Virginia State Police Master Trooper Junius Alvin Walker was killed in the line of duty in 2013. Here, his family talks about the man they knew and loved.
Every day in cities, towns, and counties all across America, law-enforcement officers put on their uniforms and check their weapons in preparation for their tours of duty. Each of them is aware of the dangers of their chosen profession and the fact that this tour may be the end of their watch. Yet they still go to work and do their duty to protect and serve the communities where they and their families live. Most of them go home of the end of their tours, but not all of them do so all of the time.
When an officer falls in the line of duty — particularly when it is at the hands of a criminal — the media reports on the details of his or her death for as long as the story is considered “newsworthy.” If the officer was killed by a criminal, the last media coverage will usually be of the trial. Then, the newspapers, radio and television stations, and the Internet news media move on to other stories. The community more or less moves on. Social media posts go from viral to stale. But the family members live — day in and day out — with holes in their lives, holes that used to be filled by the man or woman who was that fallen officer.
Time may heal the wounds, but those holes remain.
At 1:40 p.m. on March 7, 2013, Virginia State Police Master Trooper Junius Alvin Walker reached his final end of watch doing what many officers do every day: assisting a motorist with a disabled vehicle. The difference is that this particular motorist — a 28-year-old, out-of-work barber with a history of mental illness and who was high on marijuana at the time — would later tell investigators that he had been hearing the voice of God and that the voice had told him to kill Walker.
Within seconds of Walker pulling alongside the disabled vehicle on the side of I85 in Dinwiddie County, Virginia, Russell Brown — who was alone in the car — raised a .308-caliber rifle and shot Walker. When Walker saw Brown raise the weapon, he attempted to get out of the way by pressing the gas pedal of his cruiser, but the first round entered his right arm and traveled through his body, piercing both lungs and coming to a stop in his liver. After Walker’s cruiser came to rest in the woods along the side of the highway, Brown approached the vehicle and fired three additional shots at close range. The medical report said any of the shots would have been fatal. Walker died at the scene.
Another Virginia state trooper came across the scene and saw Brown firing into the cruiser. He and Brown exchanged gunfire, and then Brown ran into the woods, discarding his clothes along the way. He was arrested a short time later by Dinwiddie County deputies, who found him hiding — naked — in a car at an auto salvage yard a half mile from the scene of the shooting.
The trial took more than three years to complete and only finished in August of 2016. Brown was found guilty and — thanks to a fairly recent Virginia law denying parole to felons — will spend the rest of his life in prison. Walker’s family, as well as his friends and coworkers, will spend the rest of their lives missing him.
But Junius Walker, who was known to family and friends as just “Walker,” has left behind more than just sadness and grief; he has left a legacy that impacts people who never even met him.
Perks Coffee Shop in historic Old Towne Petersburg, Virginia, is a cute little brick storefront café offering good coffee and even better conversation. It is owned by Walker’s widow, Liz Walker, who used some of the survivor benefits she received from his death to start the business. The shop is somewhat of a memorial to his life. Liz says the coffee shop is mainly a way for her to stay busy and interact with the people in the community.
Liz, who was married to Walker for 32 years, spoke with us about her husband and the ways her life and the lives of her daughters and grandchildren have been changed by his being taken from them. As she spoke, her memories painted a picture of a man who loved life and his family and gave of himself to his community. Even when Liz’s voice and face showed her sadness, her eyes were smiling through the tears as she remembered Walker.
Together, they had two daughters. Walker also had a son, Derrick, from a previous marriage, who lives out of the country and was away when Walker was killed. Walker’s two daughters — Clarissa Owen, 35, and Vera Jordan, 32, are married and have children of their own. Clarissa works as a nurse in a doctor’s office and has a daughter, Chloe, who is four. Vera works in a clerical position in the home health industry and has a son, Jackson, who is almost four and a daughter, Jaylen, who is almost five.
Liz told us it’s the moments — big and small — Walker’s family misses the most, adding that he was “the center of our holidays” so “the holidays are really, really hard.” Walker was “a fantastic cook and could cook anything.” Liz said he would sometimes make a big pot of chili to take to the station, just to share with the other troopers on duty. Some of the hardest things to get used to are the “little” things that will never be the same again. “It’s not fun eating dinner for one,” she said, adding that — whether just day-to-day or holiday meals with the family at home — Walker’s place at the family table “is still there, empty.”
His daughters miss those “little” things, too. Clarissa said, “I miss being able to have our talks, drink coffee together, barbecue on the grill, play scrabble, watch football games, target practice in the back yard.” She added, “You name it. My dad was a family man and we always spent a lot of time together.”
