by Wells, Jon
***
San Francisco, California 1967 Chuck Kopp rose from bed, stepped on the floor and ambled to the bathroom. His limp was not helped by the weight he had been putting on. At 45, the husband, father of five, corporate lawyer, could see in the mirror his graying, receding hair and thick face. Only the green eyes had not changed. Perhaps he also saw a flash
Leo “Chuck” Kopp. of the young man who had been a wiry and slender six feet tall, a young Marine in khaki uniform serving in the Second world war. He put on the pressed white shirt, blue tie, gray suit. Old school dress, as always, because that’s what Chuck Kopp was, a man’s man. He got into his company car, backed carefully out of the steeply sloping driveway, and then down the hill, out to Sir Francis Drake Boulevard to Highway 101 and out of Marin County.
In 10 minutes he’d emerge from the early-morning sunshine and perhaps hit the fog rolling in to San Francisco Bay as he crossed the Golden Gate Bridge. He worked as chief legal counsel for West Coast Life.
He worked with friends like Anne, Harry and Joan. They would often lunch at Sam’s Grill, a fashionable spot in the financial district on Bush Street, their preferred seats being the dark brown wooden booths—real booths, with walls extending up nearly to the ceiling and a curtain in the doorway for privacy. (Some lawyers chose them to do private business, but still checked the neighboring booths to ensure no one was eavesdropping.) They talked business over some Napa Valley wine, Sam’s legendary sand dabs and creamed spinach. Chuck Kopp was polite, held doors for women. He spoke in a deep baritone, mannered, intelligent. There was something just below the surface, a toughness that those who spent time with him could sense. When angered, though, Chuck would not let it out.
*** Charles Leo “Chuck” Kopp was born in 1922 in Los Angeles, named after his father, Charles Sr., who had emigrated from Austria. Chuck’s parents were Christian Scientists and the story went that he quit the group in his late teens when he was told to have his appendix removed and his mother opposed the operation, urging him to let God take care of it.
Also in 1922, on April 13, Nancy Leonard was born in Los Angeles to Walter Leonard, a physician, and Kathryn Leonard. Both Chuck and Nancy attended John Marshall High, a school named for America’s most famous Supreme Court justice. Alphabetic fate brought them together. The class was seated that way: Kopp, then Leonard. Chuck was tall and lean, Nancy had sandy-blond hair. Back then, a couple could be called high school sweethearts without a trace of irony. And Chuck and Nancy were just that, sweethearts, destined to one day be married.
By the summer of 1941 they had graduated. Nancy went to Berkeley for nursing, Chuck to Los Angeles City College before attending College of the Redlands. The war against the Nazis had raged in Europe for almost two years. What cause is just enough to go to war? So far, the war against Hitler was not a struggle for which Americans were ready to fight, die, and kill. On Sunday, December 7, 1941, America’s dreamy isolation exploded at Pearl Harbor. Monday morning, Chuck Kopp enlisted in the Marines. He scored high enough on his entrance exam that he was sent for officer’s training in Virginia, and became a lieutenant.
The training center was in Quantico, which later became the home of the FBI’s behavioral science unit—a place where, one day in the distant future, Chuck’s son would be the subject of concerted attention. Nancy, meanwhile, earned her nursing diploma at St. Mary’s Hospital in Minnesota. In 1944, she took a train cross-country to visit Chuck in Quantico. They got married that year. They were both 22 years old.
Early in 1945, Chuck was shipped out to California, en route to Hawaii, where he stayed for about six months awaiting orders for the anticipated invasion of Japan. The invasion never happened, and Chuck never saw combat. On August 6, an 8,000-pound atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, killing about 70,000 people. A second bomb was dropped on Nagasaki on August 9, killing 40,000. An American invasion of the main island of Japan would have produced massive casualties for both sides. The bomb perhaps saved lives. But it killed, over time, perhaps as many as 350,000 people, some instantly, some slowly, rotting bodies from the inside out. When does the end justify the means? When is it just to kill an innocent? In the autumn of 1945, American forces landed to mop up and occupy the country, and Chuck was among those in the occupational force, based in Osaka.
