late South Carolina State Senator Clementa Pinckney past the Confederate flag and onto the grounds of the South Carolina State Capitol in Columbia, S.C. on June 24, 2015. REUTERS The weight of it all takes the breath away. And for many, forgiveness might seem an inadequate response, given available options like anger, bitterness, hatred, revenge, retribution. A more natural one, perhaps a more human one, might even be 'Where was God?' But in interviews over the years, each of the six family members who spoke mercifully toward Dylann Roof explained that they did so for their own spiritual release. They depicted the moment in mystical terms — unpremeditated, unexpected, the words just flowed, it was God talking. But none said they meant for their words to be read as a grant of exoneration or a pass from accountability. No slate had been wiped. Indeed, some did not care much whether Roof lived or died (he remains on federal death row in Indiana, one of three inmates whose sentences were not commuted to life in prison by President Joe Biden at the close of his term). Rather, the mothers and children and widowers of the dead described their brand of forgiveness as a purging of self-destructive toxins, a means for reversing the metastasis of rage, and at its most basic a way to get out of bed each morning in the face of it all. It served as an unburdening, not an undoing, a method not only of moral practice but of emotional self-preservation. Because the choice to forgive was one dignity that could not be taken away, it also served as a path to empowerment. It might be mistaken for submission, but in Charleston it resurrected agency for victims who had been robbed of it. 'He is not a part of my life anymore,' the Rev. Anthony Thompson, the widower of Bible study leader Myra Thompson, told me in explaining his forgiveness of Roof. 'Forgiveness has freed me of that, of him, completely. I'm not going to make him a lifetime partner.' This may be disconcerting for some white Americans who found reassurance in the notion that those who forgave Dylann Roof were, by association, also forgiving — or at least moving beyond — the four-century legacy of white supremacy that contributed to his poisoning. They decidedly were not, and the question of whether we make serious progress toward eradicating the psychosis of race in this country and the inequities it bequeaths in wealth, education, housing, justice, and health, not to mention hope, awaits an answer on the 50th or 100th anniversary of the massacre at Mother Emanuel.


San Francisco Chronicle
4 hours ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
Oakland Post editor's confessed killer paroled after years in prison
The man convicted of killing an Oakland newspaper editor who was investigating the finances of a Black empowerment group in 2007 was released from prison last week, officials told the Chronicle. Devaughndre Broussard was released into parole supervision on June 5, according to a California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation spokesperson. No other details regarding his release were immediately provided. Chauncey Bailey, the editor of African-American weekly the Oakland Post, had been investigating the bankruptcy proceedings of Your Black Muslim Bakery before he was killed. Broussard, a member of the bakery group, testified in 2011 that its leader, Yusuf Bey IV, had ordered him to learn where Bailey lived and 'find out his routine,' according to a Chronicle report. 'He wanted us to take him out before he wrote that article.' Broussard confessed to killing Bailey with three shotgun blasts on Aug. 2, 2007 as Bailey was walking to work at 14th and Alice Streets in downtown Oakland, according to a previous Chronicle report. A federal judge ordered the bakery to liquidate its assets amid debt and management problems the week following Bailey's killing. Broussard was sentenced to 25 years in prison after pleading guilty to two counts of involuntary manslaughter for the slayings of Bailey and Odell Roberson, 31. Roberson was the uncle of the man who shot and killed Bey IV's brother near the former San Pablo Avenue bakery. Broussard promised to testify against Bey IV and Antoine Mackey, a former bakery associate, who was also a suspect in Bailey's killing. Bey IV was sentenced in 2011 to spend the rest of his life in prison for ordering the killings of Bailey, 57, Roberson, 31, and Michael Willis, 36. Jurors decided that Bey IV was guilty of murdering Bailey because he had ordered Broussard to pull the trigger. Mackey was convicted of two counts of first-degree murder for Bailey and Willis's killings, the Chronicle previously reported. In 2015, a state appeals court denied Bey IV and Mackey's motion to overturn their convictions, dismissing claims that their trial should have been moved from Alameda County due to negative publicity.