A fallen deputy and a lost friend

Thousands pay respects to a man who touched more lives than can be counted.

By ABBIE VANSICKLE and BEN MONTGOMERY, Times Staff Writers
Published August 22, 2007

Several different speakers took the stage during the funeral for Hillsborough County Sheriff's Sergeant Ron Harrison at Idlewild Baptist Church on Tuesday morning.
	[Hillsborough County Sheriff's Office]

ADVERTISEMENT Funeral coverage Photos Video report Audio gallery Judge calls police to shoo 'O'Reilly' crew Sue Carlton: Whom do we blame? [Times photo: Kathleen Flynn] Faculty from Young Middle Magnet School on MLK Blvd stand with their hands on their hearts as motorcycle policemen lead the funeral procession for Hillsborough Sheriff's Sgt. Ron Harrison. "We have to pay our tribute," Assistant Principal Arlene McDermott said. "This gentleman gave his life." [Times photo: Brian Cassella] My Harrison, the ex-wife of Sgt. Ronald Harrison, receives a hug from a Sheriff's deputy following Harrison's funeral service at the Gardens of Memories cemetery. [Times photo: Brian Cassella] A man plays "Amazing Grace" on the bagpipes during the burial service for Sgt. Ronald Harrison.

TAMPA -- The daughter stood in a crisp white dress and high heels and took in the crowd of thousands.

In front of her sat the state's governor, sheriffs, politicians, prosecutors and row upon row of uniformed officers, gathered to honor a deputy who died in the line of duty.

She aimed her words not at them, but at Sgt. Ronald Harrison, who lay below her in a white, rose-covered casket.

"I'll miss the day when I get to tell you that I'm pregnant with your grandchild or the day that I get married and you won't be there to walk me down the aisle," said Ronnee Harrison, 23. "Daddy, there's so many things that I will not be able to share with you. ..."

Her words Tuesday afternoon silenced the nearly 5,000 people inside the cavernous sanctuary of Idlewild Baptist Church. The only sound was that of soft sobbing in the pews.

People began to arrive at the church on Dale Mabry Highway hours before the service to pay respects to the 55-year-old sergeant, shot to death Aug. 15 after leaving a DUI checkpoint. Investigators say his killer was a man with a history of arrests and a disdain for law enforcement, who died himself that day in a shootout with the sheriff's SWAT team.

The mourners walked quietly past the open casket, past the blue jersey from his youth football team. Ronnee Harrison had arranged it nearby.

A video montage showed photographs of Sgt. Harrison, accompanied by soft piano music.

One showed him driving the BAT mobile, a vehicle used at drunken driving checkpoints. In another, he smiled broadly, a proud new father with a baby in his arms. In a third, he looked serious as he gave commands to a bunch of young football players.

By 1 p.m., dozens of Hillsborough sheriff's deputies in white and green uniforms took seats behind the pulpit, where a church choir might sit.

Law officers from as far as Nevada, Tennessee and New Jersey filed into the room. Gov. Charlie Crist joined Tampa Mayor Pam Iorio and other local dignitaries in seats near the front. Harrison's family came in last. Several put their hands on the casket's lid, closing it gently before the service started.

As Ronnee Harrison began to speak, a woman in a pew about halfway back pulled out a tissue to wipe her tears.

Rosa Washington, a second-grade teacher, met Sgt. Harrison more than a decade ago. He was the best man in her wedding. She remembered him in his burgundy suit. Washington babysat his daughter.

When Washington divorced, Sgt. Harrison was there for her, too.

"Ron was a friend who never stopped being a friend," she said.

He was also the consummate professional, someone who led well and cared about his work, said Hillsborough Sheriff David Gee.

"He took that job, and he ended up making it his life's work," Gee said of Harrison's efforts to stop drunken driving.

"I know that if Ron has his way, he'll be commanding a checkpoint somewhere up in heaven," Gee added.

County Commissioner Kevin White, who knew the deputy for many years, said he was "a great man who protected everyone of us from hurt, harm and danger."

Though "Ron was a no-nonsense kind of guy," he had a sly and irreverent sense of humor, he said.

White recounted a story about Harrison in a room full of recruits. A trainer asked, "What would you do if you had to arrest your mother?" The recruits squirmed.

"But Ron said, 'Man, I'd have to call for backup!' " White said.

After the service, the roughly 2,000-vehicle funeral procession threaded its way through suburban Northdale to Interstate 275 to a gritty stretch of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, where the seemingly endless line of police cars passed tiny churches, body shops and homes.

For two days, electronic signs on the interstate had warned that the southbound lanes would close Tuesday afternoon. It still caused traffic snarls on Tampa cross streets such as Fowler, Fletcher and Hillsborough avenues when troopers blocked the entrance ramps to I-275 for nearly two hours.

Along MLK Boulevard, Tampa parks employee Tonya Green watched the procession from a chair in the shade. She had met Harrison a few times when he stopped her at DUI checkpoints near her home in the Robles Park neighborhood.

"He was just friendly about it. I wanted to pay my respects," said Green, 38. "People have so much hatred in their hearts. That man was just doing his job. Why would someone go up and shoot him like that?"

The roads in and out of the graveyard were lined by patrol cars from places like Alachua and Clay County and St. Augustine and Bushnell.

As the cavalcade arrived, mourners sought shade under oak trees. Many spoke fondly of Harrison.

Two columns of officers -- about 150 in all -- stretched in line from the white hearse to the grave, a cool spot between two tall oaks. Four helicopters flew overhead, south to north. One of them broke toward the east.

Before long, casket in place, mourners crowding around to see, a radio broke over the loud speakers.

"Hillsborough calling unit 2125 ..." a dispatcher said.

Nothing.

"Hillsborough calling unit 2125 ..."

That's when people began to cry. A big man bent down a little and rubbed his forehead. A woman turned away from the coffin. Someone released a flock of white birds.

About 50 yards away, Ray Chabot sat on a lawn chair. The Vietnam War vet had been in place for two hours. He drove over from St. Petersburg and walked in on a cane.

"I'm a recovering alcoholic," he said.

Chabot said he has been sober since 1992. He used to walk sometimes on Bayshore Boulevard, and Sgt. Harrison would stop to say hello.

"We were just acquaintances," he said. "Make sure you put that."

He couldn't recall when he met Harrison, but he remembered the sergeant. Figured he was a Christian man. He wanted to come to say thanks.

"He always wished me well," he said.

When it ended, prayers said and shots fired, Chabot folded up his chair and joined the stream of people walking away. Cemetery workers got on their knees and lowered Sgt. Harrison into the ground.

Times staff writers Mike Brassfield and Andrew Meacham contributed to this report. Abbie VanSickle can be reached at vansickle@sptimes.com or (813) 226-3373.

[Last modified August 22, 2007, 00:53:13]