Panther Baby (8 page)

Th
ere were no direct come-ons from Lefty for the next few days, but his body language and the looks he gave me were a clear sign that he was going to make a move.

Two weeks later the guards took me out of my cell to go to court. I was handcuffed and placed in the back of the “hell wagon,” which drove from Rikers Island to Manhattan Supreme Court escorted by two police cars. As we pulled up to the court building, I heard a crowd chanting, “Free the Panther 21. All power to the people.” I peeked through the grated window slit and saw a hundred or so Panthers standing in military formation in front of the building. Directly behind them were several hundred demonstrators—white, Latino, black—a rainbow of people pumping their fists and shouting. I knew that twenty-one of us had been indicted (although three or four eluded arrest on the morning of April 2), so this demonstration was for us. We were the Panther 21. I shouted “Power to the people!” through the vent in the window as the hell wagon sped by the demonstrators.

Th
e cops turned me over to court officers who led me to a courtroom. I saw Afeni, Lumumba, Dhoruba, and the rest of the incarcerated Panther 21. We greeted each other with clenched fists. We were flanked by William Kunstler, Gerald Lefcourt, and several other lawyers who had become part of our defense team.
Th
e court clerk read off the counts of the superseding indictment. More conspiracy charges and overt acts had been added.
Th
e lawyers asked that our bail be lowered.
Th
ey related stories of neglect, abuse, and torture that had been inflicted on members of the Panther 21. Many were being held in dirty isolation cells and denied visitors. Several had been attacked by guards. Lee Berry, twenty-four, a Vietnam vet who developed epilepsy from wounds received in combat, had experienced a series of seizures and had been denied medical treatment.

Th
e judge denied all motion for bail reduction as well as any change in prison treatment. At this point Lumumba called the judge a fascist and asked, “Why don’t you just sentence us right now and get it over with since we’re being railroaded.” Dhoruba and other Panthers shouted out Panther slogans and insults.

Th
e Panthers were unmatched in ability when it came to verbal assaults and kung fu dialogue. Signifying, sounding down, or playing the dozens was an oral and cultural tradition in the black community. Verbal sparring could break out at a party, on a street corner, or in the subway.
Th
e person who delivered the sharpest, funniest, and most degrading lines about their opponent’s looks, relations, or status won. “I’ll slap the taste out your mouth, you tree-jumping, welfare cheese-eating, nobody-wants-your-greasy-ass jackrabbit son of a bitch.”
Th
e Panthers combined the blunt-force gut shot of a dozens-style insult with a razor slash of revolutionary politics.

So when presiding Judge John Murtagh, a white-haired conservative racist who liked to present himself as refined and scholarly, was called “a foul-breathed, lynching, grand-dragon-looking, fascist pig,” he was stunned. Defendants weren’t supposed to speak in court, especially not his court.
Th
ey were supposed to communicate through their lawyers, especially if they were poor black defendants who were facing hundreds of years in prison.
Th
ey were usually docile because they were genuinely afraid or because they were playing the role of “repentant” before the all-powerful white courts. But Murtagh now had a courtroom full of “uppity niggers” who felt nothing but contempt and rage for a system that denied them their rights and treated them like animals.

Our radical attorneys were not much better. When Judge Murtagh would instruct them to quiet us down, they would press the case for lower bail and humane treatment, emphasizing that we (the Panthers) had a right to be outraged at our treatment. Over a chorus of “Power to the people,” “Death to the pigs,” “Get your motherfuckin’ hands off me,” Murtagh banged his gavel and we were escorted from the courtroom.

Th
e lawyers were able to convince Murtagh to allow us an attorney-client conference in the holding cell. Tempers were still running high when the guards opened the cell door and let in the attorneys, along with Afeni Shakur and Joan Bird from the women’s cell. It was now clear that this wasn’t just a trumped-up “meatball” of a case that was going to be dismissed.
Th
ey had arrested the entire leadership of the New York Black Panther Party and were trying to put us away for the rest of our lives. I learned how the cops had pointed guns at children and hit Panthers with gun butts during the April 2 raids.
Th
e content of apartments and homes had been trashed and destroyed during the searches. Wives and children were struggling for food and shelter while their mates and fathers were in jail.

