Donovan Lewis should still be here

It has taken years from her. In a small, innocuous courtroom – one of many in this building off High Street – Rebecca Duran, the mother of Donovan Lewis, a man who was killed by a Columbus police officer, was crying. 

Duran looked tired and yet powerful. She is here, after all.

Ricky Anderson, the ex-police officer initially indicted for murder in the killing of Lewis, had already accepted a plea to reckless homicide that did not include a recommended prison sentence, though he faced up to three years in prison.

It was only after family members spoke – some clear-eyed and measured, and others, like Duran, with necessary emotion – and the defense rested with Anderson offering something of an apology, that Judge Julie Lynch told the courtroom that what happened to Lewis was a mistake. 

I don’t envy police officers who have to knock on doors and serve warrants. I don’t envy judges who must sit in a courtroom and dispense sentences. I don’t envy that work, but all work comes with guidance. If it was a mistake, it was a mistake rooted in policies that permit a man to serve a warrant at 2 a.m., that permit him to fire a lethal weapon at a man holding a vape pen, that permit another officer to say to the man who was just shot that he is resisting even as he bleeds and writhes in pain while they’re putting handcuffs on him.  

For that mistake, Anderson was sentenced to three years of community control. (A civil suit filed in 2024 by Lewis’ family against the city of Columbus and Police Chief Elaine Bryant remains ongoing.)

When it happened, Lewis was the third person Columbus police had shot in about a week. Mistakes? All of them? Data shows that more than 60 percent of the people killed by police in Columbus are Black, but only 30 percent of the city’s nearly 900,000 residents are Black.

Journalists cover much ground, and when we drill down into an issue or a world, then we cover the territory over and over. For me, it has been how in a world of abundance, access to information, and, yes, beauty, so many struggle and die violent, unnecessary deaths. We have so many resources. We profess to know so much. And still, we call these deaths mistakes.

I walk back and forth across this territory. I report on it. I read and research it. I think about it at 3 a.m. There are strategies, protocols, and editorial frameworks for telling these kinds of stories. But at the end of the day, I’m a human writing about other humans grappling with immeasurable grief.

Years ago, after filing a story about Lewis, I was driving on backroads through Licking County. I pulled up to a stop sign, and someone had attached a board to it with the stenciled words, “Donovan should be here.”

Lewis was 20 years old when Anderson shot him. He had struggled emotionally and at times in his relationships with those who loved him. And yet, so many people loved him. He loved them, too. I spent months getting to know those people, getting to learn that Lewis was a marvel, and that he had died too soon.

I pulled over and took a photo.

I messaged it to Duran. As soon as I hit send, I wondered if it was the right thing to do as a journalist. And I wondered if it was the right thing to do as a human, as a parent. She was grieving, and maybe the last thing she wanted was some random photo from some random journalist.

She replied with gratitude.

Judge Lynch said that she sees cases like this once a year. But there’s usually not all the press, all the family in the courtroom. I believe her.

But we are here to witness. We are here to ask questions. We are here to call attention to mistakes in our community and in our justice system. 

After Lewis was handcuffed, officers carried him out the front door of his apartment and down some steps. At one point, they stumbled and dropped him. He was eventually rushed to Grant Medical Center where he was declared dead at 3:19 a.m.

Energy is neither created nor destroyed. Lewis’ story persists through those who loved him. Through his son, through his friends, through his mother’s resilience and bravery.

As long as they tell his story, Donovan Lewis is still here.