Months after the murder of George Floyd, a peaceful pilgrimage commemorating Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s historic March on Washington turned violent at a stop in Central Pennsylvania.
By Arionne Nettles and Hakim Hasan
Elizabeth Webb was one of many marchers who wanted to commemorate the 57th anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech with a celebratory 750-mile trek from Wisconsin to Washington, D.C.
The march started with a few people leaving Milwaukee and continued to grow. When the marchers reached Kenosha, Wisconsin, Webb, the owner and operator of My Sister’s House, a social activist organization that helps people in need, decided to join them. She wanted to be part of this momentous celebration and to support the young adults who were moving it forward.
“The majority of people out there were not activists,” she says of the racially diverse, predominantly Black group of marchers. “A majority of the people were women and children, mothers like me—out there for a purpose.”
And many along the route understood that purpose. They were greeted with food and hugs and thank yous, Webb says. “Those parts of the march were amazing, and it gave you the most amazing feeling.”
But the warm welcomes common along the journey were marred by a violent stop in Bedford County, Pennsylvania.
Shooting First
On August 24, 2020—day 20 of the march—the joyous trek became a fearful blur. Some in the group had gone ahead to the hotel to get the group’s accommodations ironed out, leaving over 40 people, including five children, who were to join them shortly. The remaining marchers were taking a break and stopped on the side of Lincoln Highway, a rural two-lane road in Schellsburg, to play gospel music, pray, and stretch their legs. It was approximately 11:00 pm when, according to Webb, they heard a gunshot ring out.
“He shot a warning shot before we even saw him,” Webb says.
Members of the group who were present say, the man who fired that shot, Terry Myers, had no need to confront the group, as they were parked on the shoulder near his father’s home and business, Myers’ Garage. Marchers also say they were not on his property.
According to Turahn Jenkins, the lawyer representing the marcher from Milwaukee who was shot that night, Orsino Thurman, there is no evidence anyone in the group presented a danger to either Terry Myers or his father, John Myers.
“There was no need for the younger Myers to ever fire his shotgun at any time that night,” Jenkins says. “He [Myers] was the aggressor and escalated a situation that could have been diffused with a simple conversation.”
Thurman allegedly fired a pistol at Terry Myers after Myers fired a second shot. Meyers then fired a third shot that hit Thurman. Police later recovered the shotgun, bullet casings and a 9 mm handgun from the scene.
Terry Myers’ lawyer, Matt Zatko, did not respond to a request for comment but has argued Myers shot in self-defense.
We were 30 minutes away from the nearest hospital and it was a black dark road on the way there. No police. No ambulance. Nothing.
Elizabeth Webb, My Sister’s House founder and activist who joined the march.
Spotlight PA’s Joseph Darius Jaafari and Pittsburgh City Paper’s Ryan Deto analyzed video captured from the incident that night. In the video, marcher Tory Lowe tells Terry and John Myers that “there’s no need to be violent”—right before Terry Myers fired a third shot.
“And when he did shoot again, he took steps forward to get closer to the target, which was Orsino Thurman at the time—and he shot him point-blank,” Webb says.
Terry and John Myers claim Thurman shot first, and the Bedford County District Attorney’s Office says lab reports tied Thurman to a handgun used at the scene that night. The report refers to the two Myers as the “victims” and Thurman as a “defendant.” But interviews contradict that claim.
Spotlight PA and the Pittsburgh City Paper interviewed nine marchers who all said they told state police that Myers shot at them unprovoked. Webb also says that Myers was the first to brandish a gun and shoot.
“It wasn’t that Orsino shot first; it wasn’t that Orsino pulled a gun out on him,” says Webb. “That man just shot and kept shooting and it wasn’t to scare us or anything like that.”
In a Facebook live video, Lowe says he and Thomas Milton were finally able to convince Myers to lower his weapon after explaining that Milton was a minister. But according to Webb, this exchange happened after Myers had already fired a third and final shot.
“I felt fragments of the bullets fall on top of my back,” Webb recalls. “When we finally were able to get in the car, he turned the gun directly towards my face. And we’re seeing him directly in front of us and [another member of the group] pulled the truck in front of him [to block his shots], which put herself in the line of fire.”
Webb says she also saw John Myers give his son more ammunition. (Jaafari and Deto’s video analysis shows the Myers men handing each other an item before Terry Myers aims his gun back at the marchers.)
“Terry Myers’ father was there, and he gave him more buckshots to load up,” Webb says.
