On the Road with Bob Dylan

by Larry Sloman

  “Has Hawkins said this to you personally?” the same reporter follows up, “has he asked you to plead to anything other than murder?”

  Rubin’s face cracks into a broad grin. “No, he didn’t but he asked my co-defendant John Artis to sign a statement against me, implicating me, and then John Artis would be home by Christmas.”

  “Right now you would accept clemency but not a pardon,” someone shouts.

  “Absolutely,” Rubin nods.

  “Rubin,” one older woman who writes for a wire service chimes in, “what’s your personal deep-down feeling about the fact that Bob Dylan and the group came down here to perform at the prison?”

  Carter pauses a minute, adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses, and peers out of his one good eye. “My personal feeling?” His hands, disproportionately big for so diminutive a frame, slap against his turtleneck shirt. “My feeling is that nine years ago when the country was rampant with racism, when the country was rampant with other social ills, I knew that if I just kept myself alive, if I just kept strong, just kept well, I knew that my brothers and sisters all over, black, white, blue, green, yellow, rich, poor, I knew that if they keep thinking, they keep moving, that finally they’ll start respecting themselves and finally they’ll start loving themselves and finally they’ll start to respect me and they’ll start to love me and I knew that was going to happen and here they come. Look at you, look at all of you, even if you’re news media you’re comin’ too.” Rubin drops his Billy Graham hands and Ratso half expects to see wheelchairs and supplicants making their way to the stage.

  “If you get a new trial,” another newsperson asks, “if they declare you innocent, how then are you gonna feel about America and the American system of justice?”

  “I love America, you know. It’s not a system that works, a system never works. It’s the people who are in control of those systems that make those systems what they are. So if we have people who love other people, people who help other people, people who respect other people in control of those systems, then those systems will respect other people, those systems will love other people and I think that way we’ll be able to do something.”

  Ratso’s getting a little bored, both by the questions and by Rubin’s gnawing habit of repeating phrases two, three, even four times, so he waves a pen at Rubin. “You were moved from a high-security prison in Trenton to what appears to be a country club. Do you see that as a move to co-opt you?”

  “No, no, no,” Rubin repeats, “I relate to being here because of the people, because of the people caring about me, other people power. Because of people loving other people power.” Ratso winces. “Because the people are coming, they can no longer do what they want to do with Rubin Carter or John Artis.”

  “So this is like a halfway house, then,” Ratso chuckles.

  “That’s right,” Rubin slams his fist into his palm, “the next step is out. This is just R&R, just getting me ready. And I’m ready.”

  One college newspaperman raises a finger. “How did you get connected to Bob Dylan? I understand he visited you in jail?”

  “The Sixteenth Round, the book I wrote, I sent it to Bob Dylan as I sent it to many people before anyone was aware of this case, and I sent it to him hoping that he would read that and stir his emotions and stir his intellect and it did. And he came from France on a special trip one day to visit with me. He knew and I knew that because he was white and I was black neither one of us had any choice in that but two men can always meet no matter what their political persuasion or philosophy, men always meet but that’s why Muhammad had to go to the mountain, you see, because two mountains never do and a man is a man, that’s how we met and …” Suddenly, Ratso realizes Carter’s answer is almost identical to his response to his own query three months earlier.

  “Speaking of Muhammad,” Ratso mercifully cuts in and derails Rubin’s train of thought, “how did Ali get on the case?”

  “Muhammad Ali has been fighting for us for two years now and he’s a champion amongst champions. People say he’s the champion of the world, no, no, no, he’s the champion of the universe ….” Ratso feels a wave of nausea.

  “I heard an interesting story about how he got onto your case, though,” Ratso to the rescue once again, “how a white policeman approached him.”

  “That’s right,” Rubin grabs the bait, “there was Ronald Lipkin, a white police officer who knew that this had been a frame and he went to Ali and told him that his brother was in prison and he had been framed and so when Muhammad Ali received this information from a police officer,” Rubin pauses dramatically, “and then a white police officer at that, because this is a racist-type crime, Muhammad Ali felt he would not be the man if he didn’t come here and help a black brother when there’s a white brother helping the black brother.”

