Nine Lives of a Black Panther Page 14

“OK, stay cool, brother,” Al tried to reassure him. “We’re on our way. Where are you?”

  “Victory Baptist Church,” he said excitedly.

  We all got in the car, and Lux drove to the church, but by the time we got there everybody was gone—even the student who had called. The only ones still there were the police, patrolling the area. From there, we headed to Jerry’s, because we were pretty sure Baba would be up there and he could fill us in on what happened since he had been at the meeting.

  We walked in the door, and Baba was there, as we had guessed. “Do you know what happened at the church?” Baba asked, not even waiting for us to get all the way inside.

  “Not really,” Al answered.

  “Those pork chop nationalists shot Ronald,” Baba said angrily, before any of us could even ask.

  I got upset. “Where did he get hit? Is he alive?”

  “They got him in the chest and I think in his groin,” he replied as he paced the floor.

  “How did the shooting start?” asked Al.

  “Us didn’t want Ronald taking pictures at the event, so they confronted him. The next thing I know, loud popping noises are coming from outside, from the parking lot. I run outside, and I see Ronald lying on the asphalt in a pool of blood and Us driving away.”

  “Damn,” I said.

  “And check this out,” Baba finished. “The police are out there, watching the whole thing.”

  Jerry looked surprised. “And they didn’t intervene?”

  “Hell no!” Baba answered emphatically.

  The anger was thick in the room. We knew it would be difficult to retaliate because we were under intense police scrutiny.

  I looked at the group. “We need to bust a cap on these niggas. Move on them once and for all to get this shit over with.”

  Lux spoke up, trying to be our voice of reason. “But remember, we can’t forget Bunchy’s mandate.”

  “But Us is on the warpath, and Bunchy ain’t here—because of those suckas,” countered Al.

  “I know we want to take the high road and not go to war with a black organization,” I added in agreement, “but we need to let Us know they’re not dealing with punks. And we are not going to let them continue to shoot Panthers down like dogs in the street.”

  Everyone in the room nodded in agreement.

  We continued to discuss our options, acknowledging the role of COINTELPRO. We’d learned that the FBI was sending inflammatory letters in our name to Us and vice versa. They even drew cartoon books that they disseminated, depicting conflicts between the two organizations in order to provoke more violence. When I saw the cartoons, I thought the FBI must really be afraid of us, since they were trying to find a way for the two organizations to kill each other off. But the more we understood the FBI’s tactics, the easier it was for us to avoid falling into their traps.

  The leadership of the Southern California chapter decided to send Us a warning after Ronald Freeman was shot. But this kind of warning wasn’t in the form of a letter: bullets sprayed the homes of Us members as an initial notice. That punk James Doss, who went by Tayari, cried to the press about it. He was vice president of the Us Organization, so we knew that he was involved in Us hits on Panthers. He needed to be warned too, so his home was hit with at least thirty-five to forty rounds.

  Obviously, that warning was not enough. Us had a strong presence in San Diego and was known for harassing Panthers when they were out recruiting or selling papers. On May 23, 1969, a Karangatang named Tambozi confronted comrades John Savage and Jeffrey Jennings. That fool just walked up to them and started an argument. Then he drew a gun and shot John in the back of his neck. I heard that the Panthers drew guns, but they were late on the draw because they didn’t know the Us niggas would take it that far. That situation reminded me so much of what happened at UCLA. Us was out for blood, and we were treating them as if they were reasonable human beings.

  A few months later, three members of Us accosted comrade Sylvester Bell while he was selling papers in San Diego. They asked him if Us was being talked about in the Party newspaper. One thing led to another, and them Us niggas shot Sylvester. What was so cold was that he had fallen while trying to get away from those fools. They shot him while he was on the ground. That was some cold shit. At that point, Sylvester Bell became the fourth Black Panther Party member to be murdered by Us.