Members of the Panther 21 provided for their families with jobs ranging from community organizer (Afeni Shakur) and transit authority worker (Kwando Kinshasha) to computer engineer (Sundiata Acoli) and biochemical researcher (Dr. Curtis Powell). In our ranks were a visual artist (Dhoruba Bin Wahad), a poet (Kwesi Balagoon), a writer (Cetewayo Tabor), a film lab technician (Shaba Om), a laborer (Baba Odinga), and a military veteran (Ali Bey Hassan).

Th
e Panthers formed a fearsome military column when they lined up in black berets and leather coats. Beneath the berets were young men and women who had come to realize that their individual problems were connected to all oppressed people. Students, veterans, ex-convicts, young mothers, workers, street people—the composition of the Panther 21 reflected the broad membership of the Black Panther Party.
Th
ey were the folks that Malcolm X called “the grassroots” and that Frantz Fanon called “the wretched of the earth,” coming together to study, work, and sacrifice in a movement that articulated their frustration, their rage, and their need for positive action to change the conditions around them.

“What the hell is going on with these trumped-up charges?” the Panthers wondered out loud as we huddled around our attorneys.
Th
e lawyers still didn’t have a clear picture of District Attorney Hogan’s case against us.
Th
ey had been frustrated at every turn at their attempts to get information even with the court rules of pretrial discovery. But one thing they had learned was that the New York chapter had been infiltrated.

“
Th
ere are two undercover cops who say they were there for all of the meetings and all of the training,” Gerald Lefcourt said. “
Th
ey are part of a special undercover unit known as BOSS—Bureau of Special Services. One of the cops’ name is Gene Roberts.” I knew who Gene was. Brother Gene, as we called him, had been a Black Muslim and Malcolm X’s bodyguard. He was three feet away from Malcolm when he was shot at the Audubon Ballroom in Harlem.
Th
ere was a photo in
Life
magazine of Gene Roberts giving Malcolm mouth-to-mouth resuscitation as Malcolm’s body lay on the stage covered in blood.

“Brother Gene is a pig? I can’t believe it,” one of the Panthers said.

“
Th
e other cop is Ralph White.”

“Who the hell is Ralph White?” someone asked.

Gerry read another name from the court papers. “
Th
e name he used in the Panthers was Yedwa.”

Time stopped when I heard Yedwa’s name. Head spinning, heart pounding, brain contracting. Yedwa was a cop? He was my teacher, my mentor, my big brother.
Th
e father I never had. He came to my house and convinced Noonie to let me come back to the Panther office. How the hell could this be?

Afeni broke the silence that had numbed the room. “I’m not surprised,” she said. “Yedwa always acted like a reckless agent provocateur. I knew he was a pig.” Afeni was a fiery Panther leader who never held back her opinions or edited her feelings. She and Yedwa had often argued about his brazen comments and reckless behavior. We had considered Yedwa a “crazy nigga”; Afeni considered him dangerous, and in the open forum of a stormy Panther meeting had called him a pig. Lumumba censured Afeni, saying that she was being “overemotional” and that such accusations should not be made between comrades without concrete proof.

But now the truth was undeniably and disgustingly upon us. Yedwa was a pig. I wrapped myself in anger.
Th
e feeling of betrayal was too hard to process. I mumbled something like, “Yedwa is a traitorous pig,” as the guards came to take us back to our various jails. Like a zombie, I allowed myself to be handcuffed and loaded into the paddy wagon. By the time I was processed back into Rikers it was 1 a.m. I fell into a deep, coma-like sleep.

