by Jon Wells
The manual offered advice on wreaking violence on clinics, blockading, acid attacks, arson, bomb making. When the siege ended, most protesters returned to their homes, and lives. Jim? The cause was his life, and he had no home. His lists of aliases continued to grow, a tactical move, but also, perhaps, a sign that his identity had ceased to rest on firm ground even in his own mind. He was a chameleon. He was John Doe, James Charles Copp, John Kapp, Clyde Swenson, Clyde Swanson, Jack Cotty, Jack Crotty, John Kopp, Jacob Koch, Charles Cooper, John Capp, Jim Cobb, James Cobb, Samuel E. Weinstein, Jacob I. Croninger, Enoch A. Guettler, Jonathan H. Henderson, Samuel E. Blanton, Soloman E. Aranburg, Aaron A. Bernstein, Eli A. Hochenleit, Dwight Hanson, K. Jawes Gavin, P. Anastation, and B. James Milton.
* * *
On January 28, 1989, Jim was arrested at a protest in Woodbridge, New Jersey. Later that year, he attempted to realize the destiny he had long pondered, converting to Catholicism. He turned to a priest, who was based at a reputable university, to oversee the process. But first Jim had some views he wanted to air with the priest. He wanted to talk about the notion of unjust laws in the eyes of God, and what the committed Catholic should do when an unjust law is forced upon the people. The priest listened and was concerned. He already knew that Jim Kopp had been rejected for conversion by another priest, due to his views on fighting abortion. This man, Kopp, was sounding like someone who wanted to be an avenger for the pro-life cause, perhaps use extreme violence towards that end.
“Jim,” said the priest, “the Catholic Church does not tolerate, nor does it condone, in any way, shape or form, deadly violence.”
Of course not. Jim knew that was the official position. The priest was obligated to tell him that. Jim understood perfectly. There was a concept that he thought about often. He called it “Romanita.” To him it meant a way of talking to another person strategically, using ambiguity, even deception, to further a just cause. A way to tell someone what they need to hear, for their own good, and for the good of the unborn. Jim used it himself all the time.
Yes, yes, certainly, the Catholic Church does not condone violence, ever. Romanita. And the U.S. government has a law forbidding foreign assassinations. There is the official position, and the practical necessities that flow beneath it. International law says you don’t injure or kill civilians in wartime, either. Right. Jim Kopp’s father had seen, firsthand, how that precept was applied when he was based in Hiroshima for the occupation after the atomic bombs were dropped. “Thou shalt not kill?” An official position of God, if you will, but if you could roll back history, and give a good Christian the opportunity to shoot and kill Hitler, and thus prevent the Holocaust, that Christian would in fact have been honoring the spirit of the Sixth Commandment by pulling the trigger—he would be saving lives, preventing murder. But no, of course, a Christian must never hurt, or kill, another person. Romanita. The priest supervised and oversaw James Charles Kopp’s conversion. He was now a Roman Catholic. Today, the priest asks that his name not be made public.
* * *
Rome, Italy
September 19, 1989
“Hail Mary, full of grace…” The group of pro-lifers sat outside the hospital singing the rosary as Italian police looked on. Jim Kopp knew the Latin version. “Ave Maria, gratia plena…” It was a big crowd, activists from 19 countries had made the trip. There was a group from Canada, including two men from British Columbia named Maurice Lewis and Barrie Norman. Barrie was 41 years old, from Vancouver. He noticed that Jimmy Kopp was there. The Dog! The next day the Italian papers ran with the news: “American anti-abortionist commandos invaded San Camillo Hospital with the precision of a military operation.” Commandos! Really? It hadn’t gone down quite like that, Barrie Norman reflected, nobody swung down on ropes and took machine guns to anybody. The Italians had quite a flair for embellishment!
The protesters had arrived at six in the morning. San Camillo was the closest abortion-performing hospital to the Vatican, so why not start there? Jim, Barrie and several others walked into the clinic without incident. A nurse came by. One of the protesters spoke Italian. “Dove effettuate gli aborti?” (Where do you do the abortions?) The nurse pointed down the hall. Wonderful, thought Barrie. The rescuers said thank you very much. They went down the hall. A few of them sat in the killing room, others in the hallway. Not exactly the Green Berets swinging into action, eh?