  The killing had to stop. But retaliation wouldn’t be easy, because we believed Us was working with the police, which meant that they were monitoring our moves. Putting a hit out on them niggas was going to be difficult. Still, we had to let anyone who worked with Us know that we would not be sitting ducks.

  G finally let us know when it was time to take action. He had been in a Special Forces unit while in the military, so he didn’t move on people with a lot of fanfare. He wouldn’t shoot people in broad daylight or at a school, like Us did with Bunchy and John. The Los Angeles branch of the Black Panther Party was more methodical and always made sure we had access to an escape route. G sent the muscle from Los Angeles to San Diego, they put in some work, and the killing stopped.

  12

  NEW BLOOD

  The Southern California chapter had suffered heavy losses. Within a year, the cops had assassinated three of our comrades, and the Us Organization had murdered four. And then there was Captain Franco, who got three bullets in the head because of an internal Party riff. Sure, I was aware of casualties in other chapters: the cops killed Bobby Hutton in April 1968 in Oakland, and Alex Rackley from the New York chapter was found dead in Middlefield, Connecticut, in May 1969. But our chapter seemed especially hard-hit. Despite the blitz of dirty tricks, espionage, and bloody murder, I understood that such danger was the consequence of our no-compromise position on self-defense, and our stance would lead to even more casualties—maybe including me one day. I chose to live with that reality and take it one day at a time.

  During one of those stressful days, while I was working at the Watts office, this fine, sassy, brown-skinned girl walked in. She had a beautiful laugh and sparkling eyes. I welcomed her and introduced myself. Her name was Pam, she said, and she had dropped by the office with her friends on the way home from Jordan High School. I was playing a speech by Eldridge Cleaver—we made sure the community could hear speeches by putting the speakers outside. Pam and her friends stopped to hear the speech, so I engaged them in conversation. At some point in the exchange, I asked for her phone number, and to my delight, she gave it to me. I called her a few days later. We set up a date for Friday night and planned to meet at her home in the Imperial Courts project.

  I took Tyrone with me to Pam’s because one never knew who might turn up in the projects. When we got there, we were surprised to find out that her father was Big Ed, or, as some called him, the Golden Arm. “Hey, don’t I know you?” he asked, looking straight at me.

  “Yes, sir!” I exclaimed. “Big Ed, good to see you. What a surprise! How’s that golden arm of yours?” I stuck my hand out to shake his. I hoped he wasn’t going to give me a hard time for taking his daughter out.

  Big Ed nodded. He grabbed my hand and held it firmly. “You kids have a nice time tonight,” he said to me. “Stay out of trouble, you hear?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied, “we will.”

  Big Ed was a pool hustler who hung out at the All Nations Pool Hall and at Sportsman’s Billiards on Broadway. We hung out in the area a lot; there was a movie theater, a bowling alley, a hair salon, a chicken shack, and a Thrifty’s right around there. The red bus came through Watts and Compton; it stopped at Manchester and Broadway. What a small world! Big Ed used to teach us how to play pool.

  During our evening together, Pam let me know that she was in a relationship. Of course, I was too. Earlier that year, in January, Sharon informed me that she was pregnant. We knew that having a baby would change our lives, but we were committed to each other. Even though Sharon was my woman, I was having a good time that evening with Pam. So, I decided to put in the full-co
urt press anyway and got her into bed. We made passionate love and then kissed good-bye. She was a fine lady, and it was a wonderful interlude; it helped calm me from the intensity of the Party work and police pressure.

  A few months after meeting Pam, Sharon had our baby. I was now a father with family responsibilities. Sharon was in Pasadena when the baby was born, and I immediately went to see her and my new daughter, Tammy. I was glad to have a baby, and I knew Tammy would be my legacy. Nanny and my mother enjoyed having a new child in the family to fuss over too.

