When police authority meet grief: After Latoya ‘Buju’ Bulgin’s death

This case brought back a familiar feeling for me. It reminded me of how I felt when ICE shot Renee Nicole Good. I remember asking myself then: What just happened? Why did he shoot her? Was there a threat?

I found myself doing the same thing here. I watched and rewatched the footage, asking whether I had missed something. One question remains unresolved in my mind: was Ms. Bulgin pointing a weapon at the officer? Public reports I have seen do not indicate that. If she was not armed, then naturally difficult questions emerge. Why was the weapon drawn in the first place? What threat was perceived? What happened in those critical seconds before the shooting?

I do not ask these questions to convict anyone. I ask them because unanswered questions create space for uncertainty, and uncertainty often creates distrust.

There is another issue I have written about before.

What becomes the officer’s responsibility after a suspect has been shot?

The duty of policing does not end once force is used. Once a threat has been neutralized, there remains a responsibility to preserve life where possible, summon emergency medical assistance, provide aid within training and safety limitations, secure the scene, and maintain dignity in the handling of the injured or deceased.

What I saw in the video was deeply troubling. Officers pulled Ms. Bulgin from her vehicle. Dragged her body on the ground. Then one appeared to take hold of an arm while another took hold of a leg, and her body was lifted and thrown into the back of a police pickup truck, landing on the metal floor of the vehicle. This occurred in full view of onlookers and individuals recording the incident.

Watching it, I could not help but think about dignity, humanity, and what family members may experience when they eventually see images of their loved one handled in that manner. What disturbed me further was that the image did not feel unusual. Many of us have scrolled through social media and seen similar scenes before: lifeless bodies being lifted, moved, and thrown into the backs of police pickups. Over time, repeated exposure can create a dangerous outcome: we stop reacting. We begin treating the handling of human beings as routine because we have become accustomed to seeing it.

Whether the shooting itself was justified is one question.

Dignity is another question entirely.

Families eventually see these recordings. Children see these recordings. Communities see these recordings. There is a difference between transporting a body and handling a human being with care.

As I continued watching the footage, I drifted into another video connected to the first incident. What caught my attention this time was not the shooting itself, but the interaction that followed. It pulled me in because it shifted my focus from the question of force to the question of human engagement.

I watched a community meeting where the apparent son of the deceased was speaking about organizing a candlelight vigil for his mother. He was clearly upset. He spoke loudly and emotionally. But from what I observed, he was expressing grief and frustration, not disrespect.

The room was relatively quiet. The exchange was primarily between the young man and the senior police officer leading the meeting.

After the young man made his point, the officer moved from the corner of the room toward the space where the young man sat.

I want to be careful here.

I do not know what the officer intended.

I cannot enter his mind.

I can only speak to what I observed and how it appeared to me after watching the interaction repeatedly.

From my perspective, his movement into the young man’s space, combined with his tone and posture, felt more confrontational than calming. It did not appear restorative. It did not appear de-escalatory. It felt less like grief management and more like command presence.

Perhaps that was not his intention at all.

But intent and impact are not always the same thing.

An officer may say:

“I was trying to maintain order.”

A grieving son may experience:

“I just lost my mother and I feel like I am being spoken to, not spoken with.”

A bystander may experience:

“This looks intimidating.”

All three experiences can exist simultaneously.

That may be where the larger issue lives.

Institutions often defend intent while communities often live impact. When those two collide, trust becomes the casualty.

At one point the officer said:

“Because of the work of the police over the years, you have been able to go about and live your life without fear… you were able to go to parties without fear… you were able to go to work and come home without fear… I am really sorry for your loss…”

As I listened, I found myself trying to understand what message was being communicated in that moment. Was it intended as an expression of sympathy? An attempt at reassurance? An effort to de-escalate the tension in the room? I do not know. But in emotionally charged spaces, what is intended and what is received are not always the same thing.

Before he could continue, the young man interrupted:

“Nuh badda come talk to we like we a di problem. A oonoo a di problem. Oonoo kill five smaddy from the year start.”

Then the video ended.

I sat there asking myself what exactly I had just watched.

I am not prepared to conclude that the officer was trying to intimidate the young man.

I am not prepared to conclude that the officer was acting maliciously.

But I am prepared to ask whether we are adequately preparing officers for emotionally charged encounters involving grief, trauma, distrust, and pain.

Because moments like these are not simply about one officer, one grieving son, or one difficult interaction inside a room. They force us to ask a larger question: what exactly are we preparing officers to do when authority meets pain?

Policing does not only occur at crime scenes. It also occurs in living rooms, hospitals, schools, funerals, community meetings, and moments of loss. Communities increasingly expect officers not only to respond to danger, but also to respond to grief, trauma, and human suffering.

Sometimes people are not asking authority to take control of the room.

Sometimes they are asking authority to understand the room.

Sometimes communities are not looking for authority to speak louder. They are looking for authority to listen longer.

Dr. Leo Gilling is a criminologist, educator, and diaspora policy advocate. He writes The Gilling Papers, where he examines policing, public safety, governance, and community-based solutions in Jamaica and across the African diaspora. Send feedback to editorial@oldharbournews.com