8

When Prison Doors Open, Dragons Fly Out

I
was still numb when the guards woke us up the next morning by turning on the cell lights and blaring the “Get ready to lockout for breakfast” announcement on the loudspeakers. I had a dream about the Panthers ambushing the armored hell wagon on the highway and breaking me out, the assault team led by Yedwa, who explained that he was a double agent who infiltrated the police force on behalf of the revolution. The clanging of cell doors opening brought me back to reality. “Yedwa is a pig!” I declared to myself. If you see him, then it’s SOS, which was Panther terminology for “shoot on sight.” I stepped out of my cell a different person. I felt detached from my surroundings. Like I was in prison, but not. Like I was alive, but not.

Yedwa, Kinshasha, and other Panthers who were combat veterans talked about the “I don’t give a fuck whether I live or die” attitude necessary for survival on the battlefield. Soldiers who cared about living and making it back home alive were usually the ones who got wasted. My cell partner, Manny, talked about the “don’t give a fuck” attitude as it related to doing time. “Dudes that walk around worried about what their girl is doing on the outside and whether or not they’re going to make their parole date always draw bad luck,” Manny said. “
Th
ey usually get jacked up by somebody because they’re thinking about the street instead of concentrating on doing time.” I walked down the tier as cool as can be. Anyone checking my face would have seen a vacant, combat look in my eyes. I had been arrested, beaten, betrayed and was probably going to get a life sentence. What more could they do, other than kill me?
Th
e last twenty-four hours had bitch-slapped the self-pity and fear out of me. I was a young soldier now.
Th
is was war. My mission was to make revolution, and I no longer gave a fuck.

Ho Chi Minh, the leader of North Vietnam, wrote, “When prison doors open dragons fly out.” I adopted this as a personal mantra along with Malcolm X’s quote, “
Th
e Penitentiary has been the University for many a black man.” Adolescent boys usually left prison as jail-hardened men who learned to be better thieves, robbers, and drug dealers from their fellow prisoners. I was determined to be a better revolutionary and to create an army of dragons who would be ready to fly out when the prison doors opened or were broken down. I managed to smuggle back some Black Panther newspapers and several books in the stack of legal documents the lawyers had given each of us in court.
Th
e guards that strip-searched you when you returned from a court trip were more interested in finding drugs, money, or filter cigarettes than written materials, and I was able to sneak in more books and literature with each court trip. Soon I had a small library ranging from Frederick Douglass to Che Guevara. I organized study groups and political education classes. We tutored the guys who couldn’t read and started martial arts classes. All this happened after I did thirty days in the hole for attacking Lefty.

I
WALKED INTO
the day room the day after I learned about Yedwa.
Th
e day room was a large recreation room that contained a Ping-Pong table, card tables, and chairs set up in front of a mounted television. I stood near the back of the rec room watching the evening news. Lefty was at a card table playing blackjack for cigarettes.

“What’s up, baby?” he said, squeezing his crotch as he smiled at me.

“My name is Jamal. All right?” I answered in an annoyed voice.

Lefty and the other inmates at the card table chuckled and went back to their game. I watched the news for a few more minutes and left.

Lunch the next day was mashed potatoes, gravy, and
ground meat patties, or “murder burgers,” named that because they were so hard to digest. I came off the mess-hall line carrying my tray and passed Lefty who was sitting at a table with the rest of the house gang.

“What’s going on, baby?” Lefty called out as I passed.

I froze, stomach curling into a tight knot. “I told you my name is Jamal.”

“Yeah, all right, baby,” Lefty said with a sneer, “or maybe I’ll call you Panther baby.” He laughed and took a bite of his murder burger.

Before I even realized what was happening, I smashed Lefty in the face with my tray. Lefty fell back, his legs still hooked around the seating bench. “Oh shit,” he cried as he tried to swing up at me. I clubbed him three more times, then began to stomp and kick him as he writhed on the ground.

“I ain’t nobody’s baby. You hear me, motherfucker? I’m a man!”

Lefty was stunned. Blood from his nose and mouth mixed with the mashed potatoes and ground meat I had smashed into his face. I tried to turn the table over on him as Merciful struggled to hold me back. “
Th
at’s enough, man, you got him,” he said, trying to calm me down. “You gonna catch another case.”