The Aftermath
What happened next was just as chaotic. Pennsylvania State Police would later issue a statement, reading in part: “The confrontation escalated, and gunshots were exchanged between the property owners and the activists.” And according to Webb, police and first responders never came to the scene. She says that the group had to drive Thurman, who had suffered a gunshot wound to his face, to the hospital.
“No police ever came,” says Webb. “We were 30 minutes away from the nearest hospital and it was a black dark road on the way there. No police. No ambulance. Nothing.”
They took Thurman to Conemaugh Memorial Medical Center in nearby Johnstown, Pennsylvania, where he was treated for gunshot wounds. By noon the next day, Johnstown Police Department Captain Chad Miller, citing concern about a potential fracas between the marchers and hospital officials, reached out to Alan Cashaw, the president of the Johnstown NAACP chapter. In an interview with BlackPittsburgh.com, Cashaw, a native of Johnstown, said that Miller asked him to come to the hospital in case it was necessary for him to mediate between the marchers and staff.
In addition to his work with the NAACP, Cashaw also serves on the Johnstown Police Advisory Board with Captain Miller. Cashaw told BlackPittsburgh.com that he observed a relatively calm scene at the hospital, and there was no conflict. In fact, he says, some hospital personnel provided the marchers with tents, food, and water.
Cashaw did note one concern: Thurman was “handcuffed to a hospital bed,” even though state police said that he was “not under arrest.”
Away from the hospital, the group of marchers received several threats from white residents later that day. Dozens of people from the local community carrying guns showed up outside the Bedford County courthouse that evening after rumors posted to social media claimed that BLM and ANTIFA were going to burn it down. That same night, a smaller group of men confronted the marchers in the parking lot of the Hampton Inn where they were staying. No one was injured. But according to police, shots were fired in the air outside the hotel, and six 9mm bullet casings were found on the ground outside. One man was arrested and charged with felony gun possession.
This all took place three months after the George Floyd murder and during the so-called racial reckoning that supposedly followed.
Looking back, I think Orsino Thurman’s case identified itself as two justice systems that are always with you. There is justice for Black folks, which is different from justice for white folks.
Alan Cashaw, president of the Johnstown NAACP
Just as the June 2021 NPR Code Switch episode noted, this period was really more like “The Racial Reckoning That Wasn’t.” Although many mainstream companies pledged their financial support to Black organizations, and whites joined many of the marches that reached over 2000 towns and cities around the country in support of racial equity, overall support quickly waned and white sympathy quickly subsided.
And in some parts of the country, even temporary support for racial equality and Black civil rights had the opposite effect: it raised tensions between racial groups and set a foundation for more racial violence.
In 2020, USA Today reported that Pennsylvania had a “hateful year.” Instead of a push toward racial parity, the state saw a record high for hate symbols, as one example.
Pennsylvania was not alone. White supremacists amped up their messaging across the country during this time. But Pennsylvania was in the top eight states with the most racist propaganda, according to data from the Anti-Defamation League. Additionally, widespread hate occurred in at least 100 of the state’s communities that year.
“In Central PA, race is an ugly word to people,” explains Andrae Holsey, NAACP president in nearby Blair County. “It sparks up tensions. It’s hard to talk about it; people don’t want to acknowledge it.”
A History of Hate
Although it is true that Pennsylvania is one of many states in the Appalachian region where workers do not benefit from large industrial wealth, the predominantly white state still has a glaring economic disparity between Black and white residents. Black households are at a much lower median income than their white counterparts. Likewise, in the 2020 Census, the Black population in Bedford County was less than one percent, compared to the over 97 percent white population.
“Realistically where we live, there’s a lot of white people who’ve been trampled on by executives in the coal industries and railroad industries and so on and so forth,” Holsey says. “And it’s created this mindset, especially in Bedford, where when people own something, they are determined that it is theirs, that nobody is going to come near it, and if they come near it, they’re willing to kill them or die trying.”
The hateful response the marchers received for simply traveling through Pennsylvania has placed the area’s history of hate groups and sheer number of white supremacists once again at the forefront. In 1925, just a decade after the resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan boosted by harmful propaganda like D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation, about 250,000 of the Klan’s estimated four million members lived in Pennsylvania, according to Baylor University History Professor Phillip Jenkins.
