Nine Lives of a Black Panther Page 22

  A separate trial was held for the altercation with the guards in jail that had occurred on February 6, 1970, the day we were waiting for transportation to court and the guard pulled his cheese sandwich stunt. G and Paul Redd were both acquitted of the assault charges in that case.

  The legal work took up an extraordinary amount of time for all of us, and it contributed to a decrease in productivity for the Party. All of us were acting and feeling discombobulated too, because we had lost several key people. Essentially, we were attempting to continue to meet the needs of a large city in the same way we had earlier but without an experienced crew. But those of us who were committed continued to push forward.

  In June, I was working on tallying our newspaper sales in the Stockwell office. There were about seven people in the house when G called Roland and me into a small corner of the room for a more private discussion. He said, “You both have proven your commitment, dedication, and ability. So I am promoting you to the rank of captain.”

  I had never been interested in rank, but I knew that it was necessary to have order. “Yes, sir. What do you need me to do?” I should have foreseen this promotion, considering that Roland and I had put in a tremendous amount of work on behalf of the Party and our community. It was a good feeling to have our superior recognize our effort.

  Becoming captain meant more responsibility but also more ideological and tactical training. G set us up to do extensive study and training at the Stockwell community house. Except to use the rest-room and get some food, we were required to stay in a room and study for an entire week. We read Marx, Engels, Fanon, Mao Tse-Tung, and Eldridge Cleaver. Even if we had read those books before, we had to read them again. Dedon, one of the most astute members of the Black Student Alliance, stayed with us a few days and talked through some of the ideas in the literature. In the evening, we would take a break and go on night missions, which meant we had to travel throughout the community on foot, walk or run through people’s backyards, traverse blocks, and avoid getting busted. We were required to stay together at all times. The goal was to show that we could maneuver in the streets and cover territory with knowledge and confidence.

  During this period of training, Roland and I got to know each other even better than before. We engaged in long conversations about the meaning of the Party. I remember one night, as we were trekking through Compton, Roland said, “Man, I wouldn’t do this, except that I love my people. Nothing will stop me from supporting the community.”

  “Right on man, that’s real. I do it for the same reasons.” I knew that Roland meant what he said.

  Soon after that night, when Roland and I were serving the people as captains at a rally, G told us to take the guns being used for security back to the Stockwell office.

  He said to us, “Captains, the police are all over this place, and we don’t need anybody getting busted, so handle the weapons.” So one by one, Roland and I approached Panthers who had weapons and gathered them in the car. We left the rally with about ten pistols. I was driving an old Buick then because the yellow van was too hot. The move we were making was pretty dangerous, and we knew that if we got stopped, we were going to prison.

  While driving, I asked Roland, “What will you do if the police throw lights on us?”

  He responded with all sincerity. “I’m gonna bail out of my side of the car shooting.” That meant that I had to bail out of the car shooting too.

  I said to myself, Lord, get me out of this one. I escaped narrowly again. We got the guns and ourselves back to the office without the pigs stopping us.

  During the time we spent in jail and while we were out on bail, I also had the chance to get to know Cotton better too. I was seeing him and the brothers regularly now since our organization was working out of fewer places. Cotton was an easygoing guy, but I could tell that he had some strange tendencies. For instance, he loved hanging around Paul Redd. Wherever Redd was, Cotton showed up, and I thought it kind of bizarre. I had known Paul Redd since elementary school. His sister married Alex Bias’s brother Ealy. So, I knew that Paul wasn’t down for whatever Cotton was trying to sell.

  My concerns about Cotton were solidified when we were at the 113th Street office. Paul Redd was sharing his art with us, which was similar to Emory Douglas’s, so each page was filled with revolution, freedom fighters, and killing pigs. After that Cotton showed us his art, which took our conversation and thoughts about him to another level. He pulled out an orgy scene he had drawn and then started describing the scene for us. I thought to myself, Well, maybe because he is older, he thinks this shit is OK, but I thought the conversation was out of place. Certainly, Cotton knew of Paul’s relationship with Peaches. Nonetheless, Paul didn’t react to Cotton, so I don’t think he caught on to whatever Cotton was suggesting by sharing that piece of art. As for me, I knew that I wouldn’t be hanging with Cotton after-hours.

  Although a lot had changed in the Party, the one thing that didn’t was FBI and LAPD attacks and harassment. The FBI through COINTELPRO was trying to run the same game with the Nation of Islam that they had done with the Us Organization, writing notes to the two groups to stir up conflict. G sent me and Jimmy Johnson to speak to one of the lead ministers at the Nation of Islam to let them know that COINTELPRO was responsible for the messages. We set the meeting for a weeknight at the temple near Fifty-Fourth and Broadway. The minister and his security greeted us, and we had a very cordial meeting. I told them that we respected their organization and wanted no problems. The minister chided me for being in a ragtag organization like the Black Panthers. Then, on a more serious note, the minister said he understood the game the FBI was playing. We agreed that we were taking different routes, but we had the same goal of black liberation. At the end of the meeting, we all shook hands. There was no shooting between the Nation of Islam and the Black Panther Party of Southern California. The situation with the Us Organization had played out differently. I wonder why?