  Rubin finishes and for a few seconds there’s a lull in the gym, some people scribbling, some people thinking up questions, some aching to start the drive back to Manhattan, some aching to attack the boxer. Attempting to salvage the situation with humor but without really knowing why by now, Ratso leaps into the void.

  “One last question, Rubin. Is there anything to the rumor that George Lois right now is working on a campaign for your gubernatorial race when you get out?”

  Rubin grins briefly then turns cold-serious: “I’ll tell you one thing, some news media have attacked the people that have come together to help Rubin Carter and I think that’s diabolical, because what it shows is that the powers-that-be know that if people get together we can solve problems and in these committees, rich, poor, black, white, actor, dancer, singer, have all come together and these criminals who have covered this up, who are now cringing in their wormy corners, they know that if people stay together that means power. And they also know that as long as we stay together, they can’t outfight us. Which one of these politicians is gonna get in the ring with a Muhammad Ali or a Joe Frazier? Are you? No. Which one of these politicians can outsing a Bob Dylan or a Joan Baez or a Joni Mitchell? Or which one of these politicians can outact a Dyan Cannon or an Ellen Burstyn? You see, so the politicians can’t outfight us, they can’t outsing us, they can’t outdance us, so what makes us think they can somehow outthink us either?”

  Rubin gives the media people below him a chastising smirk. “So when we start thinking and thinking very intelligently, that scares them, so that’s why they attack people like Ellen Burstyn, it’s criminal, because if the Constitution of the United States says if the people can find something wrong in the society then the people can get together and change it and that’s what the people are doing.”

  “What’s the next step now?” someone yells from the rear. “We know there’s a new trial coming up, it looks that way and—”

  “There is no such thing as we know that there is almost a new trial,” Rubin snaps bitterly, “there’s no such thing. We’re talking about right and wrong here. Two men in prison illegally for nine years for being framed for committing a crime that there’s no evidence anywhere that even suggests that they did anything, so we are talking about right and wrong, talking about in jail or out of jail. We’re not talking about almost in jail. So I am in jail, so until we are out of jail then we can start talking about a new trial. But until that time there’s no such thing, because the very people who created this monster in 1966 are still in power today.”

  Rubin pauses dramatically, then goes on: “Gov. Byrne, he has something to do with this crime, he went to the judge in his county to give Bello and Bradley leniency. Now we at the Chief Justice Hughes of the State Supreme Court. He was the governor of New Jersey in 1966, he appointed a lawyer, Lerner, made him a judge and shipped him to Passaic County, so all of our reviews have always been in the same hands of the people who created this ….”

  To Ratso’s right, Lois is listening to this and getting paler by the minute. Sensing Rubin’s about to talk his way up the river. “Shut up, Rubin,” he’s whispering under his breath, “talk about Muhammed and mountains
again, for Chrissakes.”

  “What we want to do is have an unbiased, impartial arbitrator of the facts and just let it all hang out from there. We’re willing to accept that.”

  “Do you think that’s possible in the state of New Jersey now?” a journalist yells.

  “No,” Rubin screams, and Lois blanches a bit more, “in the state of New Jersey absolutely not. We need to get into Federal Court before we can ever get a fair trial or a fair hearing ….”

  This is getting too much for even Ratso and simultaneously the reporter and the adman lunge for the microphone in Rubin’s hands.

  “They want to put you to bed, Rube.” Regan, who’s been shooting stills, picks up the cue, leading the boxer away.

  “They’re gonna tuck him in,” Lois cracks, and grabs the mike.

  Ratso just smiles at the absurdity and peers back at the mass of reporters, none of whom apparently has sniffed out what’s going on. “Thank you, Mr. President,” Slocum cracks bitterly and waits for Lois’ limousine and the ride back to Manhattan.

  Which was a glum ride indeed. Lois keeps asking Ratso to replay the tape of the press conference and with each answer by Carter, the adman moans and slumps back into the seat. Answers which seemed brilliant and courageous to Ratso just a few months ago now reek of rhetoric.

