Nine Lives of a Black Panther Read online

  On an individual level, Cotton accused G of telling him that a particular gun had killed three people and then asking him to store it, only for it to be found by the police. When it came to his testifying about me, I was wrong about our limited contact reducing my exposure. Cotton told the jury about how I took him down into the sewers, and that my goal was to ambush the police. Then, he called out Paul Redd and me as the two who shot the police officers who came to the front door when the shoot-out began. In that moment, he had implicated me as attempting to kill cops. I felt doomed to a life in prison. Motherfucka. I stared at Cotton during his testimony, looked him straight in the eye. Cotton didn’t even blink. He stared right back at me, and at all of us.

  “You goddamn liar!” Paul stood up and shouted at Cotton, which broke up Cotton’s testimony.

  “Fucking snitch!” yelled Roland.

  G joined in condemning Cotton: “I knew you were a liar and a chump.”

  The judge went crazy and started yelling, “Defendants, be quiet!” And “Attorneys, tell your clients to sit down and be quiet!”

  Of course, the judge’s shouts just resulted in more Panthers yelling.

  “You can’t tell me I can’t talk. You a racist dog!” Roland yelled back at the judge.

  “Get them out of my courtroom, now.” Judge Dell had the deputies remove Roland, G, and Paul from the courtroom. Some of the others left with them in solidarity. They were put into the holding cell next to the courtroom, but that didn’t stop them from interrupting the proceedings. Bang, bang, bang! We could hear them banging on the door. The judge finally called for a recess until the next day.

  Those of us who were still out on bail didn’t join in the courtroom antics, knowing that they would have locked us up right away. We couldn’t help our comrades by joining them in jail. We supplied them with things from the outside, like snacks, money, messages, and a few other items to help calm their nerves and relieve some of the stress.

  Soon Red and I had developed a routine, moving pills and going to court. The baby in her belly was growing, making it harder for her to move around, and so she was relying on my rides more and more. Then one Monday morning I realized that I hadn’t heard from Red about a ride, nor had she shown up to court. Tuesday and Wednesday went by and still no word from Red. This was strange because the last time I saw her, Friday after court, she was cool, calm, and collected. She had mentioned receiving death threats from the Huey-ites before, but that was a while ago. The judge issued a bench warrant for her arrest.

  After court one day I decided to go by her apartment to check on her. I knocked on the door, rang the doorbell several times, but there was no answer. The rest of the week went by; still Red had not contacted me. By Friday, everyone was frantic. Pam came to court with me that day. After the proceedings ended, I grabbed Pam’s hand and said, “Let’s go to the morgue.” It was downstairs from the courthouse. When we got there, the clerk started pulling out trays of unidentified bodies. Red was on the second tray. How far-fetched was that? While we were upstairs in court thinking about where Red could be, she had been downstairs in the basement. It was heartbreaking to see her like that. She had been killed—execution style, according to the police. She was nude and shot five times: twice in the arm, once in the leg, once in the stomach, and once in the head. She was found in a sleeping bag in Lynwood, eight months pregnant. I contacted G’s lawyer so he could tell him.

  Pam and I rode the bus home that day because my car was in the shop. I was extremely tense and feeling vulnerable to a possible attack. Even Pam felt that someone was watching us. I didn’t feel safe until we got to Watts.

  We had identified Red’s body on Friday. Over the weekend, I received word through underground channels that when I got to court on Monday I should sit in the back row. So I checked into court and did as I was instructed, sat in the back with the spectators instead of going to the defendants’ table. Those who had remained in the Party and were loyal to Huey were already seated in front of the judge’s bench: Al Armour, Craig Williams, Robert Bryan, and Tommye Williams. The attorneys were also sitting in chairs at their tables, some in the first row and the others in the second. The jury was walking in and so was Judge Dell. As the judge sat on his bench, the deputies brought G, Roland, Will, Lloyd, Paul, and Ike out of the holding cell. I sat there and watched, looking at G, knowing that he blamed Huey Newton and David Hilliard for Red’s death. A confrontation was coming, but I didn’t know how far it would go. I expected a verbal assault, because we were in the courtroom.