  In the midst of averting a potential land mine with the Nation of Islam, Dedon stopped by the office in Stockwell and told me some terrible news. “Wayne, I just came to tell you that Melvin X has been killed.”

  Considering all of the trauma I had already experienced, I shouldn’t have been perplexed, but I was. I just couldn’t believe it. Melvin X was a student, the president of the Black Student Alliance, and I didn’t think of him as being in danger. Of course, I asked the usual questions. “What happened? And why Melvin X?”

  “He was found in San Bernardino in an orange grove, shot in the back of the head. Right now, we are not sure of who and why, but some are saying that it could have been the Us Organization or the police.”

  “Damn. Melvin was a good, strong brother,” I said to Dedon.

  He responded, “It’s a major loss to the movement. He can’t be replaced.”

  Melvin’s murder not only affected the day-to-day operations of the Black Student Alliance, in terms of recruiting students for revolutionary activity, but it raised everybody’s fears. It wasn’t just Panthers under attack; it seemed like the entire movement on the left was in jeopardy.

  As for the local pigs, they were still using the same ol’ tired tactics of trying to intimidate the community, aptly demonstrated on a hot summer day at the Imperial Court project. I was there selling papers and recruiting for new members. It was about two o’clock in the afternoon, and I was rapping with a group of brothers: Alfred Fobbs, Lester Lucian, Ronnie, and another cat named Blue. They were aged nineteen to thirty and were always down to sit and discuss what was happening. As we sat on the gym field some pigs drove up next to us, parked, and walked up to our group. I wasn’t familiar with these pigs, but I could tell by the scowls on their faces that some shit was about to jump off. They pointed to two of the guys that I didn’t know. One said, “Hey you two, come with us.”

  Because we were sitting on the ground, we all looked up, but none of the brothers moved. “What do you want?” one of the guys said.

  “We are taking y
ou in for some questioning. Just come with us, so we don’t have any problems.”

  The brothers still refused to move. Then both pigs reached out, and each grabbed one of the two guys, handcuffed them, and threw them in the backseat of the squad car. We didn’t know if the cops had warrants or were just doing their usual rousting, but the other brothers on the gym field decided to challenge the pigs. Ronnie started yelling, “Leave them alone, you fucking pigs. Let them go!” While he was yelling, he was picking up rocks and started throwing them at the cops. The shit was on!

  The crowd joined in and started throwing too—rocks, bottles, anything that wasn’t connected to the ground. There was so much commotion that other project residents were opening their front doors to see what was happening. Of course, some of them joined the yelling and throwing.

  One of the pigs called for backup, but he couldn’t do much else but duck and dodge. Meanwhile, somebody opened up the back door of the police car and let out the two men who had been arrested. They started hauling ass. The backup pigs arrived in no time, and all of us began to scatter in various directions. As a member of the Party, I could easily see myself becoming a prime target of the cops, especially since I was selling our newspaper, so I was probably running the fastest. The project residents wanted to make sure that none of us got caught so they started opening up their apartment doors to us, enabling us to hide. I distinctly recall one kid who couldn’t have been more than twelve opening his door and the two guys arrested running into his apartment.

  Some of the kids in the project signaled for me to run in their direction. The apartment door was opened from the rear and they let me in. Some more kids in the next building allowed me to do the same, so I basically crept through the project, walking in and out of apartments.

  By this time, the police were knocking on doors looking for the brothers who escaped. As I was traveling through the projects, I eventually joined up with them, because the young people directed me to where they were hiding. The brothers were still wearing the pigs’ handcuffs, which was slowing down their movements. I had a small-caliber gun with me, so I wrapped it up to muffle the sound and tried to shoot the cuffs off. This was definitely a tricky move, and the brothers were a little scared of what might happen, so they turned their heads away from the gun as I shot.

  After a few unsuccessful tries, I decided to take them to see Cotton, who I knew could handle the handcuffs. A brother in the neighborhood drove us to the Stockwell community house to find Cotton.

  “Comrade Cotton, I got some brothers here who need your help.”

  “What’s happening?” Cotton looked up from the table where he was eating. “Oh, I see.”

  “The pigs were trying to arrest them at Imperial Courts, but they got away,” I told Cotton as the brothers nodded their heads.

  Cotton checked out the situation. “I’ll be right back.”

  Cotton returned with his tool kit. He got a hacksaw out and told the first brother to hold still. As he held his hands out, Cotton began to saw. It took more than an hour to get the handcuffs off, but the brothers left without getting arrested that night. I never saw them again, but the word got out about how the Black Panther Party had helped the brothers get away.

  17

  GANGSTA STYLE

  On August 5 of the same year our trial began, Minister of Defense Huey Newton was let out of prison on appeal. Black Panthers and activists throughout the country were jubilant. Our true leader was back, and we would again have the leadership we needed. About ten thousand people showed up to see Huey released from the Alameda County jail and to celebrate the victory. G, Masai, and David Hilliard were present. G was there in his role as deputy minister of defense and security, making sure that no harm came to Huey. At one point during the celebration, Huey took off his shirt to show the strength of his upper body. I was glad he was out, but I thought to myself with some apprehension, Malcolm X wouldn’t have done no shit like that. But still I was glad, willing and able to work with Huey to take the revolution to new heights.