“I think it’s easy for people to forget that almost exactly 100 years ago, the highest concentration of Ku Klux Klan members in the entire nation was in Blair and Bedford counties here in Pennsylvania,” Holsey explains. “And if it wasn’t for race, people being uncomfortable with race and long, long-standing ideations about what race looks like in Central Pennsylvania, the violence would have never happened, period. There’s a reason that it didn’t happen anywhere else [on the march] but as soon as they got here.”
Unequal Consequences
After shooting Orsino Thurman, Terry Myers didn’t face any charges for months. But on May 7, 2021, following an eight-month investigation by Pennsylvania State Police, Bedford County District Attorney Lesley Childers-Potts announced charges for both Terry Myers, 51, and Orsino Thurman, 37. Myers was charged with aggravated assault with a deadly weapon (a felony), as well as harassment and seven counts of reckless endangerment, which are misdemeanors. Thurman was charged with aggravated assault and illegally possessing a firearm (felonies) and two counts of simple assault and reckless endangerment (misdemeanors).
Myers scheduled an arraignment to answer his charges, and Thurman, a resident of Wisconsin, did not. Pennsylvania State Police subsequently issued an arrest warrant for Thurman. In June, the most serious charges against Myers were dropped by prosecutors or dismissed by the court after Thurman, who was subpoenaed as a witness, failed to show up to Myers’ hearing.
Three months later, after being listed as a fugitive for months in Pennsylvania, Thurman was in custody in DeWitt County, Illinois, following a police chase and standoff unrelated to the Bedford incident. Thurman posted bond in the Illinois case and was released, upsetting Bedford DA Childers-Potts, who stated in a press release that she was “disappointed and frustrated to learn” of the news, as the court had already petitioned to have him extradited. Ironically, Myers had also posted bond in his case in Bedford.
On January 13, 2022, after having finally been extradited to Bedford, Orsino Thurman was arraigned on charges related to the 2020 shooting. He was held in jail on a $350,000 bond. His lawyer requested a bond reduction so that he could await trial out of jail, but it was denied. The Bedford DA Childers-Potts released a statement which said “prior criminal offenses, a history of bench warrants for failure to appear in other jurisdictions, the dangerous nature of the Defendant’s criminal acts, both past and present, and a lack of ties to Bedford County and the state of Pennsylvania” were all reasons that bail should remain so high.
Given the threats Thurman received in Bedford County, supporters argued that it was not safe for him to remain in jail there.
“There was a significant concern on Orsino’s part regarding if he was going to be kept in Bedford County jail, if he would make it out alive,” Holsey, of the NAACP, says.
A week after Thurman’s arraignment, he was in court for a preliminary hearing where Myers testified against him, saying he shot his 12-gauge shotgun in self-defense after seeing flashes from a muzzled gun being fired in his direction. The day after Thurman’s hearing, DA Childers-Potts announced that she agreed to drop the remaining charges against Terry Myers in exchange for his testimony and his cooperation in the forthcoming trial against Thurman—the very man he shot. This agreement with Myers is “with prejudice,” which means—as the Tribune-Democrat reported—he cannot be brought up on additional charges later.
Two days later, on January 21, 2022, Thurman posted bail and was released from Bedford County Jail.
Soon after, Lesley Childers-Potts resigned from her position as Bedford County District Attorney, after a series of mistrials due to prosecutorial misconduct. But the state’s case against Orsino Thurman continued.
If it wasn’t for race, people being uncomfortable with race and long, long standing ideations about what race looks like in Central Pennsylvania, the violence would have never happened, period.
Andrae Holsey, president of NAACP in Blair County, PA
On March 14, 2023, jury selection began. Later that day, the newly appointed Bedford County District Attorney Dwight Diehl announced that he had negotiated a plea deal with Thurman’s attorney Turahn Jenkins. Two weeks later, on March 30, Thurman appeared before a judge to sign the plea deal but rejected the offer. A new court date for a jury trial was set.
Before that court date arrived, Thurman was offered another plea deal: 18 months probation in exchange for pleading guilty to the reckless endangerment charge (a misdemeanor). Instead, on May 17, he pleaded no contest. Along with the conclusion of Orsino’s case, Terry Myers, who originally faced more than 40 charges, had his remaining seven misdemeanor charges dropped. The yearslong case had finally come to an end.
What should justice look like?
Throughout the duration of Thurman’s interaction with Bedford County authorities, many questioned why the two men, both seen as alleged shooters, were treated so differently: Myers, who shot at and injured Thurman, and whose most serious charges were dropped early, versus Thurman, who had not shot anyone but faced significantly more serious charges, and subsequently more jail time.
