Nine Lives of a Black Panther Page 21

  But then I hit the streets again. I was, after all, still a Black Panther. First, I wanted to check out what headquarters looked like after the shoot-out. I was extremely curious to see what the police might have done to the building afterward. I had heard rumors that community members wanted to turn Central Headquarters into a shrine or a museum of resistance. But when I got there, I was disappointed to learn that because of the tunnel, the city had condemned the property. I would never enter Central Headquarters again.

  16

  TRYING TIMES

  “Wayne, you make beautiful babies!”

  I turned to see Peaches grinning at me, with a look that clearly told me she was not referring to my daughter Tammy. The women in the new office on 113th Street—Glenda, Peaches, and Brenda—saw them first. The trio was huddled in a group, leaning over, smiling and reaching out to the babies, as they cooed, oohed, and giggled.

  I was momentarily dumbfounded, unsure of exactly what was going on.

  I’d been out of jail for about a month, working nonstop to help rebuild the Watts office and, of course, my personal life too. I was at the new center for operations in Watts that day; we had closed down the office on 103rd Street and moved into a house on 113th and Anzac, right across the street from the Imperial Courts project. The switch from offices to community houses was in full effect, decreed by the Central Committee in Oakland. This way, the idea was, instead of attacking the Panther offices, the pigs would be attacking the community.

  Pam was standing in front of me now, clutching the handrail of a doublewide baby stroller. The babies were small, yet so alert. Their skin was honey brown, like Pam’s and mine, and they had light brown eyes. I looked at the twins in the stroller and knew immediately they were mine. And I had to admit, they were adorable.

  I had been busy all morning working with a bright and eager young man, educating him about the work of the Party. “Excuse me, brother,” I said to him abruptly as I pushed away from the table where we were working. He looked at me and nodded silently, a wide-eyed look flashing across his face.

  I stood up and looked at Pam, still a little dazed, mumbling a curt hello. Then I asked her if we could go outside and talk. I could see that she was feeling as anxious as I was confused. “Of course,” she replied, her beautiful brown face distorted by an awkward smile.

  I followed her to the door as she pushed her overloaded stroller, which was burdened with blankets and diaper bags.

  I had barely closed the door behind me when she spun around and looked at me. “I had them on April third,” she blurted fretfully before I could say a word.

  “Oh. So, so, what are their names?” I stuttered, unable to think of anything else to say at that moment.

  “Aaron Dion and Darron Anthony Pharr.” I watched the stress written across her face melt momentarily into joy, as she gazed proudly at the pair and pointed each one out to me.

  I leaned against the house as I processed this new situation. I did some quick calculating: Tammy had been born in June 1969, which meant that she wasn’t even a year older than her new brothers. We were both silent, staring at the twins, for what seemed like many painful minutes.

  Finally, Pam broke the quiet, exclaiming, “Wayne, I need some help. I’m staying with my friend Cookie. But I need my own place.”

  “OK, sure, sure, I can dig that,” I replied coolly. What the hell am I going to do? I thought.

  We agreed to meet up later that night, to discuss the babies, the future, and to generally figure this new situation out. That would give me at least a few hours to recover from the shock of her news, even though I had no idea at the moment how I was going to make this work.

  Pam was staying with Cookie across the street in the Imperial Courts project, a 498-unit housing project built in Watts in 1944. I went by their place after dinner and ended up staying and talking and negotiating with Pam through the night. Although I was still unsure how I was going to handle this, I had no intention of being an absent father to these boys, as my own father had been to me. I let Pam know that I would not abandon my children. We would work together to raise the boys, I assured her.

  I left Pam and Cookie’s just as the sun was beginning to spill orange across the sky. By that point, I was desperately feeling like I needed some rest; my head was spinning with questions, and especially what-ifs. I felt overwhelmed. But still pretty fresh out of jail, I didn’t have my own place to stay, so as I stood on the sidewalk and squinted wearily at the morning sun, I wasn’t immediately sure where I should go. I was pretty much living out of a duffel bag, shuffling between comrades and my mother’s house. I was feeling conflicted and consumed with thoughts: How am I going to support these newborns? Even worse, how in the hell am I going to tell Sharon about Pam and the twins? What’s she going to do when I tell her? And what, exactly, do I want to do? This was a predicament, for sure.