Four or five hours passed. The abortions were put on hold. There were four priests among the rescuers. As everyone waited for the police to be given authority to act, one of the priests went for pizza. Barrie loved telling the tale: Father gets back, everyone grabs a slice, and that included a few of the police officers! Great stuff. The police started making arrests but refused to arrest the priests, simply taking them outside and letting them go, much to the priests’ disappointment. The others were taken to the local police station.
Later in the European pro-life tour, there was a big rescue in Manchester, England. Barrie, Jim and the rest ended up in old Strangways Prison, along with Maurice Lewis and others. Barrie was in cell 20, Jim was across the hall. The protests in Europe and the Philippines were a bonding experience, and jail was where some of the most interesting conversations took place. They sat in their cells, chatted back and forth with each other, prayed. Barrie thought Jimmy Kopp had a dry sense of humor.
There were a couple of times the idea came up. Nothing serious, mind you. Someone would start it, playing a bit, a little black humor. “You could always just shoot the bloody abortionists,” someone would say, maybe even one of the inmates with no allegiance to the rescuers at all. Barrie laughed. So did everyone else. Most everyone. Barrie couldn’t really tell, actually. Couldn’t see everyone in their cells. “You can’t just go around killing people,” Barrie said. “God’s not going to like that a whole heck of a lot. It’s against the Sixth Commandment. Although there’s nothing in there that says you can’t wound them.” Joking—Barrie was joking. Much later, Barrie Norman wondered if perhaps The Dog had taken the joke somewhat differently than the others.
Chapter 7 ~ Loretta
Jim Kopp’s string of arrests continued into the new year. January 6, 1990, in Charleston, West Virginia. January 19, in Toledo. Two days after that, in Pittsburgh. And then he was on the move again, in New Jersey. The phone rang at the home of James Gannon, in Whiting, New Jersey.
“Jay?”
“Hey, Jim, how are you?” replied James Gannon jovially.
“And where are you?”
“Just a couple hours away. Mind if I come by?” “Of course not.”
“Sure?”
“Jim, you know the door is always open, and so is my heart—and for your sake, so is the fridge!”
James Gannon hung up the phone. That was the way he spoke, the kindest, sweetest elderly man you could imagine. If you were nice and polite to Jim Gannon, he would instantly reciprocate, embrace you like a son or daughter. He was in his seventies, white hair, blue eyes, soft hands and a face that was so fair it seemed pink. He enjoyed wearing his University of Michigan ball cap, the navy one with the yellow “M” on the front. “M” for the Virgin Mary, he liked to joke. He was a devout Catholic, lived in the Crestwood Village retirement community.
The previous year, in 1989, Gannon had still just been curious about the workings of Operation Rescue and the pro-life movement. A friend told him there was a rescue about to take place nearby. He told Gannon: you’ll see a yellow ribbon around the clinic. Stay outside of the line, and you won’t be arrested. Go inside, you’ll be arrested. Gannon had just retired. He was looking for a new focus in his life and, perhaps, new friends. Raised on Staten Island, he worked in administration for an engineering firm for 40 years, the last few on the 89th floor of the World Trade Center. His beloved wife had been dead more than 20 years.
Gannon showed up at the rescue. Should he take part, or not? He saw that his friends stood inside the ribbon. He figured that’s where he belonged, too. He joined them. Got arrested. His
new life was under way. Gannon took part in 14 rescues, went to jail each time. They were exciting days. The night before, they’d all gather at an agreed location, plan, pray. Some of them slept on the floor. No food or drink in the morning, so they could stay locked down at a clinic for as long as possible without needing to use a bathroom. Great memories, great people, he reflected.
It was at a rescue later that year, in West Hartford, where he met Jim Kopp. He would never tell Gannon where he had been or where he was going. But Gannon’s door was always open. Eventually Jim had his mail forwarded to Gannon’s box. When he stayed at the house the two of them went to mass at St. Elizabeth Church every day at 8 a.m., protested at the abortion center on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Gannon didn’t dress fancy for church, but Jim, he stood out. Just wore whatever was on his back. They could all tell he was a visitor. Gannon joined the Lambs of Christ pro-life group. Jim called his elderly friend “Jay” for short, an old nickname from their time in jail.
