Nine Lives of a Black Panther Page 19

  I concluded, “So many cops could’ve died last night. We would have never gotten out of jail.”

  But for the pigs, the dry run was successful because it provided them intelligence about our abilities, so they had to go back and regroup and strategize. Obviously, they decided that coming in on us when everyone was awake would leave them wide open. For them, it would make sense to come in the wee hours of the morning and try to catch us sleeping.

  As we continued fortifying our headquarters, we were hit with some devastating news on December 4. During a predawn raid, at about 4:45 AM, the Chicago pigs had murdered Fred Hampton and Mark Clark, leaders in the Illinois chapter of the Black Panther Party. Chairman Hampton had been shot in his bed while asleep after being drugged by an FBI agent provocateur. Clark was shot while sitting in a chair on security duty. Clark was twenty and Hampton was twenty-one.

  Upon hearing the news, I went to headquarters to get the facts. By the time I arrived, Black Panthers from all over the city were there already to get information, determine the Party’s response, and mourn our loss. The scenario reminded us of Central Headquarters after Bunchy and John were killed. Like our two leaders, Chairman Fred and Captain Mark were effective organizers. They were bringing gangs together and establishing coalitions with them to support black liberation. It was no wonder the pigs wanted them dead. After hearing about Chicago, I knew that it was just a matter of time before we were hit. Were we ready to take on the added repression we knew was coming our way? We prepared for the worst.

  On December 7, I took a break from Central Headquarters to spend time with Sharon and Tammy. We hung out at Sharon’s mother’s house, where I was able to get a good meal and wind down. It was a nice time for us. Tammy was about six months old and active for her age. She noticed me and smiled when I walked into the room. I talked with Sharon about what we were doing at headquarters. I left Sharon and Tammy late at night and went to Jerry’s house.

  This is the chair I was sitting in when the SWAT team burst through the door. UCLA CHARLES E. YOUNG RESEARCH LIBRARY DEPARTMENT OF SPECIAL COLLECTIONS, LOS ANGELES TIMES PHOTOGRAPHIC ARCHIVES

  15

  BUSTED

  “You’re losing a lot of blood, Mr. Pharr. We’re going to give you some blood and some glucose to replenish what you’ve lost. You’re quite a lucky young man,” I heard a voice say.

  It was coming to me from somewhere, but I wasn’t quite sure who it was from or even where I was. It was dark, and then everything started getting lighter, but very fuzzy and surreal, like I was watching a movie underwater.

  I realized I was lying in a hospital bed, and then I understood that I was in the jail ward of the county hospital. I must have been unconcious, I realized; as I awoke I wondered how long I had been in this place. The face of an emergency room doctor was hovering over me, peering at me with a serious look. I looked at him and took it all in but didn’t really have it in me to respond. It was as if I was an outside observer, taking all this craziness in. The doctor told me that the wound in my forehead, responsible for the blood streaming down my face, was superficial. As soon as he told me that, I became aware of the blood all over me. The same was true for the pellets in my left arm—superficial. Gradually, I began to remember what had happened and why I was here. The pigs had ambushed us, and there had been a shoot-out. Right. I remembered Roland was here somewhere too, though I was too disoriented to know where.

  The more serious issue was the buckshot wound located in a muscle on the left side of my chest, over my heart, the doctor told me. It was likely that my wounds came from a 12-gauge shotgun, he said.

  “I don’t expect those pellets to move, though, so we don’t need to operate to try to get them out,” he informed me.

  I nodded my head. I was wounded physically, but now my spirit was soaring. The arduous work of fortifying Central Headquarters had paid off. We had survived.

  While I was in the hospital, two detectives came by to question me. I was lying in a bed in a room with five or six other victims of gunshot wounds, including Roland. I immediately noticed the detectives when they walked in: they marched straight toward me and stopped next to my bed. I turned my head away from them.

  “What’s your name?”

