Panther Baby (6 page)

Th
e court clerk began reading from a paper: “
Th
e People versus Lumumba Shakur et al.
Th
e defendant Eddie Joseph, also known as Jamal Baltimore, is charged with conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to commit arson, and attempted murder. How do you plead?”

“What?” was all my confused brain and shocked mouth could blurt out.

“
Th
e defendant pleads not guilty,” Kunstler said.

“Bail is set in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars,” the judge said.

“What?” I repeated.
Th
e number staggered me. Noonie and I had never even seen a thousand dollars.

“Judge, this is the defendant’s first arrest. He is an honor student, has strong ties in the community, and is barely sixteen. He should not be charged as an adult . . .”

Th
e judge cut Kunstler off: “Bail is one hundred thousand dollars. Remand the defendant.”

“Power to the people, Brother Jamal!” someone shouted as I was led from the courtroom. I reflexively raised my first in the black-power salute and shouted, “Power!”
Th
e supporters began applauding. I caught a glimpse of Noonie in the third row, looking very sad. “Noonie,” I called out, “Ma!” But my voice was drowned out by the clapping, revolutionary slogans, and the judge banging his gavel for order. Noonie waved back as two burly court guards escorted me from the courtroom.

Th
e court guards placed me in a small holding cell. I had expected to be reunited with the other Panthers, but the guards had other plans. A few minutes later the guards put Katara in the cell with me. “What’s happening? Why aren’t we with the other Panthers?” we demanded of the guards.
Th
e guards ignored us except for a black guard who eventually informed us that because we were under twenty-one we were being taken to Rikers Island.

A few hours later a contingent of guards and cops shackled us and led us to a paddy wagon. It was built low and wide like an armored car.
Th
e prisoner compartment was like a tomb: metal benches along the wall for seating, tiny barred slits for windows.
Th
e paddy wagon pulled off, escorted by two police cars.
Th
ere were no seat belts and every time we hit a bump, Katara and I would bounce around like jumping beans, sometimes banging our heads on the ceiling or winding up on the floor. Since we were shackled we would have to roll and shimmy around the paddy wagon in order to get back to the bench.

It was around midnight when we got to Rikers. A team of guards took us from the van to holding cells. Katara and I were strip-searched and led to isolation cells, also known as the hole or the bing in different cell blocks. My cell was cramped and dirty, with a paper-thin mattress on a metal slab passing for a bed. My only bedding was a coarse gray blanket. Mice darted around the floor looking for food like shoppers at a mall. When I stomped and yelled, they would dart into holes in the concrete, and then reappear moments later.
Th
is was obviously their jail and I was the visitor.

Fighting my fear, fists clenched, I stared at the single lightbulb hanging in its metal enclosure. “I’m a Panther,” I repeated aloud. “Pigs can’t break me.”
Th
en I recited the Ten-Point Program. “We want freedom. We want the power to determine the destiny of our black community.”
Th
e guards turned the cell light out. I started thinking about Noonie, wondering if she was okay.
Th
en I pretended I was in the bunk at Camp Minisink, which finally relaxed me enough to fall asleep.

6

To the Belly of the Beast

E
ven though it was a city jail, as opposed to a state or federal prison, Rikers Island, or “the Rock,” as it was known by inmates and guards, was a hard place to do time. Part penitentiary, part gladiator school. A person doing time on the Rock quickly found out that you had to be strong to survive.

Th
e next morning the guard opened my cell and a young black prisoner handed me a breakfast tray. Watery powdered milk, a box of generic corn flakes, four slices of white bread, and a cup of coffee that tasted like brown dishwater. Later the guard let me out of my cell for a shower. Two more meals were brought to me: a bologna sandwich with tea, and a rubbery greenish piece of meat that was supposed to be liver. I ate what I could and did push-ups to keep my strength up. Every time the guard opened my cell to leave a food tray, I jumped to my feet expecting to hear him say, “You’ve been released.” But each time an inmate would just pass me a food tray and the door would shut.

A black prisoner named Merciful Allah passed by my cell using a heavy industrial mop to clean the floor. He was part of the “house gang,” a small group of inmates selected by the guards to do custodial and light maintenance work in the cell block. Merciful lived in
Th
ree Block but was escorted over to the “seg” unit twice a day to do chores. Merciful would finish cleaning the corridor and then stop by my cell to talk for a few minutes until the guard chased him away.

He told me my arrest was all over the news. Merciful slipped me a newspaper that had pictures of everyone who had been arrested and indicted.
Th
e police were reportedly saying that twenty-one Black Panthers were set to go to war with the government. District Attorney Frank Hogan said that we were arrested days, perhaps hours, before we were going to plant bombs in major department stores at the height of the Easter shopping season. We were also accused of planning to bomb the Bronx Botanical Gardens as well as police stations, where we would be shooting cops as they fled the explosion. I stared at my mug shot in the paper, trying to process the allegations and comprehend my surroundings.