  I wanted to be there for this new family I had created, but there was no way I could just end my commitment to the struggle. I found myself living in two worlds: one where I was Dad, just a regular guy with Sharon and our baby, and one where I was a revolutionary, head of the BSU and member of the Black Panther Party, focused on community service and self-defense. I felt it was important for me to continue my service to the people. I wanted so badly for my daughter to grow up in a world different from ours: a world where social justice was a value our society embraced and where black people could walk the streets freely, without being harassed or killed because of our skin color.

  But the pigs were not about to accept a group of black men who weren’t afraid to fight back. And they identified me as one of those men: my work with the Panthers in Watts had begun to increase my visibility. When I was at the office, from time to time, the police would circle our building. And when they were driving by, sometimes they’d pause and look me dead in my face to purposely let me know they recognized me.

  How much they recognized me, though, didn’t become clear to me until one particular day, when I was standing in front of the office talking to some children who were passing by. Inside were about four or five students listening to tapes and reading some literature. We had a lot of activity going on that day. It was sunny outside, and I was feeling good about our status in the community and especially pleased with the good work we were doing for them. In the course of my conversation with the kids outside, I noticed a blue Plymouth drive by a few times. I could tell that these were special agents in plain clothes, riding in an unmarked car.

  They eventually stopped the car right in front, where I was standing. The pig on the side closest to me rolled down his window and looked me straight in the eye, with unveiled hatred behind his squinting glare.

  “Hey, we just left Sacramento, where we raided the office and took some of you niggers down,” he sneered. “So, before we have to bust all of you, let us come in so we can check out what’s going on in there.”

  “Do you have a search warrant?” I said defiantly, before turning and walking back into the office. The kids I was talking to had already scattered.

  “No, and we don’t need one,” the cop said with a smirk.

  “Then you can’t come in,” I replied, and closed the door.

  Once inside, I didn’t want to alarm the students, who were studying intently. I turned to James calmly and said to him quietly, “Undercover cops are outside and they want to come in.”

  James immediately went to get his shotgun so he could stand guard behind the door, just in case they went crazy. I glanced out the window and saw both policemen get out of their car and approach our building. A hush fell over the students, who were now listening closely. The police didn’t bother to knock; one of them just grabbed the door and rattled the doorknob, trying to open it. “Let us in,” he barked.

  “No, you can’t come in,” I yelled back.

  Silence.

  They stood outside for a while, looking over the premises and trying to peer through the window. As they got ready to leave, one of them said to me, “We will see you again, Wayne.”

  A chill went down my spine. I knew they had come to disrupt our operations. But what I hadn’t known until that moment was that the cops knew my name.

  Now that I knew I had become a target, I began to take extra precautionary steps, especially when I was by myself, to avoid a run-in with the police. I walked on the opposite side of the street so I could see the cars coming. That way I could bank to the left if I saw a pig. I also avoided riding in cars, so I wouldn’t get jacked up at a stop.

  In the early summer of 1969, the Watts office got a much-needed injection of fresh energy. Walter Touré Pope, Bruce Richards, Kibo, Hasawa, Chris Means, and Romaine “Chip” Fitzgerald all walked into the Watts office to join the Party. They had done time together at Tracy and had made a pact to connect with us upon their release. The day they came by, I was officer of the day; my job was to make sure the office was staffed at all times, the phones were covered, and we were ready to handle any situation that might require our attention. I was reading the newspaper in the early afternoon when all six of them walked in. I noticed right away that they were all yoked-up from lifting weights. Based on that alone, I figured they had all done some time. Their ages ranged from about eighteen to twenty-three, which was similar to most of us in the Los Angeles branch of the Party at that time. They wore a combination of army coats, bush jackets, leather jackets, and Levi’s, which let me know they were interested in putting in some work for the people.