Liz also said Walker was a man with strong family ties and was a central part of his daughters’ lives. “Whenever they had a problem, and they called and they said, ‘Let me talk to dad,’ I knew it was something serious,” Liz said, laughing at the fond memory of her husband in his role as father. Then she added, “Him just being there made our days complete and now, there’s a big hole that will never be filled with him gone.”
Some things bring the pain of loss to the surface like nothing else can. When Liz’s mother passed away last year, Liz did not have Walker to lean on, and she said she felt that loss. Those who have had the loving arms of a husband or wife to comfort them in the loss of a parent can imagine how hard it would be to miss that comfort.
Liz said three years later, she still sleeps in the same bed she shared with Walker. “And, I still sleep on the same side of the bed. His side is empty, and I still leave him room.” She laughed again at that. Even in her pain, Walker has left her a place of joy in his memories.
The grandchildren were all so young when Walker was killed that the only memories they really have of him are second-hand. Liz told us, “My grandbabies are growing and they can’t see him. And he can’t see them grow up and experience their birthdays, their Christmases, and Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny. He’s not there for any of that.” Clarissa said, “I hate that he’s not here to see Chloe and my niece and nephew grow and become the intelligent, charismatic little people that they are.” She added, “They were all babies when my dad was killed. Their memories of their Papa come from the stories we share with them.” Those stories and the plethora of family pictures — as good as they may be — are poor substitutes for knowing the man Walker was, but for his grandkids who will grow up without him, they will have to do.
At least his wife and daughters have those memories to keep alive. Clarissa said, “Dad and I were very close, and we spoke to and saw each other often.” The last time she spoke to her dad was the night before he was killed. She said, “I vividly remember the last time we talked. It was the evening before he was killed. It had snowed that day, and dad called to check on me and see how my day had been.” Clarissa had been working as a home health nurse, and she and her dad compared stories about driving in the snow all day. “We talked about our treks in the snow; he talked about working wrecks all day. He offered me words of encouragement, as he always did — told me to keep my head up and things would get better. We made plans to see each other soon — hopefully the coming weekend.” Of course that weekend was spent on funeral plans for her dad instead of spending time with him.
Liz realizes that there are some similarities between her loss and the loss suffered by any other widow who may have lost her husband to an accident or a heart attack. But there are differences, as well. “The similarities are that it happens just as fast, it’s just as sudden, it’s just as unexpected, and terrible,” she said, “It’s totally different in that my husband was intentionally shot. He was murdered.”
And while neither race (Walker was black and his killer was a biracial male who identifies himself as black) nor Walker’s uniform (Brown said he was going to kill whoever came along to help him) seem to have played any part in Walker’s murder, the fact remains that by being the one to stop and offer help to a disabled motorist that day, Walker was a marked man. And it is impossible to separate that from his job as a state trooper. The reality is that Walker almost certainly saved the life of another person that day by taking the place of that person. Junius Walker died doing what that uniform stands for: protecting and serving.
As to the racial side of the equation, Liz has some insight. As a white woman married to a black man, Liz has seen her share of animosity. Liz and Walker married in 1980, years before biracial marriages were as accepted as they are today. As the wife of a black state trooper, Liz has no kind words for the Black Lives Matter (BLM) crowd and their war on police. “Yes, black lives matter,” she said. “My husband was black and his life mattered, too.” She added that many of her well-educated black friends do not buy into the rhetoric of BLM. As a woman who spent 32 years married to a black man as part of an intact family and who raised daughters who have intact families, she agrees with those who say that racist cops are not at the root of the problems in black communities, but that the problem is instead the collapse of black culture that has accompanied the collapse of the intact black family in the inner cities of America.
Clarissa agrees, saying, “All lives matter. My daddy’s life mattered, to me, my family, and our community.” She went on to say, “When I hear people bashing the police I get so angry. My father put on his uniform every day, tirelessly, religiously, and with great pride. He was a true hero.” As to the supposed racial divide, Clarissa said, “The divide between ‘us’ and ‘them’ needs to stop before we are left with a lawless, defunct society.”
Walker — who worked as a black man in the uniform of a Virginia state trooper — lived in the community he served. He was active in his church. He had neighbors and frequented businesses. He left behind a large family, including his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his 91-year-old mother, three brothers, three sisters, nieces, nephews, cousins, and a large extended family. None of those people will ever see him again, and — based on what this writer has heard of this man’s life — those people’s lives will always be the poorer for it.
Rest in peace Trooper Walker, and God bless you for your service.