GARY GRIFFITH – ONE SHOT, THEN KILLED

By KEN ALI 

How did the most popular officeholder in Trinidad and Tobago end up in a bitter squabble to save his job? 

How did a Government that flouted the constitutional process of appointing a Commissioner of Police escape with the tepid admission by Prime Minister Dr. Keith Rowley that “an error has been made”? 

And how could bleeding hearts for good governance miss the carefully crafted plot to expose, destabilise and hound Gary Griffith out of office? 

To be sure, the Griffith spectacle stands alone in modern history, with only sketchy similarities to the Randolph Burroughs saga of the previous generation. 

Griffith, an insider of the previous administration, was leapfrogged over other applicants three years ago, despite having no history in the police service. 

In his zestful, relentless manner, Griffith plunged into the challenging job, demonising critics, and not pondering on why he was handpicked to lead the law enforcement agency.  

He clearly was cherry-picked for two reasons. 

One was that his bluster and bravado would take heat off the ruling regime, whose much-touted “all-of-government” method was achieving zilch. 

Edmund Dillon’s wooden mode and Stuart Young’s warmonger attitude and their touted “menu” of measures amounted to nought. 

Griffith announced himself the sleuth of the times – “judge me by the murder rate” – and led a war, equal in parts, against criminals and cynics. 

In a stunning paradox, the police chief enjoyed landmark popularity (80 percent as recently as last March) even as the crime detection rate stalled at 15 percent. 

A minority of sceptics murmured – to adopt Elvis Presley’s lyrics – “a little less conversation, a little more action, please.” 

Griffith benefited from the media’s weariness over the daily fare of crimes unless they were particularly ghastly and touched the nation’s conscience. 

The commissioner sucked oxygen out of the national discourse, treading the beat with heavy artillery, presenting himself as a sociable “ah wee bwoy” and damning anyone who dared dissent. 

He traded blows with the media, in contrast to the equally populist Burroughs, who courted journalists to the point of calling just before deadlines to suggest which picture should accompany the story. 

Like Griffith, Burroughs was handpicked by a Prime Minister. 

Dr. Eric Williams was impressed with “The Fox’s” offensive against post-Black Power vagabonds on a rampant shooting spree, and his role in solving the 1976 bombing of a Cubana aircraft, which took 73 lives. 

Burroughs, with his trigger-happy Flying Squad and an army of informers, was a celebrated assistant commissioner when he was selected to lead the service. 

Long before social media made narcissism a cultural phenomenon, Burroughs was a brew of conceit and coyness. 

But, as Jimmy Cliff reminded us, “the harder they fall.” 

The explosive Scott Drug Report portrayed Burroughs as a notorious criminal, deep into drug trafficking at Carli Bay, Couva, and a conspiracy to murder two officers. 

He stood trial in 1987 and was freed, but by the time he died 10 years later, his name was mud, his credibility forever sullied. (I write more about Burroughs in my forthcoming book). 

That brings us to the second reason why Griffith was airlifted to the commissioner’s chair. 

Certain senior government officials were forever anxious for police investigations and criminal charges against identified operatives of the political opposition. 

Griffith’s freewheeling manner and legal stand against Anand Ramlogan led some to assume he would take the war to his former colleagues. 

Instead, he played his cards straight, to the point of being accused of being cosy with opposition heavyweights.  

Young felt obliged in March 2020 to tell the Senate: “At no time whatsoever have I ever monitored and/or spied on the commissioner of police.” 

The issuance of firearm licences gave Griffith fresh currency among many anxious to arm themselves, as the unchecked crime spree extended to rural communities and took more innocent lives. 

The breach between the Government and the Commissioner was now complete. 

The Stanley John-led probe into gun licences, inflammatory leaks to the Sunday Express newspaper, and manipulation of Bliss Seepersad’s Police Service Commission were vital stepping stones in the strategic plan to boot out Griffith. 

In executing the plot, some players stumbled. 

A government minister breached the separation of powers in directing the PSC, and, for her part, the awkward Seepersad was unable to market the scheme to her fellow commissioners. 

Rowley dismissed the blunders as “errors,” retreated tactically, and is restarting the process. 

Delightfully oblivious that his commissioner’s days were numbered,   Griffith continued to howl into the wind, taking pot-shots at the usual suspects, until he was reined in by his attorneys.  

He is probably still unaware of why he is being taken down. 

Nor does he recall historic political overreach in law enforcement, including former senior government minister Patrick Solomon in 1962 removing his son from police arrest. 

Williams stood by his minister, and declared: “Who doh like it could get out of here.” 

Sparrow’s seminal Get To Hell Out quotes the then-PM as asserting: “When I talk, no damn dog bark.” 

That recurring political manner is why the overwhelmingly popular police chief has been brought to his knees, his career ruined after a single term. 

A word to the wise!