  Huey was low-key during his first month out, but the movement wouldn’t let him maintain that posture for long. The minister’s first order of business was to restate his commitment to the struggle against racism, capitalism, and fascism during interviews and in his writings. I was down with Huey’s letter to the National Liberation Front of South Vietnam, sent the same month he was released. In the letter, Huey offered to provide troops to help them fight against American imperialism. He wrote that black people in the United States are an oppressed nation living within an empire and that the Black Panther Party, as the vanguard revolutionary organization, was obligated to create turmoil in the oppressive state and divide its troops to help those in developing countries. Huey was also interested in making bigger moves inside the United States.

  Huey Newton and attorney Charles Garry in August 1970, on Huey’s first day out of prison. DUCHO DENNIS, IT’S ABOUT TIME ARCHIVES

  About two weeks after he returned, G and Red (G’s wife, Saundra) stopped by my mother’s house to talk to me about those moves.

  “What’s up baby girl? What’s happening, G?”

  “I’ve been talking with Huey about going south to organize our people into revolutionary forces. A few brothers from Los Angeles have agreed to go, and Huey is going to send some troops from up north. Are you down?”

  “Let me think about it. What is Eldridge saying?”

  “He’s definitely down with it. We agree that my time will be better spent organizing the black nation for revolution, rather than going back to jail.”

  “Right on. I like the idea of carving out a black nation. We might even link up tighter with the RNA. But I don’t know. Leaving might cost my mother her house. We won’t get that bail money back if I don’t show up for trial. Let me talk to her.”

  G and I spoke with my mother, while Red watched the conversation from the side. She responded as I had assumed. In tears, she pleaded for me not to go.

  She said to G, “I love you, G, but Wayne is my only child, and I can’t bear losing him. Please don’t try to convince him to go.”

  A few days later, on August 18, G left without me.

  Again, we were losing some of our most experienced cadre, this time to the underground. But the publicity around Huey’s release also led to an influx of new Party members. The problem for us was that a lot of the members came into the Party believing that Huey was the black Messiah and didn’t question his politics or those of the Central Committee the way some of the long-serving members would.

  G was such a forceful presence, and after he went underground, the leadership in Southern California became real shaky. Jackanapes like Jimmy Johnson were now in command positions. Jimmy, whom I considered a chili-dog pimp and an ass kisser, somehow convinced Elaine Brown to support him. But in actuality, Jimmy really wanted to dominate people, and he was able to do it by forming a goon squad to beat and intimidate the rank and file. Jimmy liked hanging with me because I had rank and clout, but I didn’t get off on beating Party members.

  I remember when Jimmy wanted to discipline Ike. I had stopped by the community house on Seventy-Sixth Street. Jimmy said as soon as I walked in, “Wayne, we need to handle Ike. This nigga fell asleep on guard duty.”

  I wasn’t interested, but I needed to see what he was up to, so I went with him to the bedroom where Ike was. On our way, Jimmy picked up a two-by-four from the floor, which was there because we were in the middle of modifying the house. I couldn’t believe it. This fool wanted to hit Ike over the head with a board that could scar him for life or even knock him silly. Ike, who was from Alabama, was an army veteran. He was a short guy and easygoing. Jimmy was bigger than Ike and a bully. I could see what was happening. What the fuck! I decided to intervene.

  “Jimmy, I’ve known Ike for long time, so I will discipline him myself.” When we walked in I explained the situation to Ike and then hit him three times on his ass with a paddle. Ike took it like a man, but I could t
ell he had animosity toward me after that.

  Later on we talked about the incident when I saw him in the Imperial Courts project. “Ike, man,” I said, “I’m sorry about the shit that went down with the paddle. But Jimmy the Clown wanted to hit you with a two-by-four. I wasn’t going to let that shit happen, but I had to do something to make the issue go away.” I further explained, “That fool really wanted to brutalize you.”

  Ike told me he understood and was glad I came and spoke to him about it. “I will definitely watch out for Jimmy’s bullshit.”

  Beating up comrades for minor infractions seemed to increase after Huey returned. People saw Huey use squads to do his dirty work, so they set up their own with young, impressionable members who didn’t know how to question authority. As far as I could tell, we were not moving forward but backward. Instead of taking the party higher, Huey was taking us to unimaginable lows.

  There were early hints that Huey was becoming a problem, but because the Party had built him up as a legend it was hard for us to accept what we were seeing, even though it was happening in front of our faces. For me, the first hint came from Roland Freeman. He went to Oakland to meet Huey about a week after his release. Roland wanted to spend some time with Huey and the organization in Oakland to see what he could learn. Huey was interested in meeting Roland, because he had heard stories about how he tried to cut a bullet out of his arm while in jail. Roland was also trying to make a bomb out of the playing cards we had. Back then, each card had nitroglycerin in the middle. Roland wanted to blow the cell door open to help his cellmates who wanted to escape. He wasn’t successful, but people wanted to hear about the strategy.