Fitting Tribute

Remembering murdered loved ones in Miami's Liberty City.
Fitting Tribute




The dead live on in two-inch-thick plastic binders shelved atop the main counter of Mizrachi's booth. The binders, which he refers to as "the most popular library in the city," contain pictures of almost every person he has memorialized. The images are filed chronologically, by date of death. Customers flip through the binders while they wait for their new shirts to be pressed, passing time as if walking through a cemetery appraising gravestones. There's a young boy in cap and gown. Another picture is labeled "Baby." There's a guy named Kick Daddy and an older woman posing with a parasol. A young man squats with a pistol in his hand. His picture is labeled, at the customer's request, "Heaven for a G." The newest arrivals wait in plastic bags, photos to be filed in the binders later.

"In Memory Of a Hustler, Luciano Shuler a.k.a. Lucy."

"Damn, I miss my DAWG!!!" the words arcing slightly over a camouflage background.

"In Loving Memory Of Stank."

The dead also live on the back wall of the booth, on what Mizrachi's friend Judas, a tattoo artist, calls "The Spooky Wall." Dozens of pictures hang in a gallery. In a typical photo, a man in sunglasses squats, head cocked, holding guns in both hands. "We call that the prison pose," Mizrachi says. "That's the classic pose. Holding, like, a submachine gun or something like that. Then he's squatting down. There's a brick wall behind him. That's the pose. He's got a mean look on his face; he's a real big shot."

Throughout the booth hang samples of other products Mizrachi offers, such as buttons with people's faces on them. And flags, with images on each side, that can be attached to cars like sports pennants. One of the newest offerings is "dog tags," which cost $30 for a small tag, and up to $70 for larger ones encircled in fake gemstones. Mizrachi is always pushing the dog tags. "The shirts still sell more, but dog tags make more money," explains Leonard Brown, one of Mizrachi's three employees. Brown is 19, a kid from the neighborhood. His father was killed when "he was in the wrong place at the wrong time." He's been working at the booth after school and on weekends for seven years, mostly designing T-shirts. "To me a shirt is like love, you know what I'm saying? It symbolizes love," he says. "If you love that person, you're going to go out and get a shirt and just walk around in the streets to show people, I knew him, he was my homeboy and I got love for him and I miss him."

Customers can order pre-designed shirts, or they can create a design from scratch, using a picture they bring or a digital file. On a form they write the name of the deceased, along with the birth date and date of death, sometimes described on the shirt as "sunrise" and "sunset." Mizrachi or one of his employees scans the picture, then Photoshops it into a number of templates:

"In Loving Memory Of" atop palm trees or a beach scene or clouds and angels.

"In Thugin Memory Of" atop a picture of the Miami skyline and a pair of Cadillacs.

"In Loving Memory Of a Soldier" over camouflage and crossed guns.

"In Loving Memory Of a Player" over a roulette wheel and a pair of dice.



Johnson was the third Carol City High kid to be gunned down last school year. One student died in a robbery attempt; another went into a store to buy milk for her baby and was shot on the way out. Police say at least 60 people witnessed that shooting, but no one stepped forward to identify her killer. Rep. Meek called Johnson's death "a terrible tragedy for our community." On a memorial poster to Johnson hung at his high school, someone scrawled, "We can't keep losing our brothers like this."

The morning after Johnson died, Mizrachi arrived at his booth, unrolled the metal door, turned on the cash register, and fired up the copier, computers, and steam presses. "When I heard about that guy on the news, I called my guys and told them to be ready," he says. Outside there were people waiting, eager to put Jeffrey Johnson's face on a T-shirt.