  And Ratso realizes, as the limo glides to a halt, that no, Rubin was still no murderer, but he sure as hell might be a damn good con artist, and that realization wreaked havoc with Ratso’s sleep and drove storm clouds over tomorrow’s Night of the Hurricane.

  Clouds which intensified at the preconcert press conference called by the New Jersey Carter Defense Committee. It was a shoddy affair, the highlight of which came when a slightly tipsy Rep. John Conyers got into a shouting match with Sapounakis who threw his drink, glass and ice cubes and all, at the Congressman’s august body. Ali, who was the star of the show, arrived an hour late, enabling Conyers and himself to make complete fools out of themselves with their lack of knowledge about the boxer’s case that they were so fervently defending. So Ratso fled to the Garden, hoping that at least the music would save the night.

  Backstage, Imhoff had borrowed one of Bill Graham’s old tricks, and had set up free hot dog, pretzel, and beer stands. The Garden had been sold out the day the event was announced, and most of the patrons had no idea that Roberta Flack had been added to the bill and that Joni Mitchell was still on the tour, plugged into her guest spot, and that Ali would act as an M.C. of sorts. And there would be other surprises too, like Baez running out in the middle of Jack Elliot’s set disguised as a blond, white-go-go-booted teeny-bopper and being hauled off by security after about thirty seconds of the Hustle. Or that the audience would get a chance to hear Rubin live from prison on a phone hook-up thanking them and Bob, and the Revue, and Ali and Roberta.

  Which was why Richie Kahn, a member of Rubin’s New York Defense Committee was sitting stage right, behind a bank of amplifiers, with a phone glued to his ear. In order to take no chances they called Rubin before the concert began, establishing a hookup, enabling Rubin to listen to the music, and then speak to the multitudes at the appointed time.

  Which wasn’t quite yet. The crowds are still filing in and getting seated as Ratso storms into the Garden and heads backstage. And right at the foot of the stairs, Dylan’s huddling with Robbie Robertson and Joni.

  “What are you guys gonna do?” Ratso wonders, thrilled at the prospect of seeing Bob and Robbie perform together for the first time since the 1974 tour.

  “I don’t know,” Bob shrugs.

  “Do ‘Dirge,’” the reporter pleads.

  “Yeah, but I don’t know if I know all the words.” Bob shakes his head.

  Joni buttonholes Ratso. “I think that Rubin is a jive nigger,” she frowns, “after what happened yesterday at the prison.”

  “You turning fascist?” Ratso inquires, pulling on her policeman’s coat.

  “Yeah,” Joni laughs, fingering the police memorabilia that she has been collecting all tour. “The more I get the more I think I turn Nazi.”

  Just then Neuwirth and Guam take the stage and Ratso watches from backstage. And sure enough, perhaps because of the tension of playing in the Garden, perhaps because of the feeling that the concert is really a postscript to the tour, whatever, the edge is gone. Everyone seems to be plodding, so when Ali inherits the stage, along with four or five people from his enormous entourage, Ratso is grateful for the respite.

  Grateful for about three seconds, because for some bizarre reason Ali, instead of pleading Rubin’s case, is delivering an unsolicited political announcement promoting some Southern businessman who’s been flying the fighter around the country in his huge jet plane, promoting this total unknown as “the next President of the United States.” Perhaps for the first time in his long career, an avalanche of boos descend on the champ.

  “Maybe he can get away with that shit at the Apollo but he can’t tell white people who to vote for,” one cop says.

  “Yeah,” one of the equipment men puts in, “just fly him around the country and he’ll endorse anything.”

  Ratso glances behind him and Dylan who had come out early to watch Ali seems to be puzzled by the speech. “I got called about this concert,” Ali continues, “and they say Bob Dylan is playing. I never heard of no Bob Dylan.” Another chorus of boos descend. Ali throws his hands up, half in fright and half in laughter. “All you pretty girls came to see Bob Dylan and not me!” Dylan cracks up.

  Ali finishes and fields a phone call from Rubin, chattering away and changing the subject every time Rubin starts into his rap about oppression. After a few more boring speeches, the music in the form of Jack Elliot finally returns, and a few minutes later, Dylan strides onto the Garden stage.