  Bleeding after the battle, I am being put into the back of a patrol car. UCLA CHARLES E. YOUNG RESEARCH LIBRARY DEPARTMENT OF SPECIAL COLLECTIONS, LOS ANGELES TIMES PHOTOGRAPHIC ARCHIVES

  I looked up at them. “Wayne.”

  “Wayne who?”

  “Pharr. Wayne Pharr,” I answered feebly. I was too tired for this shit.

  “Where did the guns come from?”

  “I really don’t know,” I frowned weakly.

  They were gruff and pushy, peering at me through contemptuous eyes. They asked me more questions, but I turned my head away from them again and closed my eyes, refusing to respond. That worked. They didn’t stay long after that.

  I stayed in the jail ward of the county hospital one day before I was transfered to the county jail in downtown Los Angeles. Two detectives woke me from my sleep about 2:00 AM and told me it was time to go. I was groggy and still weak, but I managed to sit up.

  “Stand up and turn around,” the big one said with real authority.

  As I did, I heard the sound of handcuffs, and then I felt them tighten around my wrists, first one, then the other, pig number two taking obvious delight in tightening them until they were pinching and bruising my bones.

  “Where are you taking me?” I mumbled.

  “To the county jail, to join the rest of the club,” pig number one spat sarcastically. They walked me outside, where their county van was waiting. It was cold as ice outside and not too much warmer inside the vehicle. All I had on was a skimpy hospital gown, which, besides being threadbare from too many bleachings, was drafty and too loose. I figured that since they hadn’t been able to kill me with their guns, they were trying to do it by giving me the flu.

  I was booked and fingerprinted and had my mug shot taken wearing only the hospital gown. After being processed, I was sent to a regular cellblock. I was still weak, but now I was alert. I needed to keep my head clear and my wits about me so I could deal with whatever might come my way. As I looked around the cell, I noticed immediately that I had been placed in the “snitch tank.” I knew this because the jail housed predominately black inmates, but everyone in the cell with me was white. A few of the “inmates” tried to engage me in small talk, which I knew was really a search for information.

  “How long have you been in the Party? What do you think about the student movement? Tell us what the rallies are like,” they prodded.

  Just like with the detectives in the hospital, I didn’t have much to say and I kept to myself. Sure enough, I found out later that a couple of the white guys in the cell were trustees.

  I considered myself a prisoner of war, so I had absolutely no expectations of being treated fairly by the state. As I sat mute in the cell, my mind was racing. Will I ever see the light of day again? What happened to the other comrades? I thought about my family: Mom, Nanny, Sharon, and Tammy. Do they even know what happened? Do they know where I am?

  I was moved to a regular cell on the mainline after spending two days in the snitch tank. I figured they transfered me after they realized I wasn’t ever going to talk. On the mainline, my cellmate, Sanford, was in for burglary. He was a few years older than me and very familiar with the criminal justice system. In fact, he explained to me, going in and out of jail was a way of life for him. I felt bad for him, but he said it so matter-of-factly that I believed he really had accepted that lifestyle.

  The other inmates knew that I was one of the Black Panthers who had been in the shoot-out with the pigs. They were proud of us! And to show their gratitude and respect, they offered me their most prized items: cigarettes, candy, even money. I also ran into some of my homeboys from the ’hood, including Johnny McGill, whom I grew up with on Eighty-Seventh and Broadway. We recognized each other in the chow
hall. He was sitting down eating and looked up from his plate; we made eye contact ever so briefly, and before he looked away he gave me a sign of recognition by nodding his head.

  I never really got a chance to speak with him about why he was there or what he had been up to lately. But even though we didn’t get the chance to talk, he let me know that he had my back. When the “bulls” would engage in their usual harassment of me, for example, by pulling me out of line or triple-checking my wristband, I noticed that Johnny and his crew were standing behind me. I was grateful for brothers like him.

  My cellmate schooled me on the intricacies of prison life. Once, the bulls were yelling over the intercom, “Up against the wall, Blue! Stand still, Blue! Stop talking, Blue!”

  I looked at him. “This Blue cat must be one bad son of a bitch.”