  Then G looked in the direction of the defendants’ tables, locked his eyes on the Huey-ites, and went completely off! He ran toward the table where they were sitting and picked up somebody’s briefcase, bashing it over the head of one of Huey’s people. As he laid into Al or Craig (I couldn’t tell which one), Roland, Will, and Paul started throttling the others. The defense attorneys started running and ducking under the tables for cover. It was sheer pandemonium in the courtroom.

  Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to think about what to do. But then I couldn’t move anyway. I looked to my right to see that a towering muscular black deputy had put his hand on my shoulder; he was pressing so hard that part of my body was leaning to the side. The other hand was on his gun. Obviously, he was letting me know that if I moved, he would blast my ass. I quickly looked up at him and then turned back to see Judge Dell jump off the bench with a .38 revolver in his hand, backing into the judge’s chamber! I didn’t even know a judge would be packing like that!

  By this time Al, Craig, and Robert were getting their asses kicked; G was running all over, chasing these fools. Al eventually ran into the jury box, and Robert Bryan and Tommye were fighting to get to the front door. A deputy grabbed them both and started beating them! Why, I don’t know, because they were already on the floor. Fuckin pigs!

  There was blood dripping on the courtroom floor. Al seemed to be bleeding from somewhere on his head and Craig was bleeding too. G was still out to kill. He grabbed a flagpole that had been in the corner of the courtroom, and a bailiff took out his gun and aimed it dead at him. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I started hollering, “G! G!” G and I had a system. Because I rarely yelled, he knew that if I did, then he needed to stop and hear me. G looked at me and put the flagpole down. By this time, the deputy sheriffs had their guns pointed at all six of them. My comrades were handcuffed and walked back into the holding tank. After all that, there was order in the court.

  Saundra “Red” Pratt is holding a .45-caliber Thompson submachine gun. This photo was used as an exhibit during the trial for charging her with illegal weapons possession. COURTESY OF VIRGINIA PRATT

  The black deputy finally let me go and then just walked away. Whew! I just knew G was in trouble—you don’t do that! He chased the judge up off the bench! Court was dismissed; we had the rest of the day off.

  The rest of the trial was anticlimatic. G and the others coming from jail were separated and chained so the drama would be reduced. Seeing my partners like that made me furious. But there was not much I could do.

  19

  THE PROMISE OF TOMORROW

  In the midst of the trial, I celebrated my twenty-first birthday. Pam and I had a party at our apartment in the projects. Anybody who was anybody was there: BSU friends from Harbor; BSA members like Baba, Jerry, Wendell, Jackie, and Yusuf; Party members who weren’t locked up, like Richard and Tyrone; and the neighborhood folks. The party started at about 8:00 PM, and we danced, ate, talked, and drank all night.

  A week later, I was talking to some friends on 103rd and Wilmington when I saw Cigar, the big fat pig who told me I would never make it to age twenty-one. He was driving slowly, passing by in his squad car, obviously perusing the streets. I taunted him, yelling and laughing, “Hey, Cigar, I made it to twenty-one last week!” He paused for a few seconds and yelled back, “You’ll never make twenty-two!”

  Our attorneys worked hard for us and made excellent closing argument
s. With passion, they asserted our position: we had been provoked by the police and subjected to consistent harassment. Attorney Joe Reichmann made one of the best arguments on our behalf when he said, “The SWAT raid on the Southern California chapter of the Black Panther Party was like a Gestapo raid in Nazi Germany, so what were they supposed to do?”

  On December 23, 1971, two years after the shoot-out on Forty-First and Central, the verdicts came in. The jury considered seventy-two counts against us, from conspiracy to murder police officers to possession of illegal weapons. We were found not guilty on all charges related to conspiracy to murder and not guilty on most of the other charges. In total, sixty-three verdicts were rendered, and the jury deadlocked on the others. We were also found not guilty of assaulting police officers.

