by Jamal Joseph
I had heard of the Last Poets, but this was my first time seeing them perform. Since I was sitting with the Black Panther contingent, I had a front-row seat.
The Last Poets were awesome, and listening to their rap poems like “New York, New York” and “When the Revolution Comes” made me feel not only revolutionary but so damn cool. In between the acts, various speakers took the stage to talk about the plight of the Harlem Five. None was more powerful than Lumumba Shakur, the captain and the leader of the Harlem and Bronx branches of the Black Panther Party. “In order to get the Harlem Five back on the streets, brothers and sisters, we may have to take it to the streets. Frederick Douglass said, ‘Power only concedes to power.’ But we have to take the power of the people to the courtrooms, and if they don’t free these brothers, we have to take the courthouse down.” We all cheered and pumped our fists while chanting, “Power to the people. Free the Harlem Five!”
After the rally, a group of fifty Panthers stood in military formation outside the school. I was now a section leader and stood in front of a group of fifteen young Panthers from the Bronx.
Captain Lumumba walked up and inspected our formation. “Looking good, brothers and sisters,” he said. “You’re dismissed.” Then Lumumba waved me over and asked me if I could open the Harlem Panther office on the way to school the next day.
I stuck my chest out and said, “Of course.” He smiled, handed me the keys, and walked off.
This was a great honor, I thought, to be given the trust and responsibility of opening the office. What Lumumba didn’t know was that my school was in the Bronx. There was no way I would make it to school on time. What the hell? Playing hooky for the revolution and the Panthers seemed like an easy choice.
By the time I got off my subway stop in the Bronx and jogged home, it was past midnight. I tiptoed in the house and almost made it to my room. Then Noonie opened her bedroom door. “Why you coming in the house so late?”
“There was a big rally and then the trains were running late. I didn’t want to call and wake you up.” The excuses streamed out.
Noonie shook her head. “You think I can sleep when you’re out running the streets?”
“I wasn’t in the street. I told you I was at a rally.”
But Noonie was too frustrated to care about rallies versus streets. “Keep messing up. You hear me? Keep messing up.” And with that she closed her door. I knew I was on thin ice, but I decided to let the situation be. I took a quick shower, slipped on my pajamas, and climbed in bed.
It seemed like I had just closed my eyes when I realized Noonie was shaking me. “What? Okay. I’m getting up. I’m going to school,” I said groggily as I hopped up.
“There’s somebody banging on the door,” she said. “It’s four o’clock in the morning.” As my head cleared I heard the doorbell ringing and the sound of pounding on the front door.
“There’s a gas leak!” a man’s voice roared from the other side of the door.
“All right, I’m coming,” I yelled as I descended the flight of stairs that led to the door.
“Gas leak,” the muffled voice said again.
I pulled up my droopy pajama bottoms and peered through the peephole. There were a dozen or more cops standing there with rifles, shotguns, and bulletproof vests. I stumbled back in shock like someone kicked the air out of my stomach. “There’s no gas leak in here,” I said. My adrenaline was pumping as I turned to head back up the stairs. My thoughts raced: Get dressed, you’re half naked and vulnerable. Get to your grandmother and protect her, make a phone call to the Panthers for help, dive out of the second-story back window and run!
The door flew off the hinges as I reached the third step. Cops in SWAT gear tackled me and threw me against the wall. I was blinded by the glare of flashlight they shone in my eyes.
“Eddie Joseph, you’re under arrest,” a cop shouted.
“My name is Jamal,” I replied through clenched teeth.
“That’s all right,” the cop sneered. “We got a warrant for him too.” They clamped on a pair of handcuffs so tightly that they started cutting into my wrists.
Noonie peered over the top of the staircase. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “What are you doing to my son?”
“He’s under arrest,” a detective snapped, “and you stay back!”
“Watch how you talk to my grandmother!” The anxiety I felt for myself was superseded by the protective love I felt for Noonie. I lurched toward the detective. The other cops instantly slammed me back into the wall.
“I’m all right, son,” Noonie shouted. “Don’t fight them.” I looked up at Noonie. I could tell she was upset and confused, but her voice and eyes were calm. It helped me to cool down.
The cops took me upstairs to my room and held me at gunpoint while they let me put on a pair of pants and a sweater over my pajamas. Then they recuffed me and asked, “Where are the bombs and the guns?” I knew from the legal-aid classes I took in the Panthers that when dealing with the cops I shouldn’t make any statements, so I said nothing.
They began turning my room upside down. They found a .32-caliber revolver and a military training manual. This made them tear shit up even more. Then they yanked my Order of the Feather sweater from the closet, threw it on the ground, and stepped on it. Besides my Panther beret, the sweater was one of my prized possessions. “Don’t step on my sweater, motherfucker,” I said, lurching forward. Again, I was roughly restrained.
“Get him out of here,” the detective barked.
“Call the Panther office, Noonie,” I said as the cops whisked me by her. “Ask for Dhoruba or Lumumba. They’ll get me out.”
Dawn was breaking as I was led onto the street in handcuffs. I stopped in my tracks when I saw a dozen cop cars lined up in front of the building. More cops with rifles and combat gear stood poised to attack. My heart fluttered. They’re ready to kill me, I thought. If I had leaped out a window, they would have gunned me down like a dog. The cops shoved me along and placed me in the backseat of an unmarked detective car. Detectives sat on either side of me.
An older detective showed me pictures of various Panthers. First Lumumba Shakur. “Do you know him?”
“No,” I replied.
Next they showed me a photo of Afeni Shakur. “Do you know her?”