Also, both were deemed by the DA as having acted in self-defense, a point that Bedford County President Judge Travis Livengood saw as legally “incomprehensible.”
Childers-Potts did not respond to a request for specific comment about the difference in treatment between Myers and Thurman, but in a statement, said that Thurman’s charges were “suitable” because of his “criminal history” and that dropping the charges against Myers was necessary so that he would testify against Thurman, who she described as a “danger to society.”
“I believe we have an opportunity and an obligation to ensure justice is served and Mr. Thurman receives a sentence in Pennsylvania that is suitable for someone with his criminal history,” she said in the statement. “To accomplish that goal, the testimony of Terry Myers is crucial. Withdrawing criminal charges is not something I do lightly, but Mr. Myers has been cooperative throughout the entire process, and I believe he also wants to see that justice is found at the conclusion of these proceedings. I realize there will be people who disagree with my decision to enter into that agreement with Mr. Myers and his attorney, but I firmly believe it is the correct decision and also the right thing to do. I stand by the decision I made.”
Andrae Holsey of the NAACP and attorney Turahn Jenkins, lawyer for Orsino Thurman, both express concern about the ways race plays out in the US criminal justice system. Photo Credit: Steve Mellon
Yet, their unequal treatment is a stark dichotomy that angered many who believed Thurman was not in the wrong in the Bedford incident.
“I mean, the fact that a man was able to, with a firearm, go to a property that was not his and shoot at somebody and hit somebody else, and isn’t being criminally charged, is appalling,” Holsey notes. “It’s a disgrace on our court. It’s a disgrace on our commonwealth, and it’s a disgrace on Bedford County.”
For Turahn Jenkins, Thurman’s lawyer, who also teaches at Duquesne Law School, the implications reach far beyond Bedford County.
“This case, to me, was a reminder of how race factors into how matters are handled within the criminal justice system,” says Jenkins. “In this instance, Mr. Thurman was the victim. The prosecution struck a deal with the actual assailant to testify against Mr. Thurman—despite the fact that his assailant was the initial aggressor.”
When the public sees decisions such as these play out in the court system that people feel are unfair, they don’t trust the legal system to give those accused a fair shake, Jenkins adds.
Alan Cashaw, of the Johnstown NAACP, agrees.
“Looking back, I think [Orsino Thurman’s case] identified itself as two justice systems that are always with you,” he says. “There is justice for Black folks, which is different from justice for white folks. The white folks of that area wanted their white person in that area exonerated. And the Black folks that were visiting the area weren’t getting justice. In fact, they were treated like criminals by the state police.”
When the NAACP leaders, Holsey and Cashaw, showed up to the courthouse for hearings involving this case, Holsey said there were people wearing armored vests with pit bulls and firearms standing less than five feet away from the entrance to the courtroom.
“How is that not witness intimidation?” Holsey asks. “I mean, it’s just mind-blowing. We pick and choose what laundry list of charges we’re gonna apply to people just because they’re different than us. But when it’s your next-door neighbor, suddenly they can’t be held accountable. That’s not the job of the courts.”
Webb emphasizes that the group of marchers were commemorating the historic March on Washington and were not affiliated with the Black Lives Matter organization. Yet many articles and TV news coverage referred to Thurman and the group as BLM activists, which influenced how many local people viewed the incident.
“There was a misconception that Mr. Thurman was a member of the Black Lives Matter organization, which is inaccurate,” notes Jenkins. “They just conveniently lumped this organization of people in with the much larger and well-known BLM movement.”
In Pennsylvania, anyone who is at least 18 years of age can legally carry a handgun in the open, but among Thurman’s charges was that he was not supposed to possess a firearm because he had a felony. Nevertheless, when it came to supporting Thurman’s right to be armed, Holsey says it’s a double-standard.
“What’s amazing to me is that the same people so quick to jump down Orsino Thurman’s throat about being accused of having a firearm on his person are the same people defending [Kyle] Rittenhouse [and] demonizing Breonna Taylor’s boyfriend; it doesn’t make sense,” he says. “If race wasn’t a part of it, then tell me what is.”
Arionne Nettles is a professor, culture reporter, and audio aficionado who serves as the Garth C. Reeves eminent scholar chair and instructor for digital journalism at Florida A&M University. Her writings have appeared in the Chicago Reader, WBEZ, and The Associated Press.
Hakim Hasan is a writer whose work has appeared in Black Renaissance Noire, The New York Times Magazine, The Washington Post, and the San Francisco Chronicle.