Nine Lives of a Black Panther Read online

  Pam and I were doing extremely well financially, but we couldn’t get along. We decided to call it quits, so I moved out and into one of my mother’s properties. It was a three-unit building on Forty-Third Street.

  The breakup with Pam forced me to pause and look at my lifestyle. I knew what I was doing was against the principles of a righteous black nationalist, but I justified it. I was trying to make enough money to help get G out and take care of my kids. I knew my immersion in the drug culture meant that people without solid principles or morals surrounded me. It was so different from dealing with intelligent black people, who had a socioeconomic perspective rooted in nonexploitation. The contradictions were so great. I went from being a servant of the people to selling them drugs; I had succumbed to the money.

  A few months after I broke up with Pam, I finally had the experience it took for me to change my lifestyle. Truly, a light went off inside my head. I needed a tester for some heroin, so I asked Chicken to participate. Chicken was a beautiful woman who was a dope fiend. I knew Chicken from high school. I will never forget the day she got into a fight with another girl on the gym field. She was beating this girl’s ass, when her shirt flew open and those breasts of hers were flashing. That’s when Chicken was looking good and in her glory. But years later Chicken was hooked and would do anything for a hit of heroin. She had just gotten out of jail and was walking down the street. I picked her up and asked if she wanted to go get a hit.

  Before a buy, the dealer wants to know that the product is good, so I took Chicken to a see a guy we called Wolf, a big dealer who sold to the Hollywood set. As soon as we got there, Wolf pulled out the needle and stuck it in her arm. I didn’t know it, but her veins were collapsed, so we had to keep digging and digging and digging.

  It was then that I had an out-of-body experience. I was looking down at myself, digging a needle in a woman’s arm. A voice—my voice—was saying to me: “Are you really that greedy? Do you really need the money this bad?”

  The answer was no. Right then and there, looking at Chicken with a needle in her arm, and looking at the guys around me who, like me, were participating in a business that was killing black people, I knew it was over for me.

  I didn’t have to get busted. I didn’t have to kill. I was making money, but I could no longer hold my head up high, like I had when I was in the Party. I wasn’t the proud black man I once was. I decided, right then and right there, I would not be the scourge of my people.

  21

  FAMILY BUSINESS

  I was sweating bullets at Floyd’s Fish Market. My job was to cut, clean, and fry fish for eight hours a day, five days a week.

  Floyd Metlock, a friend of my mother’s, owned the joint. He had been pestering me to work for him for quite a while. At my mom’s spot, Floyd had seen me and asked again. “Wayne, I’m still trying to get you to come help me out at the store.”

  I didn’t have any other opportunities coming my way. “Sure, Floyd. What time should I be there?”

  Floyd and my mom were playing cards, but they paused and looked at me, with their mouths open. “You can start tomorrow. Come about 9:00 AM, so we can begin to prepare the fish for the afternoon rush.”

  I said, “All right, I’ll be there.”

  As I was leaving the house, Floyd shouted, “Hey, don’t forget to wear comfortable shoes.”

  The fish market was located in the heart of the black community, on Vermont and 112th Street. Buffalo, perch, whiting, catfish, and red snapper sold all day and every day we were open. After taking the job at the fish market, my income immediately dropped to almost nothing. I went from making $2,500 a week to $120 a week. On top of that, I was wearing an apron stained with fish blood and standing over a deep fryer of boiling grease. Sometimes the perch had spines on the top that would stick in my fingers. I even cut myself a few times hacking away at a fish. But it was honest work, and it paid some bills. I sacrificed the money that selling dope gave me to do what was righteous for my people and my principles.

  My running partners couldn’t believe that I was working at Floyd’s, so they came to see it to believe it. Richard had been in the Party, so he respected my decision. Even as I was filling the hot sauce and ketchup bottles, Richard nodded to me, saying, “That’s all right brother. I’m proud of you, man.” Joe was cool with it too, and every now and then he would come by so I could fry him a piece or two. There wasn’t any shame in my game. I was for real. But some of the folks who knew how high I had been rolling couldn’t accept that I was out of the drug business. There were even rumors floating around that I was selling drugs out of the fish market!

  I was now out of the dope business and out of the Party. I worked, hung out with my friends, and was a father to my children. Periodically, the police would harass me, but it was nothing too serious. The most problems came from that pig Hole, who still had it out for me.

  I was driving with Pam’s brother in the car one day and Hole saw me going east on Imperial. He immediately hit the sirens and lights. I stopped the car in the middle of the street rather than pull over. This meant that I was blocking traffic and other cars had to go around me after that. As I suspected, Hole pulled up right behind me. I had hoped that he wouldn’t be able to get around us fast enough and would run right into my car. But that didn’t happen, so I had to deal with that fool.

  Hole got out of his car and struck his cowboy pose, like he was going to do a big draw. “Get out of the car, and then slowly back away from it,” he said. This was one of his tactics so we wouldn’t be able to shoot his ass straight on, without warning; we’d have to turn around to aim at him. After we backed away from the car and turned around, Hole got up in my face, growling. “Wayne, if you got a gun, draw it.”

