New York Honors a Fallen Public Servant

Councilman James E. Davis was the kind of politician who would charge into a group of strangers and introduce himself, friends said, a cheerful man whose presence lighted up the room. On Monday, he lay in a coffin in the City Hall rotunda as thousands filed by to pay their last respects.

Davis, who was slain in the ornate council chambers last week by a political rival, was one of the few public servants to have his passing so marked in the historic building -- joining the likes of Abraham Lincoln, Ulysses S. Grant and Henry Clay, said Mayor Michael R. Bloomberg, who headed the long line of mourners.

“It’s a small token of affection that New York can show for James Davis,” Bloomberg said, noting that Davis had “worked all his life for New York City, as a police officer, then as a city councilman.”

On a steamy afternoon, the facade of the 192-year-old building was draped in black and purple bunting; the usually busy plaza was hushed. People from all over the city, including a large number who traveled from Davis’ Brooklyn district, lined up for hours to file past his wooden coffin.

Some wept, and one woman -- who began moaning at the sight of Davis in his blue suit and red tie -- collapsed onto the marble floor. Others murmured prayers, crossed themselves and left flowers at the foot of the coffin. Several police officers crisply saluted the councilman, and a handful of visitors spoke quietly to him as they passed by.

“Jesus, sweet Jesus!” one woman wailed as she was led from the coffin; other visitors paused in front of the body to snap pictures as a personal remembrance.

All the mourners were required to pass through metal detectors at both ends of the plaza, a new rule adopted by Bloomberg and the City Council after Wednesday’s shooting. Davis’ killer, Othniel Askew, had been able to sneak a gun into City Hall when the councilman -- exercising a courtesy extended to all elected officials -- ushered Askew as a personal guest into the building and avoided the security lines.

“James Davis was a councilman for all the people; he connected with them, and they were moved by him,” Frederica Singfield, a Brooklyn community activist, said while waiting in the line that stretched around the block ringing City Hall. “What you see here is an outpouring of affection for the man. We lost someone we cared about.”

Davis, 41, had been a grass-roots crusader against urban violence who formed “Love Yourself” Stop the Violence, a nonprofit organization, to fight inner-city crime. A political maverick, he often cast votes that put him at odds with the Democratic political machine that controls much of Brooklyn politics. Supporters said Monday that this independence made Davis popular with voters and helped him win election in 2001 to a district that includes the Fort Greene and Clinton Hill neighborhoods.

“He was just a friendly, pleasant guy who really made you feel that he cared about your own concerns,” said Eunice Lee, an attorney and lobbyist from the district. “He’d always come up to you and say hello, even if he didn’t know who you were. It’s hard to imagine him having any enemies.”

But Davis did have enemies, including the 31-year-old Askew -- a political novice who wanted to run for Davis’ seat. He had been disqualified weeks earlier because he had missed a filing deadline for ballot petitions, and he had sought several meetings with Davis to vent his growing frustrations, law enforcement officials said.

On the day of the shooting, Askew had called FBI officials to complain that Davis was harassing him, threatening to say that Askew was gay if he became a candidate. The killer also said he had unsuccessfully sought a letter from Davis suggesting that Askew would succeed him if something happened to Davis, law enforcement officials have said. All of those allegations are being investigated by the New York Police Department.

Several hours after calling the FBI, Askew met with Davis in the councilman’s Brooklyn office and asked if he could accompany him to City Hall, where the council was preparing to meet.

At City Hall, Davis introduced Askew to members as an ally, but after the two men walked up to a visitors’ balcony above the chambers, Askew pulled out a handgun and shot Davis.

Seconds later, a plainclothes police officer in the chamber shot and killed Askew.

“It just goes to show that in political life, you can never really know who your enemies are,” said a somber Alfonso Carter, a Brooklyn businessman who grew up with Davis and called him a good friend. “James Davis was an open, pleasant man, and in politics that can kill you. You never know who’s truly jealous of you.”

As he spoke, Carter stood near the end of the line. Nearby, Chris Owens, who heads a preservation group for black historical sites, handed out copies of a poem he wrote to commemorate Davis’ death:

Do not revere me now, I was no sage,

Save ceremony for ancestors and age.

The headlines will be gone one day and then remember me -- a struggling leader, an advocate, your hopeful friend.

The councilman was an unpretentious man, Owens said, noting that he hoped New Yorkers would remember him for who he was.

Following a funeral and march through the streets of his district, Davis will be buried today in Brooklyn.