  Nine of us were convicted of conspiracy to possess illegal weapons: Geronimo Pratt, Robert Bryan, Renee Moore, Paul Redd, Willie Stafford, Tommye Williams, Al Armour, Craig Williams, and me. The jury was deadlocked on the charge of conspiracy to possess against Roland. Jackie Johnson (Pee Wee) and Ike Houston were acquitted of all charges. Bernard was a juvenile, so his case had been transfered to the juvenile courts. It was a seven-month trial with eleven days of deliberation by the jury. There were six black people on the jury. The People of the State of California versus the Panther 13 became the longest trial in Los Angeles history at that time.

  When the verdicts were read I was elated! Some of the charges against us had carried life sentences. Although we were convicted of conspiracy to possess illegal weapons, the verdicts granted us an opportunity of having real lives on the outside. Richard and my aunt Mary Green had come with me to court that day to hear the verdicts. I looked back at them from the defendants’ table and smiled. After it was over, I milled around with the attorneys and then left. I felt a little sadness come over me when I thought about Red. She would have been just as excited to hear the verdicts. With a new baby coming into her life, she would have been on cloud nine.

  When I got home I called Nanny and Sharon to share the news with them. Sharon was happy for me, and Nanny “praised the Lord.” The date for sentencing was set for January 13. I was still free on bail, so I had time to make plans and to get ready to do the time the judge would order.

  Pam and I invited friends over that night to celebrate. Lester, Richard, and Pat came by. I had moved beyond drinking Panther Piss and beer to sipping Cognac. I found Courvoisier too sweet while Hennessey was much too bitter. My new drink was Martell VSOP. It was smooth. My man Joe Armistead hipped me to the brands. I purchased a bottle and went home.

  As we partied, the women were sipping Tyrolia, Akadama, and Boone’s Farm wine, and the men drank the harder stuff and smoked. Our music played loud that night. Songs that reflected the politics of the era played on the turntable. “Express Yourself,” by Charles Wright and the Watts 103rd Street Rhythm Band, Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On,” and the Isley Brothers’ “Machine Gun” had us all grooving to their political and soulful messages.

  The day of sentencing came. I had great misgivings about going to court. Could I do life in prison? I briefly considered going on the run but knew it didn’t make sense until I at least knew what the sentence was. Judge Dell sentenced G, Will, and Paul to the state prison for the maximum time of one to five years. Four of us were sentenced to the county jail with probation after time served: Al, Craig, Robert, and me. During sentencing, the judge would render what he considered a life lesson to each one of us before he gave us our individual sentences. He said to me, “Well, Mr. Pharr, since you have been coming to court this last year, I have not figured out how to read you. You don’t say much.” I looked at him and didn’t say anything. “I am giving you six months in the county jail with two months served, plus three years’ probation. I don’t want to see you again.” I nodded. It could have been much worse.

  My girlfriend, Pam, and I walking out of the courthouse after the trial verdicts were rendered. The smile on my face shows my relief after being acquitted of the most serious charge: attempted murder. WAYNE PHARR COLLECTION

  This poster features the L.A. 13, those of us who prevailed against the predawn military assault by LAPD and successfully beat back their use of assault weapons, an armored vehicle, and explosives. COURTESY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA CHAPTER, BLACK PANTHER PARTY

  The two women, Tommye and Peaches, were given only probation. For Peaches, not serving time was great since she was eight months pregnant. Except for G, who was twenty-nine, our ages ranged from nineteen to twenty-three.

  I didn’t want to do the time in jail, but knowing that I wouldn’t abandon my boys and baby girl meant a lot to me because I had sworn that I wouldn’t be an absentee father. I was the new black man, one who would stick around to raise my children. But life is filled with contradictions, I suppose. The path I took to provide for them could have easily added to my sentence.

  Lester, Gary, and I planned one more hit so that I could leave Pam some money to live on while I was away. I called Freddie, the Mack Man, to find out about viable opportunities. Freddie always kept his ear to the ground, so he knew what was going on. He set up this guy who was a dealer. We caught him when he went to make his buy and took him out quick. We put him in the trunk of the car we were in and took off. We dropped him off miles away from Los Angeles. I let Lester and Gary keep the jewels he had on him, and I took my portion of the money. We also got a bunch of credit cards, which I gave to Freddie to fence off. We made $3,000 apiece for a few hours of work.