They didn’t watch TV together, or talk all that much. Jim did his own thing, went for his walks in the nearby wooded area. His quiet time, he called it. Gannon thought the solitude was good for his friend. Gannon did the cooking. Not that Jim put much emphasis on food, or drink. He was always thinking. Food didn’t seem to mean much to him. Ate what was put before him. He had other things on his mind. One night, when Jim was out walking, Gannon heard a knock on the door. The local police who patrolled the retirement community had seen a lanky, bearded man walking slowly by himself not far away and had picked him up.
“He says he’s with you,” the cop told Gannon.
“Oh yes—he’s one of us,” Gannon said cheerfully. Kopp’s bearded face lit up with a grin.
Days later, Jim was gone, again. It was imperative he remain in the field. He lived for longer stretches in St. Albans, Vermont, with a man named Anthony Kenny and his wife, in a dusty wooden farmhouse with a view of the mountains. Vermont was the setting for a story that Jim was telling. It was an abortion mill in Burlington, Vermont. The operators of the mill were using the drained blood from aborted babies in a Black Mass satanic ritual. Jim had heard the story. Or read about it. Or maybe it surfaced from somewhere else entirely, from a red-black dimension of his mind’s eye where abortion lurked as pure evil.
* * *
On March 20, 1990, he was arrested outside the Vermont Women’s Health Center in Burlington. Jim was now 36. It was a big protest, 95 arrests. It was a pretty diverse crowd, including his old friend Jay Gannon, as well as young activists new to the cause, women like Jennifer Rock and Amy Boissonneault. Amy was 23, from Fairfax, Vermont. Jim had great affection for her, everyone did. But for Jim there was another—a 27-year-old woman with dark hair and pale green eyes: Loretta Claire Marra, daughter of William Marra, the Fordham professor whom Jim greatly admired. Loretta studied graduate philosophy, was intellectually charged, a spirited conversationalist. Jim had connected with few people, if anyone. Loretta was different.
Her father was a prominent Catholic apologist who founded a radio program in the 1970s called “Where Catholics Meet.” In 1988, William Marra ran for the U.S. presidency for the Right To Life Party, winning 20,504 votes—in the middle of the pack among several fringe candidates. Loretta’s mother, Marcelle Haricot Marra, had served with the French resistance during the Second World War. The story went that in Normandy, when paratroopers landed far afield of their intended target, she helped lead them back to their destination, and saved many lives. Loretta told her friends that her mother had even received the Croix de Guerre medal from General Charles de Gaulle, and that Rue Marcelle Haricot in Paris was named after her mother. Loretta Marra had much to live up to.
Pro-lifers were mesmerized when she spoke. Loretta was five-foot-six, 130 pounds, an unremarkable appearance at first glance, but up close she drew people in, a passionate light flaring in her eyes, always speaking from a place deep in her soul. James Gannon was transfixed, and Jim Kopp as well. Loretta and Jim had an instant rapport, so much in common. Gannon watched the two of them interact, banter, jumping from politics and history to pop culture. It was as though Loretta could hum the first few notes to a song and Jim could pick it right up and continue, he reflected.
In January 1991, Jim and Loretta were arrested together at a protest outside a clinic in Levittown, Long Island. He had invented a new steel, donut-shaped locking device. They used it to lock their feet together to block the door of the clinic. Saving babies, connecting in body and soul. Police needed power tools to separate them.
* * *
Back out west, Chuck Kopp had retired at 69. He had been living with his second wife, Lynn, in San Rafael, not far from where Jim’s mother, Nancy, still lived in the family house in Marin County. Mid-life and beyond had been a rocky road for Chuck. He nearly lost his job, had problems with drinking, all of it surely exacerbated by the stress created by his affair with Lynn and the divorce from Nancy. He had a stroke. Friends couldn’t believe how much he had changed. Chuck, the ex-Marine, who used to be so sharp, seemed gone. One day Jim returned home to visit his father at the hospital, and sat with Lynn in the cafeteria. Jim had not spoken to her for a couple of years. He never warmed to her.