  He’s greeted with a standing ovation and, once again, drives a lagging band into a frenzied renewal, scorching through “Masterpiece” then “It Ain’t Me Babe” and “Hattie Carroll” in succession. Then after the new augmented version of “Tonight I’ll Be Staying Here with You,” Robbie Robertson, looking dapper as ever in a slick blue denim suit, steps onstage and picks up his electric guitar.

  “We’re going to do a song for Mr. Albert Grossman,” Dylan, whose hat by now is completely encircled by different colored flowers, laughs, “who won’t be our next President.” And it’s back to Highway 61, and “It Takes a Lot to Laugh, It Takes a Train to Cry,” a torrid rocker that Robbie is lacing with amazing razor-sharp riffs. “Durango” is next, Dylan’s pulling out all stops, moving, singing, even breathing like the trapped gunfighter in the West. “Here’s another song about the marriage ceremony between man and woman,” Dylan pronounces and it’s into “Isis.”

  But at some time during Bob’s dynamic set, Richie Kahn, who was still sitting on stage, holding the phone toward the amplifiers so Rubin could take it all in back at the prison, at some time Kahn sensed that something was wrong. He heard a faint muffled noise coming out of the receiver, a noise that intensified as he brought the phone closer to his ear. It was Rubin, screaming his black ass off.

  “I’m gettin’ out, I’m gettin’ out,” Rubin’s yelling.

  “Rubin, I can’t hear you, wait until the end of the set,” Kahn yells back.

  “I’m getting out,” the prisoner yelps, “I’ll be home by Christmas. I just saw it on Channel 5 News.”

  “You’re kidding,” Kahn breaks into a big smile, “that’s great.”

  “Rich,” Rubin continues, “this is what I want you to do. Let Bob announce it.”

  “Are you sure, Rubin?” Richie, who handled press and media for Rubin, remains skeptical. “We should make sure it’s accurate.”

  “Richie,” Rubin’s voice gets ominous, “I want to talk to Bob.”

  “He’s playing right now,” Kahn looks over the stage at the singer, who’s miming his way through “Isis.”

  “I want to talk to him,” Carter pouts.

  “OK” Kahn concedes, “at intermission.”

>   The song winds to an end, the audience starts a standing ovation, and Dylan wends his way off his stage. Suddenly a stranger jumps in front of him.

  “Bob,” Kahn points toward the receiver, “Rubin wants to talk to you.”

  Dylan ambles over and picks up the phone. They talk for a few minutes. “OK Rubin,” Dylan smiles, “I’m gonna announce it and you’re gonna hear a roar like you never heard before.”

  Dylan puts the phone down and starts offstage. “Bob,” it’s Kahn again, “you gotta wait on this thing. We gotta check it out.” Dylan nods.

  By now, word of this has reached George Lois, who’s rushed from his seat with Paul Sapounakis and Leo Stevens, and is backstage attempting to verify the rumor Channel 5 had broadcast. Dylan steps down from the stage.

  “Bobby,” Lois runs up, “don’t announce a fucking thing until we check it out.” Dylan gives Lois a nonchalant shrug and heads backstage. The adman grabs his two compatriots and they start to look for a phone, assisted by Herb Jaffee, the New Jersey newspaperman. They rush down the corridor and stop at the first room.

  “We have to use the phones in there,” Lois tells the two uniformed guards, “we have to call the Governor of New Jersey.”

  “Get the fuck out of here,” the cop sneers.

  “Look, man,” Lois raises his voice, “Dylan’s about to announce something to twenty thousand people and we’ve got to confirm it first and we got to use these phones.”

  The cops stay adamant and Lois and Sapounakis’ Greek tempers get the best of them. The adman throws a wild right, the restaurateur a cross body block, and one cop starts to go for his gun when a Garden official rushes up.

  “We gotta use a phone,” Lois explains to the bureaucrat, who leads them to another office. George tries the governor, then his aide, and then finally reaches a press officer in Byrne’s office. The adman looks grim as he hangs up the phone. “Not a chance,” Lois shakes his head, “the guy just said ‘not a chance.’”