  While I was on my way to Wayside Jail, G was just beginning the fight of his life. Caroline Olsen, an elementary school teacher, was murdered on December 18, 1968, in Santa Monica. G was at a Black Panther meeting in Oakland at the time. But he was indicted, arrested, and charged in February 1972 on the word of Julio Butler, once head of the Buckingham office and now informant. I guess Julio’s crazy ass never got over G’s appointment as deputy minister instead of him. The case was in Santa Monica, but somehow it was transferred to Los Angeles.

  By New Years Day I was at Wayside. Before I left, I got some weed and pills and left them with Pam so she would have some money and I would also when I returned. The night before I left, I got blasted. I was apprehensive about going to jail, but I still had no regrets about the shoot-out and would do it again if the sheriffs showed up with guns drawn.

  I did my time at Wayside Maximum Security up in the mountains. It’s located about forty miles outside of Los Angeles. I put on some slacks and a pullover shirt and walked into the facility with clout and respect. I grew up a Broadway Slauson and became a Black Panther. The brothers inside knew how we had dealt with the pigs during the shoot-out, and they were impressed. The support gave me a good feeling, but that didn’t last long. On my first night in jail, the guy in the bunk below me hanged himself. I went to sleep and woke up to the commotion. I saw him, with a belt around his neck. I never found out if he died, but he was unconscious when they took him out. There’s nothing like seeing a brother with a noose around his neck to bring clarity. I had to be strong.

  Wayside was organized by dorms, with about sixty people in each section. There were blacks, whites, and Mexicans all living together. I knew I wasn’t in for long, so I wasn’t trying to make any friends or enemies. My goal—do easy time.

  The first week, I realized that I could make some money, so I purchased some candy, cigarettes, and Vaseline, all hot commodities in jail, and they moved quickly. Vaseline was important because brothers wanted to grease their bodies up. I opened up a little store from my cell. Soon, an old convict came by and said, “Young blood, I’m well connected on the streets. My people plan to put some money on the books for me soon, but I need some grease, cigarettes, and candy today. Can you help me out?” I thought, How many times have I heard that story? I gestured to him, as if I didn’t have anything, but he kept talking.

  “My name is Mills, and I worked for Bunk on the outside.”

  That piqued my interest. Bunk was the big dope man
in Watts at that time. He sold all kind of drugs and specialized in heroin. He sold at the Front, which was on Wilmington and 120th, near Imperial. I said, “I know Bunk. We can work something out. I’m sure you are good for it.”

  Mills replied, “Thanks, man. I need to quit this heroin, cold turkey.”

  I gave him what he asked for and let him know I would help if he needed me. He instructed me on how to rub him down with the Vaseline and wrap him in the thermal blanket so he would sweat the heroin out of his pores. He said the sugar rush from the candy helped to alleviate some the pressure of quitting.

  Sure enough, a few days later, he got a draw and paid me. I could tell he was doing much better.

  After chow one day, Mills thanked me again. “The average brother wouldn’t have done that for me.”

  I responded, “Sho’ you’re right.”

  “You’re here for Black Panther shit, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. Bunk used to help us out when we were short on cash.”

  Mills then said, “Come walk the yard with me and do what I do.” He continued, “I know you are in for short time, but the bulls will try to set you up to get you more. Stick with me, so you can learn how to stay away from their traps.” Mills took me under his wing and taught me how to survive Wayside.

  Once a week, the inmates were given yard time. I loved to play basketball, so I was looking forward to it. But Mills told me to keep my ass in the dorms, because “if the shit breaks out, the guards will shoot you first.” I followed Mills’s advice and stayed in the dorms and got schooled. I learned how to play chess. Certainly, I had played before Wayside, but we played the game with real excitement; we used the language of war. The bishops, knights, rooks, and pawns got captured and killed. Everybody is there to protect the king, and my job was to break through the defenses. Mills and some other inmates also showed me some new boxing techniques, emphasizing the importance of using my left hand to maneuver a blind-side punch. And then there were lessons on the art of hustling and being successful in the dope game. I was educated on how to buy heroin, cut it up, and bag it. Heroin, as opposed to cocaine, was a physical addition, so an addict needed three shots a day: one to wake up, one to function throughout the day, and one to sleep.