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The Murder of Master Do

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In September, prosecutors announced the arrest and indictment of 17 gang members, including 23-year-old Johnny Charles and 24-year-old Frantzy Jean-Marie, who were alleged ringleaders in the Terrorist Boyz, a deadly group that committed more than a dozen murders throughout Miami-Dade County (at least one was in North Miami) in 2002 and 2003. Police said Charles, who called himself "The Angel of Death," lived in North Miami — and committed many crimes after cutting off a jail electronic ankle monitor.

The violence continued. Nineteen-year-old Gracia Beaugris was shot by Miami-Dade Police during a crime sweep October 26. Officers said he attacked them; the young man had no criminal record and was unarmed. In the wake of the shooting, folks in North Miami — and across the county — held vigils to protest what they said was an unprovoked attack and demanded an investigation.

Beaugris's shooting happened just off West Dixie Highway, across the street from Do's tae kwon do studio.

Ten days later, Jean Etheart, a 37-year-old security guard, was shot while patrolling an apartment complex on NE 18th Avenue, about a mile and a half from Do's studio. No one was arrested.

Finally, on November 10, a 14-year-old named Marc Petit and a buddy tried to rob Knight Auto Repair on NE 121st Street, about two miles from Do's studio. The shop owner confronted the two boys, who were unarmed. Police said the owner felt threatened and took out a handgun, shooting Petit dead.

It all happened as the North Miami Police Department was in turmoil. In late October, Chief Gwendolyn Boyd was fired after months of political skirmishes with Mayor Kevin Burns. She filed a discrimination complaint. Almost immediately after taking office, Interim Chief Clint Shannon organized a violent crime task force.

North Miami officers soon came head up against an entire generation of angry, wayward kids in North Miami — mostly dropouts and second- or third-generation Haitians — who thought crime was the avenue to success. "They say that's the only way they could make a living for their families," says Det. James Mesidor, a Haitian-American who witnessed the birth of gangs such as Zoe Pound and the Zombie Boys while he was a student at Miami Edison Senior High in the late Eighties. "They say job opportunities are scarce, the only way of obtaining money, gaining respect."

As violence surged around the studio, Master Do took advantage of his success. In 2005, the family moved from North Miami to Davie, where they built a house worth a half-million dollars. In 2006, Do and Shin took a vacation to Paris — their first European trip together in 30-plus years of marriage. And the family planned to open a larger studio in North Miami Beach, though zoning issues delayed the project.

Do invested more responsibility in Ricky, who was an accomplished tae kwon do master with a ninth-degree black belt and had a full-time job managing Miami Beach real estate. In his twenties, the younger Do had appeared as an extra in two martial arts movies.

On the Saturday of his shooting, the master planned to wash the Cadillac — his fourth; he loved big American cars — while Ricky and Kathy taught the 11 a.m. class. Then he would play golf before driving to Orlando to assume presidency of the Florida chapter of the Korean-American Association, a group he had been involved with for years.

About 9 a.m. he went to Rapid Oil Change on West Dixie Highway and then stopped by the studio to read the newspaper and chat with Ricky and Kathy. He called Leclerc Prosper, a young-looking 62-year-old Haitian-American with smooth skin and wide brown eyes. "Can you come wash my car?" he asked. Prosper agreed to meet him at noon in the parking lot.

Prosper parked his yellow van in the studio's back lot. He could hear students practicing inside, yelling "Kee-ya" as they kicked heavy bags. Do arrived a few minutes later. A pressure washer was fired up, and Prosper soaped up the black Cadillac while Do cleaned the interior.

The two were friends. "Okay, take a break now," Prosper joked to Do after just a few minutes of work. Then he turned his attention to the left front tire.

Suddenly gunfire sounded. "I was scared," says Prosper, who speaks English with a thick Kreyol accent. "That's a gunshot. I didn't look. I just kept putting water on the tire. I didn't want the guy to see me."

But out of the corner of his eye, Prosper glimpsed the man in a white shirt and dark, baggy shorts. He was about 20 feet away, holding a long brown rifle in both hands. "I swear to the Lord, I didn't see his face," Prosper says. However, he did see Do lying on the ground near the Cadillac. The shooter took a couple of steps toward Prosper and aimed at his legs. One bullet barreled through his left calf, the other through his right.

Prosper lay on the ground, bleeding and in excruciating pain. He looked down and saw the exposed bone of his left shin; then he spotted the shooter running from the parking lot and toward a black Mercedes waiting at a nearby Farm Stores market. A religious man, he closed his eyes and prayed as the Mercedes peeled off. God give me life, he thought.

Patrol officers soon arrived, and one of them called Sgt. Peter Cruz — Do's longtime student and a North Miami police veteran — at home. Cruz, who is 47 years old and looks a bit like a tougher Russell Crowe, was preparing to attend a baptism with his family. "When I arrived at the studio, rescue had taken Master away to be airlifted to Jackson," Cruz says slowly. "I heard he had been shot several times. I should have known it was over, but I was in denial."

Sgt. Scott Croye, a North Miami Police homicide detective, went to Jackson Memorial Hospital, where he spoke to Ricky and Prosper; they didn't know anything about the shooter. Then crime scene technicians found five shells at the scene. Later Croye spoke to employees at the shops nearby — a beauty salon, a Haitian notary, a cell phone store — but they claimed not to have seen or heard anything. Frustrated, Croye watched a surveillance video from the Farm Stores market. The camera had captured the Mercedes, but the license plate wasn't visible.

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