I grew up in the 70s and 80s and had parents who came of age in the late 50s. My Dad told me a story once of he and a bunch of his Air Force friends being picked up by the (mostly) white/Irish cops in downtown Boston when they were partying on a Saturday night. They were thrown in a paddy wagon and remained inside while the officers went around picking up more “suspicious” characters. At one point, the officers threw open the back door and told the detainees to make a run for it. The hapless guy that thought it was his lucky day bolted and before he got more than about 50 yards, they tackled him and beat him bloody with their nightsticks. This was told to me as a cautionary tale when I was about 18.
I could, as could my brothers, tell dozens of stories about: being followed around stores by security, being stopped for no defensible reason and other stories of, what seemed to me, institutional racism. Thankfully I lived in the Northeast where cops are a bit less likely to brandish their weapons.
Sad to say that the second guy is lucky to still be alive.