  I replied with a smirk, “I don’t have a gun, Hole.”

  He walked around us, talking trash, and then eventually let us go. The asshole didn’t ask for license or registration. He just wanted me to see his power. What a jerk-off.

  Even though I had to deal with that kind of shit every now and then, the police weren’t trying to beat my ass on a daily basis. I was making progress, or so I thought.

  But then in May 1974, the pigs assured me that I was still considered a threat. At 3:00 AM, I was on my way home, driving through the alley in the back of my mother’s house. I lived in one of the units over my mom’s garage, upstairs, but not in the house itself. As soon as I pulled in and parked, the police threw the lights on me and lit up the alley like high noon. I noticed that five or six police cars had surrounded the place. There was also a police helicopter circling and surveying the scene from the sky. They had caught me off-guard this time. I had no expectation of an early morning run-in with the police, especially around my mother’s house.

  “Wayne, get out the damn car,” one of the pigs shouted.

  I got out slowly with my hands up. The pig then ordered me to lean over the hood of the car with my hands behind my back. While patting me down, he barked, “Are you armed or carrying any weapons?”

  I answered, “No sir.” Glad as hell that I wasn’t. I didn’t know what this shit was about. As usual, I told myself to play it cool.

  The leader that night barked again, “Where is Patty Hearst, Wayne?”

  I looked up at the cop talking to me. I was dumbfounded. Are they really trying to hook me up with that craziness? “I don’t know where she is. I don’t have anything to do with Patty Hearst.”

  Nineteen-year-old Patty Hearst of Berkeley, California, was the granddaughter of William Randolph Hearst, a rich white man who built a media empire. She had been kidnapped by an organization called the Symbionese Liberation Army (SLA) in February. After the media reported she was kidnapped, she went on the road with them, robbing banks. She even shot up a surplus store somewhere near Los Angeles.

  “Wayne, I am going to ask you again. What do you know about the SLA?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “We have information that you were involved with her kidn
apping or that you are keeping her in one of your safe houses in Los Angeles.”

  I said emphatically, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “You are wanted for questioning; we may need to take you downtown.”

  “I swear I have nothing to do with that situation. I’m trying to mind my own business.”

  I looked toward my mom’s home and noticed that she was looking out of her back window, checking out the situation. By this time, other neighbors had come out of their homes to check out the scene. I am sure that with so many witnesses, the police thought it was better to leave me alone, so they left. I walked upstairs, tired as hell, and went to bed, wondering if the pigs would come back.

  Later that morning, I stopped by my mom’s house to talk about what happened. I told her that I knew nothing about Patty Hearst and I thought the cops were just talking to anybody who had been an activist or had ties with militant groups. I told her I was glad that she had checked them out, because that stopped them from trying to harm me.

  Because my mother had never seen me in danger before, the incident so unnerved her that she covertly called my father, Bill Pharr, and told him to get me out of town. In the meantime, the LAPD shot up and bombed the SLA’s safe house on Fifty-Fourth Street on May 17, about two weeks after they questioned me. The SLA showed up for the fight and spent two hours going back and forth with the police. In the end, they lost a couple of members, including one of their leaders, Donald DeFreeze, who went by the name Cinque. My hustling partner Joe knew Cinque from way back. But there was no connection to me. The pigs were just still harassing me because we had blasted them out of headquarters.

  Patty Hearst was eventually captured and prosecuted, but President Jimmy Carter commuted her sentence. Her lawyers said she was a victim of some bullshit called Stockholm syndrome, which supposedly makes you a slave to the beliefs of your kidnappers. That justification was absurd to me. If Stockholm syndrome could be used to justify crime, then all the damn activists I know should be out of jail.

  Shortly after the pigs had questioned me at gunpoint about the SLA, my father got in touch with me. What is this nigga calling me about after all this time? I wondered. The last time I had seen my father was when I was about ten years old. I wasn’t that interested in talking to him at that point in my life. But I guess curiosity got the best of me, so I decided to hear him out. After we exchanged a few pleasantries, my father said, “Hey, Champ, look, I am up here in Berkeley, and I’m hoping that you will come up here to spend some time with me.”

  At first I refused. “I’m not sure I have the time right now.”

  He continued, “Your mother said you are under some pressure down there with the police. She thinks it would be good for you to get out of town for a little while.”

  I heard him out and decided to go, figuring I had nothing to lose. I went to Berkeley to see him for a couple days. He was staying with my cousin Katy on Fifty-Fourth and San Pablo. He stayed there when he was in town and not on the ships, and had his own space in the downstairs area of her house.

  I rang the doorbell and my father answered the door. I was hesitant and a little uncomfortable, not knowing what to expect. I didn’t know what to do, so I just stared at him. He was about sixty years old, slightly shorter than I remembered and heavy around the middle.

  My father wasted no time giving me a real generous hug. “It’s good to see you, Champ. I hope it’s OK that I still call you that.” I could tell he was a little nervous too.

  “Sure,” I said, walking into the house.

  He wanted to know how I was doing and told me that he always thought about me. Yeah, but you weren’t there, I thought. “Champ, I had my partners check on you from time to time while you were growing up, and even when you became involved with those Black Panthers.” That piqued my interest. He cleared his throat. “I have strong feelings about the Party. I like the ideas, but I got a problem with the whole gun thing.”