Merciful’s real name was Tony Mason. He had a scar on his right cheek, running from his ear to his mouth, and an Islamic star and crescent tattoo on his arm. He took the name Merciful after joining a group known as the Five Percenters, which believed that the black man was God, and all of the members took the last name Allah.

Merciful was twenty years old and was about to “go upstate” to a maximum-security prison to serve five years for sticking up a liquor store.
Th
is was Merciful’s third bid. He had done two years in a youth house and three years in Elmira Reformatory for burglary and robbery. Damn, I thought, twenty years old and he’s already spent a quarter of his life in prison.

I would talk to Merciful about prison being a concentration camp that was part of a military-industrial complex designed to exploit and enslave black men for the purpose of profit. Merciful would talk about the black man being God and white man being the devil.

He would hand me a cigarette and ask a bunch of questions about the Panthers. Real cigarettes were like gold in prison. In fact, cigarettes were used as currency and also for gambling. Prisoners would shoot dice, play cards, and bet on basketball games and boxing matches with cigarettes. “Juggling” was a big loan-shark business in jail. “Jugglers” would walk through the cell block calling out “Two for one” or “
Th
ree for one.”
Th
is meant that you could get a pack of cigarettes (or cookies, deodorant, or toothpaste) today with the understanding that you would pay back two or three packs on commissary day.

Many of the jugglers were also part of the house gang.
Th
e house gang got to stay out when the rest of the inmates were locked in their cells for the afternoon count and evening lockup.
Th
is meant they could pursue their juggling enterprise as they moved around the tiers, waxing, mopping, handing out clean sheets, and bringing food trays to inmates who were locked down in segregation for security or medical reasons.

Merciful was part of the house gang and a juggler, but he never asked for anything back when he gave me a few cigarettes, real toothpaste (not the tin of tooth powder inmates were usually given), or a sandwich. He was just fascinated to meet a “real Black Panther” and was amazed that I appeared to be “so soft” compared with the “hard niggers” he imagined the Panthers to be.

He asked if the Panthers were coming to break me out. I told him that the charges against us were all trumped up and that the lawyers were working to get the case dismissed. He warned me not to trust anyone because the jail was filled with snitches and “booty bandits.” Booty bandits were prisoners who liked to rape “new jacks”—new guys like myself.

Th
e truth is I was secretly hoping that a Panther commando squad would blow down the walls of the cell block and free me. I hated jail.
Th
e metal walls of the tiny cell seemed like they were closing in on me. I felt like I was losing my mind. I inspected myself in the metal mirror. I looked like a crazy man. My Afro was matted and wild. My T-shirt was dirty. My eyes were puffy with depression and anxiety. Merciful passed me a plastic Afro comb. “Stash that in your mattress,” he said. “
Th
e guards consider that contraband.” I picked out my Afro, then used the comb to tear a slit in my mattress and hid it. Merciful also gave me a clean pair of socks, drawers, and a T-shirt. He told me how to stop up my sink with toilet paper so I could fill it with cold water and use the prison soap to lather up and wash my dirty clothes.

Th
ere were other prisoners in segregation. Most were inmates who were serving three to thirty days for fighting, disobeying an order, or possessing contraband. A few were mentally disturbed inmates who were waiting for beds to open up in Bellevue’s prison psych ward.
Th
e rest were labeled snitches—inmates who were being held in protective custody because they were testifying against their codefendants or other inmates.

A few days after I arrived at Rikers, three guards came to my cell.
Th
e cell door rolled open. I stood, uncertain as to why the guards were there. “You have a visitor,” one of the guards said. I cautiously stepped outside my cell.
Th
ey escorted me to the visiting room. Two dozen inmates sat on stools and talked into telephone receivers to their relatives who sat on the other side of the Plexiglas windows. I was considered a high security risk, so the guards led me past the other inmates and locked me into a small corner metal booth.
Th
e inside of the booth felt like a coffin. I dripped sweat and took slow deep breaths to keep from passing out.

A few minutes later a guard led Noonie to a chair on the other side of the Plexiglas. She looked frail and bewildered in this concentration-camp-like environment, but I was happy to see her. Noonie smiled and started talking. I picked up my telephone receiver and gestured to her to do the same.
Th
e damn phones didn’t work. I banged on my cubicle wall, yelling for a guard. I motioned to Noonie to call for the guard on her side of the Plexiglas. She shook her head no and mouthed, “Let’s not make trouble.”

“We’re not making trouble, Noonie,” I yelled. “I have a legal right to a visit.
Th
ese phones are supposed to work.
Th
ey’re treating me like an animal in here.” I pounded the cubicle wall. I saw tears forming in Noonie’s eyes and calmed myself down.

I located a small mesh covered vent below the Plexiglas window where I could shout to Noonie and place my ear to hear her response.

