My People Are Rising (47 page)

Meanwhile, Pat and I had concocted a scheme to embezzle from the company she worked for as a bookkeeper, over time totaling around $35,000. We opened up a PO box and a business bank account in the name of a phony company. A friend of Pat's who worked at the bank helped us set up the account. Pat would issue checks to the phony company on the PO box, and I would deposit them in the business account. A sister who worked for a large insurance company in Marin County gave us a check for $60,000, which we deposited in our business account, giving her a cut.

Even though Pat already owned a nice Cadillac Coupe de Ville, we decided to buy a new car. She wanted a Brougham, the finest in late '70s luxury cars, so we purchased a yellow, custom Brougham with a Rolls-Royce grill and a Continental spare tire mounted on the back. We also bought a safe for storing our illegal loot.

The more money we made, the lazier I became. I decided to move back in with Pat. The cocaine hustle had dried up, and I didn't exactly mind. I had never liked selling anything, except for
The Black Panther
paper, and I certainly didn't like selling cocaine. Pat, however, was not going to settle for mediocrity and began to put pressure on me to bring in more money. On a trip to Los Angeles, she had met a Jamaican who professed to have bales of marijuana for sale. I called him to set up a deal and paid his way to Las Vegas, where we arranged to meet for the transaction.

I flew into the city of glitter and lost dreams, wide-eyed with wonder at the excessive wealth flaunted by almost everyone around me. I checked into the hotel and waited for my contact to show.

He was a medium-sized, brown-skinned, average-looking brother with a slight accent, not intimidating in any way. He put me completely at ease. In the morning I gave him five grand and waited for my product. It never came. I frantically checked the streets and casinos, trying to track down the cat who had taken off with my money. In my panic, I even thought about contacting the police—but, after calming down, I realized that was not an option. Finally, I tucked my tail and returned to Oakland.

The more I thought about being ripped off, the angrier I got. I was not used to being swindled. In the party, we did not let such incidents go without retribution, so I put on my steel face, rented a Pinto, borrowed Kenny's sawed-off shotgun and took my long-barreled .38, and headed to Los Angeles to get my money back.

I checked into a hotel near the airport and began to try to track down my prey. After many calls, I managed to speak with a Mexican who said he also had been ripped off, and would arrange for the Jamaican to meet me at a garage next to his house in East LA at 7 p.m.

I arrived early and sat in the car with the sawed-off shotgun across my lap, waiting and watching. I was now a free agent, a solo operator, no longer part of a whole, no longer with the support of comrades who had vowed undying love, who were ready, willing, and able to give their lives in sacrifice for a comrade. I mulled over different scenarios. What if this were a setup? What if there were others coming? What if they were armed? In the party, in such a situation I would likely have suspended this kind of thinking and gotten on with the action, but my inner voice, the voice that had helped me to escape death on many other occasions, was speaking to me in a steady cadence.

I sat in silence. Out of nowhere, a black cat slowly walked across the street in a front of my Pinto. To me, that was a clear sign to abort this operation. I was mildly superstitious, but considered together, there were too many factors to ignore. I swallowed my pride, started the car, did a U-turn, and drove off.

I drove back to the hotel and put my artillery away. I went to a club down the street, sat at the bar, and ordered a margarita, trying to come to grips with my decision to retreat. People were dancing and having fun, and it occurred to me that one of the bartenders looked familiar. I was taken aback when I realized it was Brenda Dunge, my first love.

“Aaron, is that you? I heard you were dead!” she exclaimed when she saw me.

“No, I'm not dead,” I responded. “How are you?” I asked, smiling and sipping my margarita.

“I left my family in Dayton, Ohio, and moved out here with my boyfriend,” she replied.

Brenda was as beautiful as ever. After finishing her senior year in Seattle, she had gone back to Ohio, married her fiancé, and had two children. And now here she was in Los Angeles, looking for magic, a different kind of life, just like everyone else who came to La-la Land.

I gave her my number at the hotel and left. I didn't expect her to call, but part of me was hoping to have the chance to catch up with her. After all, she was my first love. But I never saw Brenda again.