I punched and shoved Merciful and tried to get back at Lefty who had pulled himself to one knee. Guards were now on the scene. Several grabbed me and handcuffed me and carried me out of the mess hall. Captain Woods and the disciplinary committee gave me thirty days in the bing for fighting. “You broke that boy’s nose. You know that?” Captain Woods informed me. I just stared straight ahead. “I don’t know who started it,” Captain Woods said, “but I’m sure that guy had it coming.”

I worked out three times a day in the bing. Jumping jacks, push-ups, sit-ups, and punching my rolled-up mattress like a heavy bag. I knew I would have to fight Lefty again and probably some of the house gang. I wondered if Manny would still lend me one of his figas.
Th
is situation had surely become life and death. Twenty-nine days later the guards took me back to
Th
ree Block.

Everyone was locked in their cell for the afternoon count when I walked down the tier. Every afternoon and evening inmates were locked in their cell and had to stand when the guards came by to count everyone.
Th
is was to make sure you were really in your cell and were still alive. As I passed the cells, various prisoners nodded and spoke: “Hey man, what’s happening, Brother Jamal?”
Th
e guards locked me in the cell with Manny who told me that Lefty had been transferred upstate to serve his time. I still expected beef with the rest of the house gang, but they treated me with total respect. Merciful, whom I had punched, approached me in the day room. “We cool?” he asked.

“I’m cool if you’re cool,” I replied.

Merciful nodded and let me know that I now had a “rep” throughout the cell block and that I could have a spot on the house gang if I wanted.

“No thanks,” I replied. “You know how I feel about that neocolonialist, slave overseer, Uncle Tom bullshit.”

Merciful smiled. “You a heavy dude, you know that? A real black-power soldier.” With that we banged fists and made peace.

M
ORE INMATES JOINED
the PE classes and martial arts workout. We formed a prison cadre, complete with a code of conduct:.

No juggling

No booty bandits

No hard drugs

No collaborating with the guards

We formed a cooperative with our own stash of commissary items and toiletries. If a brother needed cigarettes or cookies, he borrowed it from the cooperative and paid it back on commissary day. If a new inmate came into the cell block, the cooperative would give him a little welcome pack with toiletries and a few basics to get him by until his first commissary day.
Th
e house gang and the jugglers didn’t like what we were doing, but our cadre was about forty prisoners strong and we knew how to rumble.

Th
e guards would often break up our meetings and workouts, calling it unlawful assembly, but we would simply reconfigure into smaller groups and continue our sessions. Captain Woods and other officials would stop by my cell to ask if everything was all right. I would smile and say, “Considering that I am a political prisoner of war in a concentration camp, everything is just swell.”

Th
e smuggled Panther literature and regular newspapers that reached me gave me a harsh sense of the battle being waged on the Black Panther Party by the government. FBI director J. Edgar Hoover testified before Congress in June 1969, saying, “
Th
e Black Panther Party without question is the greatest threat to the internal security of the country.” Hoover used this moment to get Congress’s blessing to wage a public as well as secret war against the Black Panther Party.

Every week I would read or hear about a Panther office being raided, Panthers being arrested, or Panthers being killed. Fred Hampton and Mark Clark were murdered when the Chicago police raided a Panther apartment there. Fred was a gifted speaker who was organizing the gangs in Chicago.
Th
e police shot him multiple times as he lay asleep and unarmed in his bed inches away from his pregnant wife. Fred was twenty-one. Panther offices were bombed and destroyed in Newark, Denver, and Des Moines.
Th
ree days after Fred’s murder, the Los Angeles police attacked the local headquarters in that city.
Th
e Panthers resisted, led by Deputy Minister of Defense Geronimo Pratt, and a sixteen-hour shootout ensued. I would sit in my cell at night thinking about fellow Panthers, some just a year or two older than me, wounded and dying on the street. I felt angry and at the same time frustrated and ashamed that I wasn’t on the battlefield with them.