  “Nah, man,” Sanford laughed. “We’re all Blue!”

  “What do you mean?” I frowned.

  “All the inmates wear blue, and the trustees wear brown,” he chuckled. “You are Blue.”

  I soon acclimated to cell life, the rules, and the daily regimen. At 5:00 AM, the bulls unlocked the cells for the “court line,” which meant that all those who had a court appearance that day were to line up. The inmates used this opportunity to go from cell to cell to visit other inmates and trade, talk, or play games like chess and dominoes. Then at 7:00 AM, we would go to the cafeteria for breakfast, while those who were going to court got a sandwich for the bus ride. I was surprised to learn that there was a certain etiquette for eating in the county jail. For example, during meals, an inmate could cause a riot if he passed his hands over someone else’s plate.

  After breakfast, we would go back to our cells, or our “houses,” as the inmates called them. We all cleaned our houses and took pride in having a clean and tidy space. The emphasis on being neat and clean was another surprise to me. Even as conscious as I was about stereotypes, I never stopped to think about the widely held view that cons don’t care about hygiene and taking care of themselves. In jail, the truth was that people who were considered less hygienic were not tolerated. And we were supposed to have respect for others’ property. Also, I learned that other than court line and mealtime, the only other opportunity to leave your house was to shower or to meet with visitors and lawyers.

  One of the hardest things for me to adjust to, though, was being so openly exposed to homosexuality. I was sleeping one morning when I was awakened by a voice. “Kiss me, baby,” a man murmured passionately.

  Slightly panicked, I did a quick check and was relieved to confirm that no one was in my bed or coming at me. I looked over the side of my bunk, and underneath me, I found that my cellmate had this little Latino trustee in his bunk. They were fornicating.

  Later that day, I asked the brother how long it took before people began to have homosexual tendencies.

  “Three months,” he said.

  At that, my eyes popped open. “Three months? Damn, man, you must have been gay before you were locked up.”

  He didn’t answer. I didn’t pursue it any further.

  After a few days on the mainline, the pigs tried to set me up. My cell was located on the ground floor, with a catwalk right above us. About 9:00 PM, a wad of newspaper was set on fire and landed in front of my cell. I heard something drop and looked up to see what it was. Startled, I yelled, “Fire, Fire!” I ran to the sink and got a cup of water, throwing it on the flames. But when I stuck my hand through the bars, a burly guard grabbed my arm. He had obviously been standing outside the cell, out of view the whole time, and waiting to pounce.

  “You’re trying to burn down the cell!” he bellowed.

  “Utter bullshit!” I protested. “I was trying to put the fire out!”

  Next thing I knew, that fuckin’ bull had written me up and I was sent to the High Power Module 2500. High Power was where the high-profile and dangerous prisoners were kept in the county jail system.

  When I got to High Power, I discovered that the majority of my comrades were already there: G, Paul, Will, Cotton, and Lloyd. Ike Houston, who worked out of the Exposition Boulevard office, was there too. Albert Armour and some others had been there, but they had gotten bailed out earlier. Everybody was in separate one- or two-man cells in the same block. Roland, I found out, was still in the hospital. He had gotten shot pretty bad in the arm during the shooting, and then when the roof blew, the falling wood had come down and smashed him in the head. He had been wounded pretty seriously.

  The High Power section of the jail was different from mainline in several ways. For one thing, it was made up of tiny cells that were so small I could barely stand up. If there were two men to a cell, moving around was nearly impossible, considering that there was just enough room to lie down or sit down. Also, the cells were situated in such a way that the guards could see us all the time if they wanted to. Another difference from the mainline was that the bulls brought our food to us to eat in our cells, rather than allow us to go to the cafeteria.

  The moves by the deputies to get us all into High Power had obviously been calculated; they wanted us out of the general population, isolated and confined. Our treatment was similar to mass murderers like Charles Manson; we knew this because Manson was an inmate at High Power during the time we were there. I saw him once when he was with his attorney. He was across the room, standing up as he was ending a legal visit with the lawyer. What I remember most about him was that he was a little bitty guy, which surprised me.