  It took almost two months before I was ready to fess up to Sharon. The day I brought it up, we were at her mother’s house, off Western and Seventy-Third Street, hanging together in the den. We were sitting on the couch, the TV going on and on, blah, blah, blah, but I was too distracted to pay any attention to it. This was about to be my day of reckoning; I felt as if I were getting ready to throw myself off a cliff or something, arms and legs flailing all the way down. The afternoon had actually been pleasant up to that point, the two of us sitting comfortably, holding hands, chatting on and off about nothing in particular. Finally, looking nervously into her eyes, I took a deep breath and then exhaled a jumble of words—words I had been dreading saying for two months now. “Uh, Sharon, I got this girl pregnant, and her name is Pam, and she just had twin boys, and yes, I’m the father,” I blurted awkwardly.

  I know I surprised her. Sharon recoiled, pulling her hand away from mine quickly as if she had just been scalded by hot grease on a stove. She put her head down for a moment and let out a silent moan, her whole body deflating. Then she looked up, straight ahead, refusing to look at me. In that instant, the mood in the room went from relaxed and quiet to tense and deafeningly silent. She didn’t go off the handle or get emotional, and I hadn’t expected her to; that just wasn’t her personality or style. Instead, though, she just didn’t react at all. We sat there, in thick silence, for what seemed like forever.

  “What are you going to do?” she finally asked, in a voice so low it was almost inaudible.

  I thought for a moment, choosing my words carefully. “Well,” I said as gently as possible, “I have to put myself in a position to help take care of those kids.”

  “When did you meet her?” she shot at me next, accusingly. “How did you get involved with her?”

  I breathed in again. “It was casual—a one-time thing,” I said.

  I knew I sounded lame. She didn’t respond, remaining cool and composed, continuing to wait for me to justify myself.

  “But, Sharon, I have to be a man about this and take care of these babies.”

  We were living in the late 1960s and into the ’70s; it was the period of free love, and I wasn’t sure if Sharon had fully expected monogamy—we’d never really discussed it. But monogamy was pretty much the way things had been between us—until Pam. I had never been out prowling, screwing all the college girls and movement women like I knew a lot of the other brothers were. I just got caught up that one time. I could tell Sharon was hurt, and I felt like shit. There I was, a Black Panther, committed to liberating black people, but I had two women, three babies, no money, and no income.

  Even before this news, Sharon and I were being pulled apart. She came from good people and a beautiful family, but they were uneasy about my commitment to the struggle and the violence that came with it. They worried that this could put Sharon and Tammy in dangerous situations. And I couldn’t blame them for that. Also, I knew there was a general belief among her family members that my time on earth was likely going to be short because of my commitment to the cause. Those were some of the reasons why we had waited to get married, in
fact. In the meantime, at least, both our families were committed to taking care of Sharon and our beautiful baby.

  After I gave Sharon the news, my next stop was my mom’s. I knew I needed to talk to my mother and Nanny about this unexpected development in my life, so it was time to get that conversation over with too.

  Once I got to Mom’s house, it was the same scenario: unsuspecting audience, uncomfortable moment. Just get it over with, Wayne, I told myself. We were all in the kitchen, and I just blurted it out. “I got twin boys,” I announced in a flustered voice, my eyes fixed on my mother.

  My mother stopped what she was doing and turned to look at me. “What did you say?” Her eyes were as wide as saucers.

  I repeated myself. “I have two boys that I just recently found out about. Their mother’s name is Pam and she lives in Watts.”

  What happened next, I couldn’t believe. My mother fell on the floor and started crying. “What about Sharon and Tammy?” she sobbed.

  I looked at her incredulously. Unbelievable. She’s more upset than me! I thought. Now what? I turned to look at Nanny with pleading eyes. “Well, I’ve got to take care of them, Nanny. What else can I do?”