“No,” I mumbled.
Then they showed me a mug shot of Eldridge Cleaver. “Do you know him?”
“No.”
The detective pointed at Eldridge. “You don’t know Eldridge Cleaver, minister of information of the Black Panther Party?” Now I said nothing.
The detective closed his photo folder and spoke to the uniformed cop behind the wheel. “Let’s go.” The car pulled out.
I just looked out the window as we raced through the streets, sirens blasting—cop cars in front of and behind us. I was a little shook up, but I was proud too. Being arrested at sixteen or any age for being a Panther was a mark of honor. It meant that you had become enough of a thorn in the system’s side for them to come after you. Typically, it would be a gun charge, disorderly conduct, or a trumped-up robbery charge. You would stay in jail for a few days or a month while the Black Panther Party raised your bail. Then you would come out to a hero’s welcome at the Panther office. Brothers and sisters would applaud and embrace you. You would give a little “struggle continues” speech and then go to a reception at someone’s house complete with home cooked food, Motown on the stereo, and dancing into the wee hours.
As we pulled up to the Tombs (the Manhattan House of Detention), I wondered what I had done to grab the pigs’ attention. Maybe I was being charged with inciting a riot for the Eldridge Cleaver/Rap Brown cloned speech I gave in a high school assembly one day. I got suspended from school for two days after calling the principal a fascist swine. Maybe he reported me to the police. Maybe one of the Uncle Tom students told them about the time my .32 revolver slipped out of my book bag and fell to the floor during the Black Student Association meeting. I took
it as a cue to recite a Panther quote: “An unarmed people are subject to slavery at any time” and sheepishly picked up the pistol and put it away. The Panthers lent me the gun because I had received death threats on the phone and in the mail. We’re gonna shoot, lynch, and burn your little Black Panther nigger ass, one note read, and then we’re gonna kill that black bitch grandmother of yours.
Maybe it was because I was a section leader now, which was the Panthers’ equivalent of being a sergeant. The senior Panthers (the ones who were pushing twenty-four) had taken a real liking to me. I had the responsibility of running the youth cadre (the twenty or so other Panthers in high school), and I was now helping to teach some of the political education classes and technical equipment classes, including military drill, basic hand-to-hand combat, and weapon safety. Once or twice a month there was a rally or a big “central” staff meeting where several hundred Panthers from around the city got together, usually in the auditorium of the Long Island University campus in Brooklyn. Now that I had been arrested, I would be asked to stand and speak at the next central staff meeting. I might even get a Panther girlfriend out of this.
The cops led me to the Manhattan DA’s office. When they walked me into the squad room I saw Brother Dhoruba, one of the top leaders of the New York Panthers. I was overjoyed and impressed. He must have gotten Noonie’s call and dashed down to get me out.
“Right on, brother,” I said as I gave the black-power salute. “You made it down here already.”
“Very funny,” Dhoruba replied as he gave the cop standing next to him his other hand to fingerprint. It hit me then that Dhoruba was under arrest too.
Then I looked around and saw a dozen other key New York Panthers in handcuffs or in holding cells. Lumumba Shakur and his wife, Afeni; Joan Bird (a nineteen-year-old nursing student who had been arrested and severely beaten by cops two months earlier); Bob Collier; Dr. Curtis Powell (who had a PhD in biochemistry); Clark Squire (a computer expert); Baba Odinga; Ali Bey Hassan; and the youngest Panther (next to myself), Katara, a high school senior.
The mood was almost festive with the Panthers shouting greetings to one another and taunts at the police. “This ain’t nothing but pig harassment,” Dhoruba told a detective once we were all placed in a huge holding cell. “Our lawyers are going to have a field day with you.” Everyone seemed confident that this was a giant sweep meant to shake up the New York chapter. “We’ll all be out by the weekend,” said Lumumba. He should know, I thought. He’s already out on bail on three other Panther-related cases.
From my cell I thought I caught a glimpse of Yedwa and of a quiet Panther named Gene Roberts. Gene was his usual quiet, almost mournful, self. Gene was a navy veteran who was a member of the security section. He taught me about handguns and standing post should I ever be given bodyguard detail. We passed the time doing push-ups and joking about the different ploys the cops used to get into our respective homes. Some of the SWAT teams yelled “Fire.” Others used the same gas leak line that was tried on me.
Then we were handcuffed, surrounded by cops, and walked through the dark maze of corridors and barred gates that led to the courthouse. We were placed in another large holding cell, and they started taking the others away one by one. I didn’t see anyone return. I wondered, as our numbers dwindled, if they were taking us out to be shot. Finally they came for me. I was led into a courtroom that was filled with Panthers, supporters, cops, court guards, and lawyers. An older man with long hair walked over to me and shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Bill Kunstler. I’m your lawyer.” The cops guided me to the defense table. Bill Kunstler and a young lawyer named Gerald Lefcourt stood on either side of me.
The court clerk began reading from a paper: “The People versus Lumumba Shakur et al. The 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.
“The defendant pleads not guilty,” Kunstler said.
“Bail is set in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars,” the judge said.
“What?” I repeated. The 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 . . .”
The 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!” The 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.
The 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. The 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. The prisoner compartment was like a tomb: metal benches along the wall for seating, tiny barred slits for windows. The paddy wagon pulled off, escorted by two police cars. There 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. This 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.” Then I recited the Ten-Point Program. “We want freedom. We want the power to determine the destiny of our black community.” The guards turned the cell light out. I started thinking about Noonie, wondering if she was okay. Then 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
Even 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.
The 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 Three 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. The 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. This 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.