  As I checked out their faces, I immediately recognized Hasawa, who had gone to school with me at Edison Junior High School. Back then he went by Lemelle James, but he changed his name as he had become more conscious of the black struggle. Hasawa was friends with Leroy Williams, my main dog back then. Hasawa had gotten kicked out of Markham Junior High in Watts, so he was transfered to Edison. But some of the Edison boys, like Big Munson, wanted to jump Hasawa because he was from Watts. Munson would later become a leader of the Avenues, one of the baddest gangs in Los Angeles during the 1980s and 1990s. But Leroy and I kept Munson and his boys off of Hasawa by letting it be known that he was our homeboy and that we were willing to go down with him. Munson knew us, so he let it go.

  Right away, Hasawa and I acknowledged each other with the black power salute. “Right on,” we said in unison.

  “It’s good to see you again,” I said.

  “What’s happening, Wayne?” he grinned. “I didn’t know you had joined the Party.”

  “Man, I’ve been here for a while now, trying to give power to the people. I hope you’re here to join. I know you could add strength to what we do.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Hasawa replied with a nod. Hasawa’s strength and street cred would bring people in that he knew from the streets. I’d be glad to have him on board. “I haven’t seen you in a long time; where have you been?” I asked.

  “Been hanging with this crew up at Tracy,” he said as he pointed to the other men he had walked in with.

  Hasawa told me they had all been there for typical ghetto crimes, like car theft and robbery. But while they were in prison they educated themselves by reading revolutionary books by Frantz Fanon and Malcolm X, as well as Mao’s Red Book. They were also getting information about the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense and realized they wanted to join to help end the brutal systems of capitalism and racism.

  Kibo, whose real name was Virgil Smith, was also from Watts. He was wearing a leather coat and sported a Fu Manchu mustache, which I thought was stylish. He was a cool brother who was more considerate than a lot of us soldiers. Next was Bruce Richards, who hailed from Compton. He was a tall brother, about six foot two, and had a very intelligent demeanor. Bruce would become a recognized player in the Party. He brought mental toughness and a fighting spirit and worked every day and everywhere. He might be at the breakfast program in the morning, the Watts office in the afternoon, and then later at a rally to provide security. Bruce wore a lot of hats and could be counted on to be available.

  The fourth brother was Chris Means, also from Watts. He was a serious foot soldier, which meant that he wasn’t coming into the Party looking for glory. Chris was down for doing mundane work, hard work, all the work; it didn’t matter to him, he’d do what was needed. Although Chris liked getting high—especially drinking Bitter Dog and taking pills—he
could come down long enough to work for the Party. Every now and then I had a drink with Chris to discuss his time at Tracy and talk about Party work.

  Romaine Fitzgerald, whom we called Chip, was a short brother, strong and muscular. He spoke at a fast pace and had a lot of ideas and plans he wanted to implement. Like the others, Chip was dedicated and participated in a number of Party programs, such as tutoring kids, selling papers, and building the Free Breakfast Program.

  Of the group that came in that day, it was obvious that Walter “Touré” Pope was the driving force. A striking image in his dark leather coat, he reached out to shake my hand. “They call me Touré, after Sekou Touré, the first African president of Guinea,” he said with a firm grip on my hand.

  “I like that, man,” I nodded in welcome, returning his firm handshake. “Where you from?”

  “These parts.” He waved his hand in a broad stroke. “We’ve been looking forward to becoming a part of the organized struggle for a while. What do we need to do to get started?”

  “First, you got to start coming to our political education classes on a regular basis. Then you’ll receive training on how to work with the people, sell papers, and work our community service programs. If you’re ready, we can start now,” I suggested.

  All the brothers turned to me, in a booming chorus of “Yeah, brother!” and “Right on!” I respected their enthusiasm; I was glad to have them on board.

  Touré became a fund-raiser for the breakfast program and sold and distributed the Black Panther newspaper with zeal. Early on, the leadership recognized his ability to lead and take initiative. It wasn’t long, in fact, before Long John and G tried to recruit him away from the Watts office by assigning him duties at Central—after he had only been in the Party for a few weeks. Despite their efforts, Touré and I continued to work together, even if it wasn’t full time. He loved the Watts office, so he came in from time to time to help out. We worked together well and established a strong bond.