“That last time we talked you said you weren’t going to see him any more,” Jim said.
“That’s how I felt at the time,” Lynn told him. “But it reached the point of no return.” Jim put his head in his hands, elbows on the table, staring at her, incredulous, and then glowered at her, saying nothing.
Chuck slowly bounced back from the stroke. He kicked his drinking habit. Things were improving, but there remained the problem with his youngest son, and his antics in the anti-abortion movement. Lynn told the story how one night, she and Chuck were out for dinner with Jim’s twin brother, Walt, and Chuck’s brother, James, from Los Angeles.
“So did you see Jim on TV last night?” asked Walt. The TV news had carried a story about a violent protest at a clinic in the Bay Area. The footage showed Jim arrested after chaining himself to an examining table.
Chuck’s lips narrowed. “Damn fool,” he said.
Was it possible that on some level, while shaking his head at his son’s behavior, Chuck appreciated Jim’s passion? If that sentiment did exist, Chuck did not express it to anyone. Jim believed he knew. He looked into his dad’s eyes on the occasions when they were together and was certain he saw pride.
In 1991, Chuck picked up and moved with Lynn to her home state of Texas. In September 1992, Lynn persuaded him to go on an Alaskan cruise. Their first port was Juneau. Chuck had a heart attack on board. Just over a week later, he suffered another heart attack, and died at 2:30 a.m. on September 26.
The funeral was held at Trinity Baptist Church in Sherman, Texas. Walter Kopp gave the eulogy, spoke of his dad’s military service and legal career. Jim, who was listed as “James C. Kopp of New York City” in the official obituary, was at the service. Outside, at the burial at West Hill Cemetery, Lynn Kopp arranged for the release of colorful balloons. She thought it was a nice touch, there were grandkids there who had never been at a funeral before. Lynn told the story later that Jim turned away, as though angry, refusing to look at the balloons. Maybe he felt it was sacrilegious, she thought. Despite his longtime antipathy towards her, Jim stayed at Lynn’s house for ten days. She urged him to start fresh.
“You should do something with your life,” she said.
“But I am. And Dad was proud of me,” Jim said.
“No, he was distressed by what you were doing.”
Jim did not, ever, put stock in Lynn’s words. She had broken up his parents’ marriage, hurt his mother, and his father. He also did not care for Lynn’s recollection of events years later, when she was sought after by journalists for opinions on Jim and the Kopp family. Lynn told stories of how, among other things, Chuck Kopp hit his kids. Lynn claimed she saw a letter that Marty had written about Chuck, recalling a blow she took to her back when she was a girl, saying she had never forgiven
him. Hanging out the family’s dirty laundry, true or not, only deepened the anger for Lynn that Jim already felt to his core.
* * *
Gyn Womenservices Clinic Buffalo, N.Y.
September 28, 1991
“Slepian! You pig!”
Pro-life protesters blocked the clinic’s driveway off Main Street as Bart Slepian tried to come to work. A man named Paul Schenck stepped in front of the car, lay down on the pavement. Bart and others at the clinic filed charges. Six of the protesters were ordered to pay more than $100,000 in legal fees incurred by Bart and other doctors and clinic workers. The protesters had been, wrote a federal judge, in contempt of a previous court ruling governing the nature of the protests. U.S. District judge Richard J. Arcara ordered that key Buffalo-area pro-life leaders stay at least 100 yards away from any health clinic.
Bart Slepian did not shrink into the background, he did not have it in him. He gave a speech to health care officials called “It’s Not Over Yet: The Rising Tide of Anti-Choice Violence and What You Can Do About It.” Bart was a physician, he had no intention of becoming a pro-choice activist. But, intentionally or not, he had become a visible personality in the pro-choice camp.
At the end of the year, in December, for the first time a doctor who provided abortions was shot. Dr. Douglas Karpen was wounded in a parking garage in Houston. Two weeks before that attack, two clinic staffers in Springfield, Missouri, had been wounded by a man wearing a ski mask and wielding a sawed-off shotgun. The shooter in both incidents was never caught.
