NEW YORKERS MOURN A MAN OF FLAWS, PROMISE

Police Shooting Victim Sean Bell Had Runs-Ins With the Law, but Those
Who Knew Him Recall a Man With a Fresh Sense of Purpose.

NEW YORK -- It was just 17 days ago that Sean Bell told the preacher
he wanted to get married. Bishop Lester Williams was mildly surprised
to see Bell in the first place, but he was flabbergasted by the
younger man's sense of urgency.

There seemed to be plenty of time: Bell had been with Nicole Paultre
since high school, and fathered two children with her. But if Bell
could have gotten married then and there -- never mind that the bride
was not with him -- he would have done it, Williams said.

"You can't marry someone without telling them," he recalled gently
telling Bell.

Williams was carrying the marriage license in his pocket Nov. 25,
preparing to perform the wedding, when he heard that Bell was dead.
Bell, 23, was shot leaving his bachelor party; undercover officers
fired 50 rounds at a Nissan Altima, convinced he and his friends were
armed. Police who searched the car later found no gun.

For many, Bell -- a milk delivery man who dreamed about pitching in
the major leagues -- has taken a place beside Amadou Diallo and Abner
Louima, victims of notorious police brutality. By the end of this
week, Bell's face was airbrushed on T-shirts, and his name was
spray-painted on the back windshields of vehicles. On the narrow
street where he was shot, three dozen candles burned.

Eulogy Instead of Vows

Responsibility weighed heavily on Williams, who watched mourners pour
into his church for Bell's funeral on Friday. He was convinced he
would never give a more important sermon. By the time he began to
preach, the crowd spilled out of the church and down 108th Avenue for
several blocks. People waited outside for hours. They climbed to the
top of a wrought-iron fence across the street and strained to hear his voice.

"Ask not for whom the bell tolls," Williams said. "It tolls for Sean.
The bells are ringing outrage, and they will not stop ringing until
justice prevails."

Bell was, the eulogist noted, at the second of two great crossroads.
Four years ago, at 19, he set aside his dream of playing professional
baseball when Paultre became pregnant.

Larry Minor, who was coaching Bell at Nassau Community College,
remembers the conversation as if it were yesterday. Bell was a
right-handed pitcher with an 85- to 87-mph fastball. He stared into
the catcher's glove with a calm intensity, as if he had tunnel vision.

"When you come across a young kid like that, you say, 'Let me put a
stamp on him at a young age, because he's going somewhere,' " Minor
said. "I can count kids who are special in my life. You get about
five or 10. He was one of them."

Near the end of his first season, Bell told Minor he was leaving
school to work.

"It was very sad," Minor said. "He was making a man's decision at a
very young age."

Leaving baseball was not easy for Sean, said Kinglarry Crawford, 35,
Bell's second cousin. Though Bell got a job driving a UPS truck and
delivering milk, he had shed the aura of celebrity that had
surrounded him at John Adams High School.

From childhood, Crawford said, boys in southeast Queens saw sports
as a way to escape poverty and crime. They did not have to look far
for an example: Bell's uncle, Frank Haith, is the head coach of the
University of Miami's men's basketball team.

"Either you play some kind of sports, you rap, you get some type of
lawsuit, or you have to win the lottery. They feel like that's the
way of getting out," Crawford said. "Everyone was mad at him for
stopping. They had this attitude: 'You're going to be the first to
make it on this side of the family in baseball.' He was that good."

With the birth of his first daughter, Jada, Bell settled happily into
family life, but he never got much satisfaction from his work,
Crawford said. Nicole Campbell, 30, who got to know him when he made
deliveries to her workplace, remembers Bell showing her snapshots
from his baseball career.

The neighborhood made it hard to stay straight, Crawford said.
"There's pressure every day," he said. "The bad things you're taught
are good, and the good things you're taught are bad."

Court records show that Bell was arrested twice this year. In the
spring, he pleaded guilty to a misdemeanor charge of criminal
facilitation -- assisting someone to commit a felony -- and served
five days of community service. And on Nov. 7, he was charged with a
misdemeanor drug violation when he was caught with marijuana.

But just lately, friends say, Bell had started lifting weights with a
new intensity. He and Paultre were thinking about leaving New York
for Atlanta, a city with a lower cost of living, where "you could
have a job for $7 an hour and still feel good about your manhood,"
Crawford said. There was talk about pitching for a major-league scout.

"Things were looking real dark in his life," said Jason Powell, 24, a
friend from the John Adams baseball team, "and all of a sudden the
door seems to open."

It is not altogether clear why Bell decided the time had come to
marry, but Williams, the minister, looked at him and saw that his
decision had set like concrete. The wedding was going to be
elaborate, with an elegant black-and-white color scheme, four cakes,
and silver bells as wedding favors.

The night before, while Paultre was at a bridal shower, Bell went
with friends to the Kalua Cabaret, a small strip club on Atlantic
Avenue. Mingling in the crowd that night were two undercover police
officers, who were there to document prostitution, narcotics and
weapons violations.

At 4 a.m., Bell and his friends left the bar; relatives say they
wanted to eat breakfast at a diner. The group got into an argument
with a man outside, and one of Bell's friends yelled, "Yo, get my
gun," police have said.

When they headed for their cars, an undercover officer trailed Bell
and his friends, followed closely by two unmarked police vehicles.
The undercover officer approached Bell's car, carrying a gun, and
Bell accelerated forward, hitting him and then plowing into one of
the unmarked police vehicles.

At that, five officers began firing from two directions.

A week later, much about the incident is still in dispute. Lawyers
for the officers said that there was a fourth man in the car, and
that he was armed; they also said that the undercover officer clearly
identified himself as a police officer. On Thursday, police arrested
four men in Queens, hoping to gather information on the fourth passenger.

On Friday, an attorney came forward on behalf of Bell's companions
that night, who say there was never a gun, or a fourth man. The
police, said attorney Charles King, are "hellbent on trying to find a
phantom gunman that didn't exist within this wedding party."

'Why Him?'

There were more strangers than friends among those who lined up this
afternoon outside the Community Church of Christ, carrying umbrellas
against the rain.

Cyril Vaughan, 63, stood outside the church for 2 1/2 hours as the
wind picked up, taking pictures with a disposable camera. He was
boiling with anger.

"I'm to the point, it's like whatever it takes, I'm willing to do,"
he said. "It's so damn hard to talk about. It didn't even have to be
them. It could have been anyone."

It was different for Bell's friends, who, all week found themselves
shaking off numbness.
John Maser, who coached Bell as a Little League player, remembered
his first glimpse of the boy, "unbelievably athletic" at age 9,
grinning from ear to ear for the length of the practice.

"If you handed him $20, at the age of 11," Maser said, "he'd give you
$20 back."

Maser's son had called to tell him the news about Bell. Maser made
him repeat it several times.

"You sit there and you say, 'Run this by me again?' Why him? There's
millions of kids in New York City," Maser said. "The stars were
aligned and the planets spun in a certain direction, and then he was gone."