By Mike Ivancic
What do you do when you’re staring down the barrel of a life-altering decision? When a young rookie cop is shouting at you to drop your weapon, and you’ve got your foot on the neck of a teenager with a black matte .45 just a few feet from your face?
Seven years ago, I found myself on that precipice—on a muddy stairwell behind an apartment building I managed—my 9mm Desert Eagle pressed against the skull of a 16-year-old boy named Akuru Chan. But to understand how I got there, we have to go back.
It was the spring of 2010. I was 41, managing 50 properties, juggling a pending divorce, and raising three kids, ages 8 to 13. My life was messy—literally and figuratively. I was living with my girlfriend on 57th Street with an ex-meth addict named Kenny “Fuckin” Farmer living in the basement. (Yes, that’s how he first introduced himself.)
One night around midnight, I got a call from Tyrone—an Army Ranger veteran and tenant of mine. “Mike, you need to get over here. Some shit’s about to go down.” Tyrone lived in one of my buildings on 9th Street, and even though drugs had taken a toll on him, he was a good man. So, when he called, I didn’t ask questions. I got out of bed, grabbed my gun, and called for Kenny.
With a Mossberg pump-action in Kenny’s hands and my pistol in mine, we rolled out in my1979 Ford Econoline. I also called the police and told them there were armed suspects behind the building and to approach from the 9th Street side. Of course, they didn’t.
I beat the patrol cars to the scene and took the 9th Street driveway myself—slamming through mud and gravel at 40 mph. I jumped out of the van before it stopped, yelling at the group of young men loitering behind the complex. One bolted. I chased him.
That young man was Akuru Chan.
He sprinted up the back stairs and, while still climbing, reached behind his waistband and pulled out a chrome .45. I had a split second to act—shoot him in the back, run, or charge him. I chose to go forward.
Somehow, I closed the distance in seconds. I grabbed him by the neck and took him to the deck. My left foot pinned him down while my pistol pressed against the back of his head. I was prepared for anything—except what happened next.
A young rookie officer, still in his light-blue probationary uniform, appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Gun raised. “Drop your weapon!” he shouted.
I shouted back, “Fuck you, get me some handcuffs!”
He repeated himself. So did I.
Then, another officer—a familiar face—walked calmly around the corner. “Hey Mike, what’s going on?” No panic. No gun drawn. Just a man who knew me and knew the streets. I holstered my weapon and explained the situation.
They cuffed Akuru and took him down the stairs. But Kenny called out—they’d missed the gun. It was stashed in a stove on the deck. I led an officer back up to retrieve it. Along with the weapon, they found stolen property and drugs.
Akuru, just 16 at the time, was ultimately let go with minimal consequences. Years later, he was sentenced to 12 years in prison for first-degree burglary and attempted robbery. I often wonder what could’ve changed his trajectory. His name in a headline could have been about a graduation, a youth mentorship program, or a second chance. But it wasn’t.
We failed him—his family, the system, all of us. And I carry that truth with me.
As for the rest of the cast that night?
Kenny “Fuckin” Farmer got clean and now lives with his partner, a woman in the legal field. My Hungarian girlfriend and I shared eight years together before she moved to Portland with her dog Sodapop and her cat Indie.
I’ve lived a life filled with unpredictable moments, but I believe this: sometimes a stranger just needs a friend. And sometimes, it’s okay to be that friend—if only for a night.
Thank you for reading my blog.
I was certainly praised for going the extra mile and had several FPL supervisors send my name up the logistics chain of command. Also DC had mentioned my efforts to the supervisors at Powersecure. Later that hour DC got an email stating that they wanted me and my team to head out from Orlando to West Palm Beach as soon as possible. It was 7pm and I had to get back to the hotel, gather my team, check out, eat and get on the road for a 2-3 hour drive. We arrived just after 11pm. Day 1 was to begin tomorrow.
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