After the war Chuck and Nancy Kopp lived in San Gabriel, and then settled in nearby South Pasadena. Chuck entered law school at the University of Southern California. On July 20, 1948, before Chuck had finished law school, Nancy Kopp gave birth to their first child, Anne. In 1949, Chuck graduated with his doctorate in jurisprudence—finishing in the top third of his class. At the end of that year, December 17, 1949, Martha—“Marty”—was born. The Kopps lived in a roomy two-storey home at 1947 Oak Street in South Pasadena, a city located along historic Route 66, just ten miles from downtown Los Angeles. It was an idyllic place, although the neighborhood was still haunted by the “Monday Massacre,” which occurred less than a kilometer from Chuck and Nancy’s home.
On May 6, 1940, Verlin Spencer, the thin, bespectacled viceprincipal of South Pasadena junior high school called a meeting of school district officials. “Good morning, Spence,” one of them said, and not long after that, Spencer shot five of his colleagues dead with his Colt Woodsman automatic .22-caliber pistol and crippled another before wounding himself with the gun. He was found lying in a pool of blood on the floor of the cafeteria.
There was no apparent motive, and Spencer swore for the rest of his life he did not remember any events of the day. A psychologist theorized that Spencer, a man of considerable intelligence working towards his doctorate in education, was a clinical paranoiac who wanted to improve the education system, and in doing so, elevated himself to the position of a “benevolent deity.” His suicide was intentionally, though subconsciously botched, went the theory, so he could “remain the center of attention, commanding that position in a grisly triumph over imaginary enemies.”
On August 14, 1952, Chuck and Nancy had a daughter, Mary. They now had three girls. Perhaps Chuck Kopp, being old school, wanted to have a boy. In any event, Nancy became pregnant again. On August 2, 1954, at age 32, she gave birth to twin boys at Pasadena Memorial Hospital. There were complications. The babies had to be delivered by Caesarian section. The first son they named Walter Charles. The second, James Charles—Jim, the baby of the family. The boys were born two minutes apart—a period of time in history, Jim always joked, that Walter would never let his fraternal twin forget.
Jim would always look lovingly upon his days growing up in South Pasadena. See dad rousting the family well before dawn, New Year’s Day, 1965. The two 10-year-old boys and three teenage girls and mom and dad get on their bicycles and ride to Pasadena to secure a good spot for the Rose Parade. They are there, front row, to see the Spanish horses, the St. Bernards from Sierra Madre search and rescue team, marching bands.
Jim was like any other kid. He took six stitches in his eyebrow playing baseball. In his teens he hummed the melodies of the Beach Boys and Jan and Dean while body surfing at Huntington Beach—the future site of the Baywatch TV series, as he would later enjoy pointing out.
By the end of the 1960s Los Angeles was booming but California’s financial capital was still in San Francisco, where all the insurance head offices were located. For Chuck Kopp, an insurance lawyer, the Bay Area was a step up. When Jim and Walt were 13 years old, Chuck and Nancy moved the family just as protest and revolution reached their climax in the Bay Area. In 1967 Chuck bought a house that sat across the bay from the chaos in San Francisco proper, a modest house on Via Lerida in a suburb called Greenbrae in Marin County. Their home, like others in the neighborhood, was built into the side of a steep hill, a natural skateboard park for young Jim and his friends. From his living room window Chuck could see the land unfold like a carpet at his feet. In the distance, just barely visible, was the bay. He had a successful legal career, a family man who had fought for his country. He was a member of what would, in more nostalgic time
s to come, be called the Greatest Generation.
Chapter 3 ~ Don Quixote
In the late 1960s Bart Slepian yearned to be a doctor but there was still the matter of earning a medical degree. As he entered his mid-20s, Bart had not reached his goal. He attended a community college in Rochester, New York, then enrolled at the University of Denver, majoring in zoology. But he was not a star student. He couldn’t get into medical schools in the United States. He wasn’t the only one—if your academic record was less than sterling, you didn’t stand a chance. Two out of three applicants were denied entry in the late sixties.
