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Relatives bemoan tragic end for youth

Despite a troubled life, the 20-year-old was "good" and wanted to turn things around, family members say.

By REBECCA CATALANELLO
Published March 14, 2006

TAMPA - Hours before Dexter Bingham was shot to death, his aunt and uncle lay hands on him in prayer.

The 20-year-old had had his troubles in his short life. But the people who knew him best, who'd loved him since he was a baby, believed his heart was good.

"I'm going to change my life," Bingham told his great-aunt Phillis Bivens before he asked her and his uncle Melvin Bivens to pray for him that night, March 3.

By 10 p.m., Bingham, the third-born son of Bridget Henry, was dead in a street a few steps from where he, his father, his uncles and brothers all used to play Belmont Heights Little League.

On paper, Dexter Bingham looked like a dangerous person.

When Alice Mann, 41, ran a background check on him after he applied at Popeye's on E Fletcher Avenue four months ago, she called in her area manager to meet Dexter. His record showed arrests back to age 11, and a rap sheet that included aggravated battery, burglary, vehicle theft, battery on a law enforcement officer and cocaine possession.

Mann couldn't make sense of it. He was so respectful - all "yes, ma'am" and "no, ma'am" - and so eager to get his first real job, to get his life straight after a youth spent in and out of jail. Mann had a hard time turning him away. Her area manager spent 30 minutes with Bingham and came to the same conclusion:

Give him a chance.

"If I had met him not knowing he'd been in trouble (with the law)," Mann said, "I would never have guessed it."

Bingham's older brother, Michael, 24, said Dexter was a small kid growing up and was frequently picked on. As an adult, he stood 5-foot-6. Abuse from other kids became frequent enough that Michael decided to teach his brother how to defend himself.

"We had a real troubled childhood," Michael said.

Dexter was the third child in a family of seven being raised without a father. He grew up poor in the Ponce De Leon neighborhood, Michael said. By age 9, Dexter had joined the Goyams, a group of youths affiliated with his stomping ground.

It was, his brother said, an attempt to find "acceptance and a bigger family," but as time passed it evolved from a neighborhood clique to what law enforcement deemed a troublesome gang.

Within two years, Dexter had his first taste of the juvenile justice system, charged with aggravated battery.

But no matter how much trouble Dexter got into, he had a deeply religious family standing behind him. His aunts and uncles always believed the best of the boy. He was a kid who never stopped saying "I love you" to his elders. He was polite and attentive. But, they said, he kept falling in with the wrong people.

"He was such a good boy when it came to his family," said Phillis Bivens, who said she counted him her favorite nephew. When he wasn't in jail, he would visit her, go shopping with her, pray with her.

Dexter's great-grandmother was a Baptist evangelist, and every child, grandchild and great-grandchild knows about her.

When Dexter was a kid, his grandmother loved to show off how Dexter and his siblings could recite Bible verses. They'd stand before congregants all over Tampa and rattle off scripture like they were born knowing it.

"They were so beautiful," his great-aunt, Sunday Bivens, recalled.

Still, his journey in and out of jail concerned those who loved him. Every time he crossed the law, Michael said, Dexter took responsibility for his wrongdoing and steered clear of blaming others. He served his time, but his instinct to defend himself only grew with incarceration.

Just before Dexter died, he was riding in a car near Cyrus Green Playground with his cousin and girlfriend. He'd caught a glimpse of the lights shining over opening ceremonies for Belmont Heights Little League at the park on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard.

He suddenly wanted to go. Recently out of jail after a five-day stint for drug charges, Dexter wanted to watch the little ones play T-ball and baseball like he used to do. He wanted to see the new talent. He wanted, his brother said, to sit and imagine what his life might have been if he'd been around to play more baseball games as a kid instead of spending time in detention.

He was feeling good. He left Popeye's at 7 p.m. after his shift and flashed his beaming smile at Mann, whom he called "Ma." He'd stopped at his aunt's house and been prayed over.

"I'm going to change my life," he told her.

By 10 p.m., Dexter Bingham lay dead in a street, bullet wounds to his chest, just a half-block from the ballpark where he'd been watching the game. By 11 p.m., the aunts and uncle who'd prayed for God to protect their Dexter stood behind yellow crime scene tape and wept.

Tampa police have not arrested anyone, and have released no details about what occurred while the investigation is under way. But spokeswoman Laura McElroy said several people are cooperating with police.

Michael Bingham, Jr., could barely talk about his little brother's sudden death when it happened. Now, more than a week later, he has one explanation he's holding to with all his heart.

"God," he said, "took my brother's life so He wouldn't lose his soul."

[Last modified March 14, 2006, 00:53:05]