  Nanny, who was always on my team, walked over to me and gave me a long hug. “Don’t worry, son,” she said, looking at me with warm, sad eyes. “Things will work out. And you know I’m here when you need me.”

  I smiled gratefully.

  Then Nanny walked over to my mother. Moving slowly, she kneeled down on the floor at her side. She started to comfort her, murmuring soothingly as my mother wailed. I sat and watched the bizarre scene for a few minutes, still stunned by my mother’s reaction. Finally, I got up quietly and left. There was nothing more I could do at this point, and I obviously wasn’t going to get the support from my mother that I had been hoping for. But as I left the house, I couldn’t stop thinking about the difference between the two and how they’d reacted. First, there was my mother’s response, which was crazy to me. Then there was Nanny’s reaction, which demonstrated her strong belief in me and which I felt consoled by.

  My relationship with Sharon was pretty much over after my revelation to her that day. I was sad about that, but I knew I couldn’t sit around and feel sorry for myself. I needed to move forward quickly, since I suddenly had two new babies to support. So I set about trying to do the right thing by these two infant boys that I had helped bring into this crazy world. And I knew, importantly, that my family and Sharon’s family would continue to look after Tammy, even if her mother and I were no longer in a relationship.

  Soon, however, I felt like I had jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. The relationship between Pam and me was rocky right from the start. We were dealing with the pressure of trying to raise two boys while also trying to really get to know one another. And neither one of us was living in our own spot. To add to the stress, we were both suffering from a lack of resources. In fact, it didn’t take long before Pam and I were regularly getting into arguments, especially about the way I was thinking about making money. And she wasn’t shy about showing her feelings: we could easily raise the roof off any house when a row started.

  After one of our “famous” fights at Cookie’s house, Cookie’s boyfriend came to pay me a visit at the office on 113th. He was a little older than me at about twenty-two, a tall, dark-skinned brother, with a strong build and a piercing gaze. He was also a dedicated activist with the Black Student Alliance, working alongside people like Baba and Damu, and he identified strongly with the local communists. We called him Ndugebele, but his given name was Tommy Harper. He was the guy who was eventually killed in 1970 while trying to blow up the Compton Police Department.

  Ndugebele was a live wire. As he walked up to me, I could see he was agitated. “Hey, Pharr,” he said as he looked at me squarely, placing his hand on the table in front of me. “You and me got a problem. You been disrespecting Cookie’s house, and that shit is going to stop now.”

  I frowned at him. “What are you talking about?” I argued. “When have I ever disrespected Cookie?”

  He scowled. “Whatever is going down between you and Pam is between you two; don’t bring that shit to Cookie’s house.”

  He finished his little tirade, and when I didn’t respond the way he wanted, he started going ballistic. I stood up to meet him face-to-face, letting him know I wasn’t scared and wasn’t backing down either.

  As I moved, Pee Wee and Will moved too, quickly getting up right in between us. “Everybody calm down,” commanded Will as he maneuvered to keep us apart. “Tommy and Wayne, let’s all sit and talk this through.”

  I did some quick calculating and decided to check my anger. I knew that because Pam was staying at Cookie’s house, I was going to have to cooperate to alleviate any additional stress in her life. I certainly didn’t want to make things harder for her—or me. I exhaled and let the tension in my shoulders go, looking at Ndugebele. “I meant no disrespect to Cookie, but I needed to talk with Pam,” I offered.

  He looked at me and nodded deliberately, earnestly considering what I said. “All right, brother,” he said, reaching out his hand. “I accept that. You got to understand you are upsetting Cookie too, though.”

  Ndugebele and I both cooled off, and we continued to talk for a while longer. We ended the conversation expressing mutual respect for each other. A few weeks later, Ndugebele was dead. All power to the people.