Barnett Slepian was born in 1946 into a family where expectations were high long before he entered the world. He was the youngest of four kids. Bart’s grandfather was a Russian Jewish immigrant who sold shoelaces from a pushcart in Cambridge, Massachusetts Bart’s father, Philip, attended Harvard, but following his graduation the family company failed, and Philip never recovered financially, struggling to make a living. He moved his wife and their four kids out of Boston to his in-laws’ apartment in McKeesport, in southwest Pennsylvania, then to Pittsburgh, and then to Rochester. He set himself up as a freelance writer, driving across the country in a Studebaker to research the origins of prominent citizens and writing their stories for small-town newspapers.
In spite of his personal struggles, or perhaps because of them, Philip, like his father, insisted on the best education for his children, pushing them hard. That was part of the family tradition, and part of his Jewish heritage as well. You do well in school. End of discussion. Bart perhaps felt the pressure differently. He was so much younger than his siblings, and he was tremendously shy. When his sister Serena chided him saying, “Look at you, Bart, the handsome boy.” Bart would look away with embarrassment, or cry.
As he got older Bart saw one of his brothers earn a doctorate in mathematics. Another became an ear-nose-and-throat specialist, Serena an educator. He eventually overcame his boyhood shyness, grew to enjoy putting people on, joking. With his failure to get into med school in the United States, Bart considered other avenues for earning a medical degree—and one of those was in Belgium, at the University of Louvain. Among other Americans he met there was a guy named Rick Schwarz, who grew up in the Bronx and could not get into New York University. Getting into the overseas school wasn’t the hard part—staying in was. The standards were high. Moreover, he had to study medicine in French. Bart often spent all-nighters studying with a friend named Carole Lieberman. His irreverent humor made her laugh. She saw him as this guy fighting the odds to become a doctor. He had no French, and barely enough money for food. She saw him as a Don Quixote figure, this guy armed for battle in life with little more than dry quips and an invincible will. He did not finish the program, and neither did Rick Schwarz, who in 1970 returned to New York to consider his options.
That November Bart visited his sister Serena in Reno, Nevada. Serena had been left a widow the previous July with a four-year-old daughter named Amanda. She was also eight months pregnant, struggling to pay for ballet and piano lessons and summer camp by, among other things, dealing cards at the blackjack table at Harrah’s. In her adult life, daughter Amanda would eventually grow to become a talented writer, and author an article for George magazine about her uncle in the days when he was struggling to make it:
November 1970. Dark, stringy Bart parked his rusting ’65 Chevy crammed with his every possession in front of my paternal grandparents’ white-trimmed house in Reno, Nevada. They were still ashen from my father’s death four months earlier; still ashen from my father’s elopement with my Jewish mother five years earlier. My eight months pregnant mother hugged her baby brother with a fervor that enraged me. My grandfather took a long time to say, “Come in. Come in.” In the den, conversation spluttered.
“So you missed the funeral because you were in Belgium?” my grandfather asked.
“Yes,” Bart answered.
“Medical school?”
Nod.
“Shouldn’t you be in classes right now?”
“I flunked out.”
“Cocktail?”
“No, thank you ... It was my French. I didn’t spend enough time on my French.”
“Maybe you should make it easier on yourself and go to an American school?”
“They all rejected me.”
“Boy you must really want to be a doctor.”
Low, sardonic laugh.
Bart Slepian may have been a wilting flower as a young boy but he had, by 1970, at age 24, hardened himself to take whatever came at him with dark humor and a stubborn, take-no-crap attitude that went beyond conventional notions of determination. In the absence of a med school that he could both enter and finish, he drove a taxi for a time. Serena used to watch the faces of Amanda and her friends light up when Bart arrived in the cab and told the girls to hop in. He shoveled manure at a friend’s farm near his sister’s place in Reno. He would not let go of his dream of becoming a doctor. Backing down was not an option.
