The Night My Fiancé Died—and the Questions the NYPD Won’t Answer

As my fiancé’s life slipped away before my eyes, I was shocked that the cops didn’t perform CPR. When the same thing happened to Eric Garner, I wanted answers.

Illustration by Jess Smart Smiley

I worked late on January 24, 2013. The sun was long gone by the time I stepped out of my afternoon meeting and into the twenty-degree Manhattan air. I didn’t head straight home to Brooklyn, though; I stopped in an overpriced boutique and tried on a pair of $400 boots. I was supposed to be on a budget — my fiancé and I had just paid our wedding venue deposit, and we’d been bickering over how to cover the remaining expenses. But I’d had a productive day and a good meeting, and my communications consultancy had been growing steadily over the last six months. I told myself I deserved a little extravagance.

I decided against the boots. Still, it was almost eight p.m. by the time I rushed into our apartment, my bladder full and stomach empty. Matt and our dog, Amy, delivered a typically effusive greeting — all smiles and tail wags and eager waiting for hugs and kisses.

“I’ve got no time for you!” I yelped. “I’ve gotta pee!” I ran straight into the bathroom, gi…