  On a bigger scale, while I was trying to manage my personal crisis, I was also working on our many legal issues related to the December shoot-out. After we had made bail, our legal team changed; although we’d established a close bond with McKissack, he was unable to work with us through the entire trial because of other commitments. Meanwhile, the court had ordered individual attorneys for each of us. Until we actually began working with our assigned attorneys, however, we met at Leo Branton’s house, which was in Wellington Square. I liked Branton. Traveling to his house was an experience too: Wellington Square was a small enclave of wealthy African American families off Washington and Crenshaw, on the west side of town. Branton lived in a huge, two-story Victorian-style house. It was impressive to those of us who had never visited homes in that area, a whole different world.

  My court-ordered attorney turned out to be a guy named Arthur Alexander. He was young and white, and, he told me, his father was a judge. I was immediately unsure about him.

  “Hey, Mr. Pharr. Nice to meet you,” he said casually, as he leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil annoyingly on the table and trying to look too cool.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied briskly.

  “We got a lot of work to do, so let’s just jump right in,” he pushed. “Tell me about yourself and what happened on December 8.”

  I wasn’t a big talker, so I gave him the short version of the shootout and very little information on my background. I didn’t know him, even if he was my attorney on record. I decided that I didn’t need to be extra open with him; besides, he had the information he needed anyway to defend me.

  The gut feelings I had about this guy were soon confirmed by his actions. I knew I was in trouble with him as my attorney when, during one of our subsequent meetings, he gave me the book The Godfather.

  As he handed me the book, I looked at him quizzically.

  “This is the way you got to do it,” he said to me in a cryptic voice.

  I thought that was odd, and it struck me as contrary to what a lawyer should say to his client. After that incident, what little regard I had for him was reduced even further.

  On the other hand, I was very impressed with Will Stafford’s young black lawyer, Johnnie Cochran. Cochran was flashy, and he had style, right down to his short and well-groomed Afro. I immediately knew this man was going somewhere in the world and would someday make an impact on society. He just had that self-assuredness about him and a sharp mind to go with it. He had an easy demeanor too. When we hooked up with Johnnie to discuss the case, he would take us to some of the trendy
places in Beverly Hills and areas of wealth in Los Angeles that we had never been to. We appreciated the exposure we received from Johnnie and also his commitment to our defense. In fact, he believed in us so much that he continued to work with the Black Panther Party even after our trial ended.

  Our trial began in May 1970. Of the variety of offenses we were charged with, the most serious were conspiracy to murder police officers and possession of illegal weapons. For me, the trial turned out to be an exhausting experience: not only was I required to show up to court frequently, but I also had to meet with attorneys, review endless documents, and respond to seemingly unending rounds of tricky questions. Then, in addition to the formal trial against those of us who were arrested during the shoot-out or in the other places raided the morning of December 8, other legal battles developed.

  For one, the LAPD, via the City of Los Angeles, had the gall to sue the Black Panther Party for medical expenses, pensions, and compensations for the three officers we had shot, even though they were the ones who attacked us. Two of them had been shot in the legs, and the other one had been hit five times—in the chest, finger, and groin. They actually wanted us to pay them $5,000! That was laughable to us in the Party. It was so laughable to me, in fact, that even as a defendant, I never asked or wanted to know about the follow-up to the case. Even to this day, I can’t fathom where the case went, but I do know that we had little internal discussion about the lawsuit.

  For our part, we decided to countersue the City of Los Angeles for $57.6 million. The Black Panther Party charged the city with false arrest and imprisonment, assault and battery, and a number of other charges. We specifically named the three police officers, Edward Williams, Calvin Drake, and Richard Wuerfel, who came to our headquarters pretending like they were there to arrest someone but busted in with a battering ram instead. On top of this first lawsuit, we also sued the City of Los Angeles and all of its officials, including Mayor Sam Yorty and all councilmen, for harassment and depriving us of our civil liberties. We additionally named as defendants the LAPD, the Sheriff’s Office of the County of Los Angeles, and Sheriff Peter J. Pitchess individually. None of the cases went anywhere, but we made it clear by filing suit that we would not be intimidated and would fiercely practice self-defense wherever necessary: in the courtroom, behind bars, and out on the streets.