A few days after I returned to Oakland, Pat was informed that the FBI had visited the bank that held our business account. She and I had given our oath to each other that we would not go to prison. Now we had to make a decision. In panic mode, we opted to sell her Coupe de Ville and Datsun and left the Brougham with Big Malcolm. My Spitfire had been stolen. We put our belongings in storage and rented a car for a long-distance getaway, swapping out the license plate to avoid being tracked down by the cops.

Greatly complicating matters,
Tanya
had finally decided to let Aaron Patrice, now ten years old, come live with me. He arrived in the middle of all this. And Mildred Center, the medical student who had volunteered at the Panther clinic, the only woman I had ever called my true love, got in touch to say she was coming to visit. She would be arriving at the San Francisco airport the same day Pat and I planned to go on the run. The timing could not have been worse. To have my son and to be with Mildred were two precious things I had dreamed of, even though I had done little on my end to make them happen. It was an excruciatingly difficult time for me, and no picnic for Pat either. My actions over the previous year and a half had been as reckless as anything I had ever done. We had both gotten caught up, and now we needed to figure a way out. Regrettably, rational decision-making was absent.

I called Mildred with some feeble reason as to why I could not keep our special rendezvous, and I told Aaron we were taking a trip to Texas. Pat's four-year-old son, Patrick, also came with us. That night, as we drove away, headed toward Reno, I glimpsed the fading lights of Oakland. As the hills and glow of Oakland disappeared, I felt a burden lift. I was leaving my Black Panther memories behind. Oddly enough, I felt some degree of freedom. Being on the run can do that to you.

Reno; Cheyenne, Wyoming; Denver, Colorado; and Albuquerque, New Mexico, all gave way to our party of runaway bandits and two kids. With Aaron Patrice and Patrick in tow, we attempted to enjoy the road trip as much as we could under the circumstances, staying in five-star hotels, swimming in the hotel pools. On the road, I started a regimen of pushups and situps, inspired by a
Sports Illustrated
article about a college football phenomenon, Herschel Walker. I also started taking pantothenic acid, a B vitamin I had read was good for reducing stress.

Our ultimate destination was Jamaica, where we could not be extradited for crimes committed in the United States, but we were first headed for Texas. Houston was experiencing the biggest economic boom in its history, fueled by the growth in the oil industry. People were relocating there from all over the country as well as overseas. Every day, contractors were cutting down acres of trees to make room for new housing developments.

We jumped in with the flow, renting a two-bedroom apartment in northwest Houston. Pat got a job in her undercover name, Amina Brown. I was using the name Calvin Worthington. Sadly and reluctantly, I realized that Aaron Patrice had to be sent back to Seattle. I could not ask him to live a life with his father on the run from the law. I started writing a short story about two runaway slaves heading West, a sort of parallel to what Pat and I were going through. I had not picked up a pen to write in a creative fashion for almost ten years. The story seemed to beckon me, as if a hidden voice from the past were calling out to my creative side. However, the story was cut short, as was our stay in Houston.

We got word from Pat's mother that the FBI knew our location. Panicking, we put our furniture in storage in Houston, and took off for Beaumont, Texas, in the southeast corner of the state, to spend a few days with Pat's cousin, Evelyn. A petite, sweet Texan, seven months pregnant, Evelyn opened her home to us while we figured out our next move. The next day she took us on a tour of Beaumont. We tried to relax and get a feel for the town.

As Evelyn drove us through the Beaumont housing projects in the rental car, the Beaumont police began to follow us. Until now, we had gotten nary a glance from the authorities. We did not look like Texans, and why we ended up driving through the projects I can't recall. But it was enough to raise the suspicions of a small-time Southern cop.

When the red lights started flashing and the short burst from the siren began screaming, we knew we were in trouble. My mind started to spin. Evelyn stopped the car, got out, and waved back to the police car. Pat and I got out with little Patrick, acting nonchalant, as if this were just a routine stop.

