VIDEO: Len Davis Final.mov

REWRITTEN: 2026-05-12 19:47:02

SCRIPT 560 OF 686

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We sitting less than a month out from Donald Trump sliding back into the White House for round two. And as President Joe Biden getting ready to close the book on his run, he commuting sentences for federal death row convicts. Good Monday evening and appreciate y'all tuning in, that might make headlines. One of them cats is from Louisiana. Roll it back to 1996, when a former officer named Len Davis put the order out to a hitter, had him knock off a New Orleans mother. Inside our lily comings he was from her peoples talking bout the change to his sentence. Three decades back Kim Groves got murdered right outside her crib in the lower 9th ward. The 32 year old mother of three had dropped a brutality complaint on Len Davis, an NOPD officer at the time. Groves complaint spelled out how she watched Davis put hands and feet on a young cat. Davis got the heads up about the complaint from another pig and brought in a shooter to body her. Davis later got hemmed up by an FBI narcotics probe that connected Davis to Groves getting clipped and exposed how he was covering for the triggerman Paul Kool-Hardy and his whole drug operation. In 1996 Davis caught the death penalty, fast forward to 2024 and in his last stretch holding office President Joe Biden commuted 37 out of 40 federal death row prisoners including Davis. Now Davis gonna ride out life in the box without parole. Groves son Corey told W.L. Louisiana in a statement, My family been living with the nightmare of Len Davis for over 30 years. I always wanted him to spend the rest of his life in prison and have to wake up every morning and think about what he did when he took our mother from us. Even though Biden saying he condemns the murderers and grieves for the victims, he promised to dead the federal death penalty and this is his most dramatic move yet. Meanwhile, Louisiana Attorney General Liz Murrell responded to Davis' clemency saying, We can't trust the feds to get justice for victims of heinous crimes. So it's long past time for the state to get it done. Lily Cummings, W.L. Louisiana They called him Len Davis but in the streets he carried a different name. One that got whispered, never said too loud, the Desire Terrorist. A shield on his chest, a burner on his waist and a reputation that spread faster than police radios through the 9th Ward. He wasn't just police, he was a hunter in blue, a sanctioned demon stalking the Desire projects like it was hunting grounds. Davis wasn't punching in to protect and serve. He was muscle and enforcer, a hired phantom for drug runners who needed somebody with authority to handle their grimey work. He cracked domes, kicked in doors and stripped dealers of their product and bread, not for evidence but for his own pockets. If you was hustling in Desire and you spotted him rolling, you already knew the night was bout to get ugly. There was no procedure, no Miranda, no compassion, just violence. The streets was talking, residents complained over and over and over, at least 70 times. Citizens went through the routine, paperwork, statements, scared signatures, telling anybody who would pay attention that this cop was wilding. 70 warnings, 70 red flags, waving in plain view. Nothing went down. His superiors turned a blind eye. The complaints piled up like bodies in a cold case file collecting dust going nowhere. No discipline, no suspension, no brakes applied. The system kept him moving, unchecked, protected by silence and indifference. In New Orleans, the badge was supposed to represent safety. With Len Davis, it represented terror and everybody was hip to it. October 12, 1994. New Orleans was already grimy to the bone but that night the grime had a wire wrapped around it. The FBI was pressed in, ears to the wall, listening to Len Davis chopping it up with Paul Kool-Hardy, a ninth ward name that rang out for all the wrong reasons. He wasn't just moving weight, he was a sanctioned problem solver, a shooter for hire who stacked corpses on the side and treated murder like freelance work. Coke cash kept his bankroll fat but violence was his portfolio. Catching Len Davis on tape wasn't complicated, he didn't conceal, he didn't need to. The badge had been his shield for years. All it required was an undercover fed playing crack dealer sliding him a burner phone like it was just another piece of equipment. No hesitation, no suspicion. Davis grabbed it like a man who already knew he was untouchable. This was all part of a federal operation called Operation Shattered Shield, a Justice Department mission aimed at ripping the mask off dirty cops inside the New Orleans police department. It jumped off Christmas Eve 1993, a present nobody inside NOPD wanted to open. By then, Len Davis wasn't fronting anymore, the oath was dead to him. On tape, his mouth ran wild, spilling the truth he'd been living for years. He said the department lost him a long, effing time ago. Said he was just rocking the uniform, nothing more. He'd straight up he wasn't police anymore. The badge wasn't a symbol, it was leverage, he boasted about it. Said he was on the job strictly to take what he could take, said he used the uniform to serve himself, not the city, not the people himself. And when it came to the civilians, he was sworn to protect his contempt was raw and uncut. F, the citizens, no hesitation, no sarcasm, just poison. That wire didn't just catch a dirty cop talking reckless, it captured a man who'd already crossed the line and torched the bridge behind him. Len Davis wasn't slipping, he'd committed fully. And the feds were finally listening while the city waited for the consequences. The year was already drowning in blood. 421 corpses stacked up across the city like unpaid debts, but even in a place numb to sirens and crime scene tape, one name cut through the static and froze the atmosphere. Kim Marie Groves The night before, it all exploded. October 11th, 1994. Kim Groves was standing there watching the block like any other mother who's learned to keep one eye open at all times. What she witnessed wasn't some random chaos. It was the law itself coming unhinged. Officer Len Davis and his partner had a 17 year old kid, Nathan Norwood, and they weren't arresting him so much as destroying him. Pistols came up not for protection, but for punishment. Steel met bone. The boy stumbled, bloody, barely standing. Learning the hard way that a badge didn't always mean mercy. Kim saw all of it. Every swing, every hit, every second where power turned into cruelty. By the next day, the streets were already buzzing. Tonga Amos, Norwood's cousin, wasn't built to let it slide. He reached straight for the Internal Affairs Division, dragging the incident out of the shadows and into official paperwork. Where lies usually go to get buried. Internal Affairs did what they always did. No urgency. No pressure. Just the motions. Clipboards, questions, blank faces. They called in Kim Groves. She wasn't a suspect. She wasn't a criminal. She was a mother who happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong truth in her mouth. She told them what she saw. She spoke plain. She didn't dress it up or back down. A uniform, a gun, a kid getting beaten in the street. In a city already drenched in death. Nobody knew yet that this testimony, quiet, procedural, filed away like thousands before it was about to become a death sentence written in invisible ink. Because in New Orleans, especially back then, telling the truth on the police could get you killed faster than selling dope on the wrong corner. And Kim Groves had just stepped into a storm she couldn't see coming. The word traveled fast. The way bad news always does in the streets. Len Davis's cousin, a guy everybody knew as little June, a caught wind that internal affairs was sniffing around, asking questions that could turn ugly. He didn't hesitate. He rang Davis and let the warning fly. That was all it took. Davis didn't panic. He didn't raise his voice. He just locked in. Be looking for something to come down. He said into the phone, his tone, flat, cold, already passed the point of debate. The kind of sentence that don't ask questions and don't leave room for mercy. By October 13th, the badge was back in motion. Davis rolled through the city in a marked cruiser uniform, crisp, gun heavy on his hip. His partner, Sammy Williams sat beside him quiet, riding shotgun like this was just another shift. But this wasn't police work. This was something else entirely. The radio chatter stayed low, but the real conversation was happening through cell phones.