*** Greenbrae, California Redwood High School 1971
Inside the high school auditorium the bass creeps in, boom-boomba-boom-boom, the hi-hat clicks in smartly, tish-tish-tish, melting into hot licks from the trumpets, bam-bam-BAM, as Sammy Nestico’s The Blues Machine cooks on stage. School bandleader Syd Gordon stands off in the wings, lets the kids swing, then counts them in on the next number—“Here we go now!”—into the most famous swing song of all time, Glen Miller’s “In The Mood,” a throwback to the jitterbugging forties. In the old days, Syd remembered the kids in the band looked pretty sharp, wore red blazers. This being the 1970s, though, the players are dressed casual, no uniforms. In the front row, the jazz band features the saxes, in the middle the trombones, and the back row four trumpets. Off to the side are the piano, drums, guitar. In back, his lips working the brass trumpet mouthpiece, is a skinny, 16-year-old boy with darkrimmed glasses, rust-brown hair and pale blue eyes. Jim Kopp.
Young Jim Kopp (second from left). Redwood High was a big school, 2,500 students. The building was pure Bauhaus architecture, several blocks joined together. Teachers joked that they taught at “San Quentin west,” a reference to the maximum security prison, not too far along the highway from the school, that had replaced Alcatraz. But Redwood was a mostly staid, upper-middle-class place. Teachers wanted to be there. The San Francisco Bay Area was at the center of America’s cultural tug of war, but the struggle was not in much evidence at Redwood, ten minutes north of the Golden Gate Bridge in prosperous Marin County. Still, there was “respectable” activism—the teachers were proudly liberal and most of the students were, too.
Jim Kopp was not immune to the idealistic vibes of his time, or at least the music that grew from it. One artist in particular struck a chord—the Canadian painter-turned-folksinger Joni Mitchell. Once he heard her, that was it, he forever held the music, and Joni, close to his heart. It gave him a kind of spiritual connection with Canada, a place he had visited in 1965 when he was 11, when he saw picturesque Bouchard Gardens in Victoria, British Columbia. Joni Mitchell was not just a folksinger to him. She was a poet. An angel poet.
Jim did not bond with music teacher Syd Gordon like students often did. Gordon stayed in touch with some of them long after graduation, but years later he had little recollection of Jim Kopp, other than that he was not an exceptional talent. Jim played trumpet in the school orchestra, marching band, jazz band, went on the school trip to Anaheim and Disneyland, where the marching band appeared in a parade. Good enough to play in the bands, but that was it. In general his personality was understated, years later students would have only a vague recollection of him. Those who did recall him remembered his intelligence, a sardonic sense of humour, an ability to see the absurd, irony. He disdained the conventional, what he called “boilerplate” even though he did not stand out in any way as being unconventional.
During the school day, with Mt. Tamalpais in the background, students talked and hung out on the side lawn. There were the n
ormal cliques, the freaks, artsies, jocks. Jim didn’t belong to any one particular group. After school, or at lunch, some students went on hikes, visited each other’s homes. Jim was not one of them. He was not exactly a loner, he had friends, maybe even a girlfriend. It was easy to blend into the woodwork at the school, especially when you were a twin, and Jim’s brother, Walter, also attended Redwood, a member of the United Nations club, a more personable guy than he was.
So many students, many from privileged backgrounds with considerable expectations for their future. One who cut a popular figure in the class of 1969 was Robin Williams, who was voted Most Humorous and Most Likely To Succeed by his classmates.
Jim’s final full year at Redwood was 1971. His yearbook photo showed him in heavy, black-rimmed glasses, his neatly trimmed,
Teenage Jim Kopp. rust-colored hair brushed across his forehead, wearing a striped tie and a restrained confident smile. A conservative exterior, but then there were other boys with a similar look. He took summer school to graduate early. It was as though he didn’t need the glorious trappings of his senior year, he was smart enough to graduate early, and so he did.
During his last year, Jim made what amounted to, for him, a political statement. Syd Gordon had an idea. The Redwood Giants
football team had a game that Friday night. Time, thought Syd, to shake things up a bit, to make a statement. Syd asked the kids: why not do something different at halftime, make a statement against the Vietnam war? They would form a peace sign at the center of the field. A couple of the students spoke out against doing it. One of them was Jim Kopp. When it came time to do it, he and the other dissenters stood off to one side in silence. Vietnam would soon cease to be an abstraction for him. According to his own account, in 1973 he and Walt had their names drawn as “high probability” numbers in the U.S. draft lottery. But the war ended before their numbers were called.
Yearbook photos of Jim Kopp, far left, and sister Mary, middle, and brother Walt.
