The line stretches around
the Perkins Square Baptist Church at 2500 Edmondson Ave. Just inside the side vestibule, Baltimore Police Commissioner Anthony Batts is glimpsed in his dress whites. Uniformed patrol officers line the outskirts of the block amid double-parked cars, two school buses, and the hearse.
Standing in front of a brace of motorcycles parked behind one of the buses is Roosevelt Berkley. He says he coached Michael Mayfield in the James Mosher Baseball League since he was about 8.
So he knew Mayfield for almost half of his life.
Mayfield was shot to death on Wednesday, April 16. He was just leaving a family member's house at 2305 Lyndhurst Ave. He got into a minivan, and a man, or maybe another kid, ran up and shot him through the door. No one-or at least, no one who is talking-knows why. He was 17 years old.
Mayfield was the second of three children killed that week. Another boy, 18-year-old Raysharde Sinclair, was stabbed to death two days before after an altercation at a gas station at the corner of York Road and Winston Avenue. Then, at one in the morning on April 22, 14-year-old Najee Thomas was gunned down in his house on Roundview Road in Cherry Hill.
Thomas was the son of Ronnie "Skinny Suge" Thomas, who produced the infamous "Stop Fucking Snitchin'" videos that rocked the city a decade ago. The elder Thomas, who prosecutors say is a state leader of the Bloods gang set, has been locked up in federal penitentiary since 2010 for drugs, robbery, and conspiracy to commit murder. His mother was raising Najee, who reportedly wanted to grow up to be a lawyer.
Coming fast on each others' heels in a year when the murder rate is down, the three killings prompted calls for political and police action. Mayor Stephanie Rawlings-Blake called a May 13 teen forum to learn how to improve city services and outreach to youth facing violence.
City Councilman Brandon Scott attended Mayfield's funeral. He points to the limits of government intervention.
"We have youth connection centers coming," Scott says. "We just announced a new rec center in Cherry Hill. In this year's budget there are no cuts in services. . . . We all know about the billion-dollar school-building program. I'm a champion of all of that. We need that.
"But that's not enough. There will never be enough government programs to intercede the way parents-adults in our community-need to intercede."
Scott says he's angry. He points not at the gang leaders and shooters but at the adults in the community who do not work hard enough to keep youth away from them. "Too many men are just asleep," Scott says. "They go home, they don't want to be bothered . . . they don't want to get involved. Everyone can do something to help out."
Michael Mayfield was already doing that. He was part of the Inner Harbor Project, an initiative launched in 2012 to help teens mediate disputes and advocate for better amenities in the Inner Harbor-as well as better police relations. In his dress white JROTC uniform, Mayfield delivered a speech last summer at the organization's inaugural event.
He had already earned enough credits at Edmondson-Westside High School for graduation before starting his final semester.
He stayed on in part to play baseball. He was one of the best pitchers in town. Maybe the best.
"I saw him at the first [Orioles] night game, we played Boston," Berkley says. "He was sitting in the stands with his girlfriend and I just ran into him.
"For this to happen, it's just devastating to the heart."
This is what you hear about Mike Mayfield: He was a leader. He was funny. He was helpful. He was, in every way, exceptional.
"He was the kind of kid, he'd say, 'Hey coach, watch this!' You know he threw a pitch right in your face"-and here Berkley swoops his hand across his face, and then down to his knees-"it would drop like this."
Mayfield could throw a serious curve ball, even at 15, 16 years old.
"He was a genuine kid," Berkley says. "He was willing to teach. He didn't hang out on the corner. You see his grades-he wanted to get out of poverty."
Mike Mayfield grew up in poverty. Another coach, Ed Nottingham, says he remembers when Mayfield's mother brought him to the league at 7 years old. Sylvia M. Mayfield was the nicest person, Nottingham says. She died in February 2010, when her son was 13 years old.
She had sued Michael Drake for paternity. When she died, her daughter Tekeya took custody of Michael, according to court records. An aunt guided both their lives.
"Both his aunts are members of my church," says Jeannette Sykes, a member of the ministerial staff at the Empowerment Temple, waiting on the sidewalk out front. "Kids doing the right thing, but they're still in trouble-but they don't even know they're in trouble," she says. "It's either jealousy or a gang initiation."
A group of hard-looking youth gather 6 feet in front of Sykes. The young men are smoking cigarettes. One spits on the sidewalk. They decline to speak to a reporter. "It's just a sad situation," a big guy in a white shirt says. "That's all I can say."
After more than 40 years at the city Department of Recreation and Parks, and years spent doing prison ministry, Sykes knows the streets. Crips, she says, Bloods-they're both still powerful on the west side.
Sykes blames the parents who allow their children to have too many choices. "This continues to occur," she says. "Our kids don't learn from it. They always think they can get revenge for this."
Nottingham says Mayfield wanted to keep working all the time. "Mike was, at 7, more dedicated than most guys I played with in 31 years," he says. "He was a beautiful kid. I would never guess that this is what it would come to."
Thelphs Evans, another little-league coach, says Mayfield mentored the younger players-some as young as 4-as they bashed at tee ball. "He was not a boisterous kid," Evans says. "He was a quiet, serious kid. He's probably what we strive for in terms of helping our kids develop as kids. If we had our wish, every kid would be like Mike."
James Stuart, a friend from JROTC, says he last saw Mayfield about three years ago. "He always made people laugh, no matter what," he says.
The church is too full to fit everyone, and the funeral starts late. Three young people huddle near the steps of the church as the service begins inside. Jacob Caple is also a JROTC colleague of Mayfield's. "He was a good person," Caple says as fellow JROTC members Lyshae Rhoues and Keimya Cave look on. "He was always there for you."
Cave breaks away from a hug with Stuart. Mayfield helped train her for JROTC. "He taught me the facing movement," she says. "He was the one who told me to join the drill team, and I did.
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"I always wanted to thank him," she says. "Now I can't."