  It was at High Power that I learned the full extent of the police mission to destroy the Black Panther Party of Southern California. G and Ike weren’t even with us during the shoot-out at Central Headquarters, so I was taken aback when I discovered that they were in High Power. I had a ton of questions for them but knew I couldn’t really talk freely with the guards around. If we did try to talk, there was a system: the guys on the end of the cellblock would look out for the bulls and warn us when they were approaching. Or we would just wait until we were in the shower.

  I finally caught up with G and Ike for a few minutes when I saw that the guards were preoccupied with other things. We grabbed the opportunity to catch up with each other. “G!” I hollered in a hushed tone. “You there? Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear, my brother,” came his unmistakable voice. “What’s happening man?” he asked, in a tone that told me he was glad to know I was there.

  Where should I start? So much to catch up on! “Damn, G, how’d they get you?” I asked, still careful to keep my voice low. I was sitting on the edge of my bunk because there was no room for me to stand, and plus I didn’t want the guards who could see me to get the idea to come check out what was going on. I was literally on the edge of my seat.

  “Man, you don’t know yet?” G sounded surprised. “The pigs set off three raids at the same time. They came into my home screaming for my arrest and shooting. They shot up the Touré Center that night too.”

  “And they hit us around the same time they hit you at Central Headquarters and G at his pad,” added another voice on the other side of me. I could tell it was our comrade Ike. “I was there with Al, Craig, and Sharon Williams,” he continued. “They came blazing in with guns and tear gas. We fought back and Al got some shots off. But Sharon is in bad shape. They kicked her in the chest so hard her lungs collapsed. And Craig got kicked in the mouth. It was brutal.”

  G continued the story. “While Saundra and me were sleeping, the fuckin’ pigs broke into the house and put a gun to my head. What was so wild about it was that my girl lay across me to cover me, to stop the police from shooting me. She was willing to take a bullet for me,” he said stoically. I could hear the emotion behind his words, though.

  “That’s love, man,” I said.

  I couldn’t see G, but I knew he was proud. “I know,” came the response. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve said he sounded a little choked up. “They arrested her, Kathy, and Evon,” he continued. “The kids were there too. They were hel
d at the station, but now they’re with family.” G lived on Fifty-Fifth Street in a house. It wasn’t fortified like the office, so the pigs had no trouble getting in.

  “Long John was in the back room,” he went on. “It was dark. They knew he was there but really couldn’t see him, so they fired on him a few times. I know they were trying to outright kill him, but he was able to dodge their bullets by jumping from side to side as they fired. When the pigs finally grabbed him, they kicked him in the mouth.”

  “Where is he?” I inquired.

  “He was arrested, but they didn’t charge him with any crime, so they let him go.”

  “What about you, Ike?” I asked.

  “The pigs arrested all of us too,” he said.

  G added, “Man, Wayne, you really don’t know what’s been happening. Overall, eighteen of us were arrested.”

  “So, where is everybody?” I inquired, shaking my head at the thought.

  “Different places,” Ike replied. “Some comrades got different charges. The women are in Sybil Brand [an L.A. County correctional institute for women]. Elaine has been keeping us up to date. She said one of the biggest issues for the women is getting medical care. Sharon can’t get her medicine for her injuries. Peaches is having some trouble with her stomach, and I hear she might have been pregnant. But Elaine is working with the lawyers to help them get what they need.”

  I got quiet as I thought about the movement sisters suffering like that. Fuckin’ pigs, I thought to myself. On our end, Gil was dealing with a badly swollen hand and G was suffering from bad back pain from his injuries and also gastric problems. The deputies were refusing requests for medical treatment for them too. A few times, the physicians who volunteered at the Bunchy Carter Free Health Clinic petitioned the court to be allowed to come see us, but they weren’t allowed in.

  We talked about the shoot-out at headquarters. Ike asked, “So, when they came in, what did the pigs ask for?”