“Are you okay?” I yelled.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” Noonie replied, “but I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.
Th
is is just all a bunch of harassment.
Th
e lawyers will have us out soon. Did anybody from the party call you?”

“Somebody called,” Noonie said. “But I told them I didn’t have anything to say.” My heart sank as I pictured Noonie hanging up on a Panther leader.

“But if they were from the Panthers, they were trying to help. Maybe they had information from the lawyers.”

Noonie set her jaw like a strong African mask. “
Th
at Black Panther mess put you here. Now they want to help?”

When Noonie got like this, there was no reasoning with her, so I left the subject of phone calls alone. She told me that Reverend Lloyd and the whole church were praying for me. I wanted to say, “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” but I knew Noonie would have found a way to slap me through the Plexiglas window. I just nodded my head and mouthed the words, “
Th
ank you.”

Th
e guard came for Noonie and told her the visit was over. “Over? Visits are supposed to be thirty minutes. My mother’s only been here for ten,” I yelled at the guard through the vent. “
Th
e phone doesn’t work
and
you’re cutting my visit short?”
Th
e guard ignored me. Noonie told me she loved me, blew me a kiss, and left.
Th
e guards left me in the visiting coffin for another hour. When they finally let me out I was drenched, weak, dehydrated, and pissed.

Merciful was sitting in one of the regular visiting cubicles waiting for his visitor to arrive. “Peace, black man,” he said, and smiled. “You have a good visit with your people?”

“Naw, man,” I snapped, “these pigs messed with my whole visit.”

One of the guards escorting me was a short, stocky black dude. He spun around, jabbed his finger in my chest, and got nose to nose with me like a boxer before the first bell. “I ain’t gonna be all them damn pigs,” he spit.

“You don’t have to be one if you don’t act like one,” I replied almost politely.

Th
e guard jabbed me with his finger again. “I said I ain’t gonna be all them damn pigs.”

I knew the next words were going to get me in trouble, but I was too mad to hold back. “I’m sorry. I meant to say these motherfucking pigs are messing with my visit.”

Th
e guard was holding his prison key ring, which he used to deliver a hard smack against the side of my head. I staggered back. He came at me with a punch. I managed to partially block it and landed a kick in his fat belly. I was aiming for his balls, but it was enough to wobble him back.
Th
en two white guards jumped on me and started pounding away with punches. Prison guards don’t actually carry clubs for fear that inmates will snatch them and use them as weapons against them. It’s the riot squad, or “goon squad,” that wears helmets and uses clubs, shields, and tear gas to overpower prisoners.

Since the visiting corridor is narrow, the guards had a hard time subduing me. We banged up against the wall, trading blows until they were able to drag me to the main corridor. Once there I dropped to the ground and curled into a protective ball the way I had been trained in Panther self-defense classes.
Th
e guards handcuffed me.
Th
ere were a number of inmates and guards and a black captain named Woods in the main corridor. With all the witnesses, the beating stopped.
Th
e captain told them to take me back to “seg” and write up an incident report. Captain Woods had a reputation for being hard but fair. He did not allow guards to use “excessive force” on his watch.

Captain Woods shadowed the guards as they took me back to my cell and locked me in. He asked me what happened. I told him about being locked in the broken cubicle and making a general statement about the pigs. He asked me who threw the first blow. I showed him the swelling that the key ring left near my eye. Captain Woods just nodded and walked away. I slept with one eye open, expecting the guards to return in larger numbers with a beat-down.

My first week in prison felt like a year, but I knew Noonie’s trek from Rikers Island back to her apartment in the North Bronx must have felt like an eternity.
Th
ere were locked gates to go through, a long wait for the bus to take her off Rikers Island, then another bus to the subway station, followed by a series of trains on the two-hour ride home. Eventually, I convinced her to visit only once each month.

I would write Noonie letters assuring here that I was doing fine and that the lawyers were making progress with the case. She would send me shorter notes with encouraging Bible quotes and well wishes from church members. It was hard to talk about the Panther 21 case with Noonie. She understood and seemed to agree that it was a frame-up, but she still felt that I had gotten mixed up with the “wrong people,” while believing that the judge would let me go because it was my first mistake.

Th
e day after my scuffle with the visiting room guard, Captain Woods came to my cell with another officer. “Pack your stuff up, Mr. Joseph,” he said. “You’re being transferred.”

“Where?” I asked.

“
Th
ree Block,” he said. “General population.”

Th
is is weird, I thought. I get into a fight with three guards and actually get released from segregation? I wondered if this might be a set-up, but I rolled up my few possessions in my blanket and followed Captain Woods. As we walked down the main corridor, Captain Woods explained that the black guard who hit me had been transferred to a different unit on Rikers. “I don’t like my guards hitting inmates with key rings,” he said, “but you ain’t gonna get very far calling my guards pigs either.”

I accepted this as compromise justice and stepped into
Th
ree Block. My new home.