Th
e prison cadre movement spread to other cell blocks. Young prisoners would pass in the hallway and salute each other with “Power to the people.”
Th
e number of fights and incidents of rape dropped dramatically. We were allowed to go to the yard once or twice a week. Inmates would usually make a beeline for the basketball court, shoving each other for the balls and team positions. One fall day we entered the yard and no one ran for a ball.
Th
e basketballs, footballs, and softballs just lay on the ground. Instead we lined up across the yard and started performing a karate kata that I had taught the inmates. Captain Woods and the other officials watched.

Around 2 a.m. the next morning Captain Woods and a team of guards came to my cell. “You’re being transferred, Mr. Joseph,” Captain Woods informed me.

“What are you putting me in the bing for?” I protested.

“It’s not the bing. You’re going to another prison.”

Th
e cell door rolled opened, and Manny jumped into a fighting stance.
Th
ere were about twenty guards outside. We had “no wins” in this situation.

“It’s cool, brother,” I said, patting Manny on the shoulder. “I’ll be all right.” I gathered a few things, leaving most of my books and commissary with Manny.

“Watch your back, bro,” Manny said with clenched fists. “Walk slow and drink plenty of cold water.”

A police escort drove me to the Queens House of Detention, commonly known as Branch Queens. I was processed and taken to the segregation floor. All my Panther comrades were there. Our lawyers had finally secured a court order directing the Department of Corrections to house us together so we could prepare for trial. Corrections had previously resisted these requests, saying that we were high security risks. We had all been organizing in our various prisons.
Th
e authorities now realized it was a greater risk to their security to have Panthers on the loose in the general prison population. So with the exception of Joan Bird and Afeni Shakur, who were still in the Women’s House of Detention, we were now all in one unit.

Our cells filled with documents and law books as we prepared for trial. Eight months had gone by and our lawyers were still fighting to see all of the evidence that would be presented at our trial. We would fill the tiny conference room and talk about how to fight the case. William Kunstler had left the defense team to begin the Chicago Eight trial. Bobby Seale, Abbie Hoffman, Tom Hayden, and other radical leaders were accused of conspiracy charges growing out of demonstrations that happened at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago. Bobby, the cofounder and chairman of the Black Panther Party, had been bound, shackled, and gagged in the courtroom when he demanded to defend himself. Like Dred Scott, a man who was remanded by the courts back to slavery a hundred years earlier, Bobby’s treatment reflected the legal opinion written by the Supreme Court in Scott’s case, which said, “A black man has no rights that a white man is bound to respect.” We knew we were being railroaded and that we had to make our trial a symbol of resistance.

Gerry Lefcourt had become our lead attorney. He was twenty-six years old and had only tried one major case before this. I knew he was nervous about being lead counsel when so many lives were at stake.

“You can do it, brother,” Lumumba said to Gerry. “Besides they’re giving us three hundred years no matter what goes down, so just give ’em hell.”

Th
ere were other young attorneys who had come to join the fight too: Carol Lefcourt (Gerry’s sister-in-law); Bob Bloom; Sandy Katz; Marty Stolar; Bill Crain (who was my attorney); and Charles McKinney, a distinguished older African American attorney who had enormous trial experience.

Afeni announced that she had decided to defend herself. She had read Fidel Castro’s book
History Will Absolve Me.
Fidel, himself a young attorney, had been facing life in prison for acts of insurrection against Batista’s Cuban government. He told the court that no matter what sentence it imposed, history would prove that the idea of revolution was just and timely. Afeni wanted to address the court and the jury to let them know that she was a “freedom fighter.” Lumumba and other Panthers protested, saying that Afeni would get too emotional. Afeni stood firm, declaring that since nobody else was going to do her three hundred years, nobody else could tell her how to defend herself. I agreed with Afeni, although it was clear that her decision was not up for vote. Cetewayo “Cet” Tabor announced that he would defend himself as well.
Th
ere was less resistance to his decision. Cet was an eloquent speaker with a booming, Paul Robeson basso profundo voice. Charles McKinney and the other attorneys agreed that it would be good to have Panthers address the jury directly.