Neighborhood residents were walking around, not paying us or the cops much attention, as Evelyn engaged in conversation with the officer. We knew that if the cops ran the license plate number they would discover the rental car and license plate did not match, and would eventually figure out that we were fugitives. Pat, I, and little Patrick began walking toward one of the buildings, talking to the residents, acting as normal as possible. Once we got to the building we ran inside, going down a long hallway to another door, exiting the building, continuing across the street and over an embankment until we came to a main road.

We caught a cab back to Evelyn's house, grabbed our belongings, and caught a cab to the train station. An hour later we were on a train to Chicago. We had barely escaped. Evelyn was our sacrificial lamb. We felt bad for putting her in this situation, but knew that if she were to be arrested, they would not hold her for too long.

On the train we got a private compartment. Pat and I did not say much on our journey through the Deep South up to Chicago. I wondered what little Patrick was thinking and feeling throughout this ordeal. The stress on Pat and me had been ebbing and flowing, and was definitely at high tide during this time. In Chicago I would have the opportunity to see relatives I had not seen in many years, although this was not exactly the occasion I would have chosen. But we had mastered the art of making the best of it.

We arrived in Chicago with our suitcases and caught a cab to my grandmother DeDe's house. Despite its being an unannounced visit, she was happy to see us. My grandmother was as gracious as ever. She lived alone in the large house on 71st and Calumet, the house full of memories of Grandada. He had passed away in 1968 while I was in New York, preparing to go the UN with Eldridge and the others.

There were so many childhood memories of Chicago in that house, memories of love and tradition, of childhood exploits and family unity. I thought about my father and his happy-go-lucky ways, always looking forward to the next adventure. My mother and her nurturing kindness. My brothers and my sister, and my cousins, Mark and Keith. How we used to run up and down these streets, dashing through the alleys in search of excitement, and forging alliances with the neighborhood kids. Those were sweet memories I had forgotten.

For now, we tried to make of most of this trip. My cousin Mark took us around to the tourist sites as well as local favorites. I visited with aunts and uncles and other relatives, not giving a hint as to the troubles that had brought me to the Windy City. I was no longer the quiet, shy, considerate little boy I had been so long ago. I was now a man trying to find my footing on shifting ground.

After several days, Pat connected with relatives in Louisiana and decided to go there for a while, taking young Patrick with her, with plans for us to meet up back in Houston. I spent time hanging with Mark, going on wild goose chases and odd adventures. Running low on cash, I began my hundred-dollars-a-day hustle, a con I had learned along the way. I would purchase a hundred-dollar traveler's check, report it stolen, and in the meantime cash it with my phony ID. Then I'd get reimbursed for the “stolen” traveler's check. This kept a little cash in my pocket.

Ma, my grandmother on my mother's side, took me to visit my grandfather Bop Bop, who had been stricken with Lou Gehrig's disease and was in a convalescent hospital on the outskirts of Chicago. I remember slowly walking into his room. I was not prepared for what I would see. There, in a low-lying bed, lay Roy Sledge, my grandfather, born in the same month as I was, and whom my grandmother and mother said I so strongly resembled. He could not speak or move a muscle. The degenerative disease had robbed him completely of his physical capabilities. When his gaze set upon his favorite grandson, the only thing he could do was release the tears from his brown eyes. I sat there, holding his hands, gently rubbing his forehead. Bop Bop had always dressed in a dapper suit and hat. He was a perfect gentleman and a man of few words, a man of respect and honor. He had taught us so many fundamental life skills—how to properly shine our shoes, how to be neat and clean and pick up after ourselves, how to be courteous.

I loved this man as I loved Grandada. I knew that Bop Bop would soon be joining him and the rest of our ancestors. I kissed Bop Bop on the forehead before I left, knowing I would not see him again in this lifetime. It was a very sad moment, yet I could shed no tears; it would be a long time before a tear would fall again from my eyes. I sensed that somehow, as crazy as this journey was, Bop Bop had been waiting for me to come say goodbye. Only a few days after my visit, he succumbed to the destruction of the horrific disease.