  I said, “Yeah, a lot of people do, but we have to defend ourselves.”

  Then he surprised me. “I knew John Frey’s father—you know, the guy that Huey Newton shot. He was a merchant seaman; I met him on a ship a few times.”

  After he told me that, we both loosened up a bit, feeling that we had something more in common than just our last name. The next thing I knew we were talking about our family, laughing, and cracking jokes. Being with my father was surreal. I never expected that to happen.

  I stayed with my pops for two days and then went to visit Aunt Dovey on my mother’s side. In the meantime, he notified my mom that everything was all right and that he and I would be coming to Los Angeles together. My pops was ready to retire and in the process of deciding where he wanted to spend the rest of his life.

  I drove Pops and myself the six hours to Los Angeles. It was a leisurely ride, but we talked about serious stuff along the way, like my half brother Druice Pharr. Nicknamed Dru, I had heard about him throughout the years but had never met him. Pops said that Dru had great animosity toward him because he didn’t stay in Gipson, Louisiana, to raise him. My dad and Dru’s mom lived on the bayou when they were married, but after they divorced, my father left because he couldn’t find work. He saw a boat come down the bayou one day and jumped on it. He hadn’t been back there since the 1940s. I am not sure why, but I didn’t feel like Dru. I didn’t hate my father.

  I drove Pops throughout the neighborhoods in Los Angeles. I’ll never forget how awestruck he was at the LAPD helicopter patrol and the way the pigs would light up a neighborhood. He said to me, “Damn, Champ, this is worse than Vietnam.”

  I was glad he saw it for himself. I told him, “Pops, this is what I have been trying to tell you. I been dealing with this shit my whole life.”

  “Now I understand your demeanor and style. Seeing you, son, makes me think of Robert Charles, the guy from New Orleans who fought the police in 1900.” That’s how I learned about Mr. Charles. “But I still don’t like that Eldridge Cleaver. I don’t know how you Panthers could follow a known rapist.”

  Pops hung out with Mom, and of course, they got into a fight. I know it had something to do with child support. He was ready to go after that. I am not sure how it happened, but we decided to travel to New Orleans to see Dru.

  At the age of twenty-four, I finally met my half brother. He was a decade older than me. He had obviously taken after his mother’s side in height and weight. He was big, about six feet, and more than two hundred pounds. But he and my father shared facial features and had the same laugh.

  Dru was a self-made man. He had dropped out of high school to work in one of the neighborhood stores. After becoming an accomplished butcher, he opened up two grocery stores of his own in New Orleans. Soon after that he had opened a bar. Dru was one of the most well-known and respected black men in town.

  When Dru found out I was coming, he threw a first-class party for me. The event was at his house, in a middle-class neighborhood. He greeted me with, “Hey, little brother, I haven’t seen you since you was a baby.”

  I responded with a wide grin. “What’s happening, man? I’m glad to see you. I’ve been hearing about you all my life.”

  “Little bro, I know you don’t remember, but I met you when you were not even one year old, after your mom dropped you at our house. I was about ten and had to take care of you.”

  Dru introduced me to his friends and business associates, and we partied all night. I thought he was trying to impress me—and he succeeded. There seemed to be a clandestine plan to convince me to relocate to New Orleans. My father told me that Dru was experiencing some tax trouble and asked me to help him out. I was good with numbers, so they knew I could work on the problem. Dru also needed some help running his businesses. I agreed to stay a while.

  My father decided that he was ready to go back to Northern California, so I drove him back across the country. When we got there, I dropped him off at the dock, and he went to the Philippines. He left me his Thunderbird and two
grand in cash and told me to really spend some time in New Orleans and get to know my brother. On my way back to Louisiana, I stopped in Los Angeles to say bye to my mom, Nanny, and the children.

  When I returned, Dru seemed a bit sentimental. With misty eyes and a smile, he said to me, “I’m glad you are back. I need to get to know my little brother. What kind of work do you do?”

  “I worked in some liquor stores after I joined the Party. By the way, I used to deal in Los Angeles.”

  “I know you are not doing that shit anymore. You’re a Pharr man; you’re better than that. Hell, I can take two pieces of bread, lettuce, and tomato and make more money on that than a common dope dealer.”

  I laughed; I guessed he was right, especially if he was a serious entrepreneur.

  “There is a lot I can hook you up with down here. But we don’t hustle drugs.”

  Because Dru was the big brother, I gave him Pops’s T-Bird, and I took Dru’s Cadillac, which he had dogged out. I fixed it up so good, he wanted it back.

  I found out that my brother had a reputation as a good ole boy. That meant he had relationships with the Italians and other white folks that allowed him access to liquor and cigarettes at wholesale. He introduced me to them, as well as to some beautiful women. I met even more women, because my job was to work at the bar. I settled into a relationship with Carmen, a woman whom I had seen passing by the bar periodically. She was so fine it would make a man cry. She was a cheerleader for Xavier College and athletic, and she wanted to be a flight attendant.