A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe

by Pamela Johnson

  The door was a loud crack, a quick, crashing fall to the ground. He spun around startled by the noise. A group of men were pushing into the apartment, scattering into the living room and dining room, the kitchen.

  Frozen momentarily, Kevin stood in the hallway, his face blank. A cop stood there, feet spread, holding a shining pistol with both hands, aiming at him. He turned and ran.

  “Hold it! Police!”

  Kevin didn’t stop. Not in a million years would he have believed that man would shoot, because he would never have fired at anyone himself.

  The sound of the gun was just a second faster than the shock. One bullet hit the wall three inches from Kevin’s chest and head, the other pierced his lungs, the third, his neck, stopping him cold, slamming his body into the wall, his blood splattered and mixing with the bright red color of his canvasses.

  His hands grabbed his throat. He couldn’t breathe.

  Air! He needed air!

  But all that came was blood, choking him, forcing him to flail and struggle, his face turning a deep blue, his mouth oozing dark red blood, gaping and gasping. A long while passed before a thought came to him and he followed it.

  Debbie, it feels comfortable over there. I’m just going over there for a while.

  A calm quiet took hold of his body. The tremors of his arms and legs stopped. His hands fell from his neck to his chest. No longer was there any pain or noise, only a sense of peace. Kevin just went with it.

  Hanson stood at Bremer’s elbow with an uneasy feeling, watching as he aimed the gun.

  “Hold it! Police!” Bremer shouted.

  He turned to tell Bremer he’d get the guy.

  The words came too late.

  The man was on the ground, blood seeping from his nose and mouth and ears. A gurgling sound came from his throat. Hanson looked into eyes filled with terror as the man suffocated.

  “Call an ambulance!” Hanson ordered.

  He knelt down to steady the jerking body. “Easy … easy …,” he said softly. “Easy. Help is on the way.”

  The sound of drawers being thrown to the ground filled the apartment, loud, crashing, and destructive. The officer’s voices were loud, raucous.

  Hanson watched the struggling body relax and slowly rest. For one agonizing moment, he thought he might vomit. Instead, he swallowed hard and reached up to close the empty eyes. Someone pushed at his shoulder. Bremer was squatting next to him. Only two others in the room had caught the whole scene—Phillips and the FBI man, Jackson. Everyone else had been busy spreading into other areas of the apartment.

  “You shot an unarmed man in the back,” Hanson mumbled, still too stunned to care what he said.

  Bremer gave Hanson a ferocious glare. “You’re asking me to take an awful risk.” Bremer’s eyes were narrow. “Didn’t you see him duck down? He could have held a weapon.”

  “I saw it, sir,” Phillips intoned. Bremer turned to see Phillips covering for him. “The man made a furtive gesture.”

  “The man was naked,” Hanson answered, strength coming back into his voice, his body starting to move again. He looked up into Phillips’s face. “He had nothing concealed.”

  “He’s alone,” someone called out.

  Onto the kitchen counter, the narks began to dump contraband—three ounces of coke, four and a half kilos of marijuana, four ounces of Afghani hash, various roaches, seeds, small vials of special acid stash, and finally, ten thousand doses of acid.

  “Can’t call this guy innocent,” another voice called. “Look at this—tabs and tabs of LSD. Congratulations, Bremer!”

  “Yeah,” Phillips cheered, “looks like we hooked ourselves the one that got away!”

  “This is your score,” Bremer told him. Phillips had covered for him in a tight spot.

  “Better keep up the stakeout at O’Brian’s. Looks like good business,” Phillips laughed.

  Bremer turned to Hanson. “Let’s get back downtown. We have some things to talk about.”

  “Like what?”

  Bremer’s eyes narrowed again. “Like that move you made when we came in.”

  Hanson squared his shoulders. “What move was that?”

  “You got awfully close to my elbow. It could have endangered us all.”

  “It was pretty obvious,” Phillips added.

  Jackson from the FBI turned around at Phillips’s accusation this time. “I saw it, too. All of it,” he said. “And maybe we’d just better let it lie. I didn’t think it was so obvious.”

  Phillips looked away.

  CHRISTIAN

  BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

  MAY 1969

  “They’re saying someone was killed today,” Marcie told the grim group sitting in her living room watching the six o’clock news. She put down the bag of groceries and wiped her face with a wet washcloth. An hour before, she’d volunteered to make a food run. Tear gas still hung heavy in the air, and it was difficult to breathe outside of the apartment.

  “We just heard,” Andy said into the silence.

  “So much for the revolution,” Kathy told him.

  “What do you mean?” Andy’s anger lashed at her.

  “I mean that doing something really revolutionary means doing something different. Hate, anger, and fighting—that’s all been done before. We already knew the results before we started. I just don’t understand why we played the game. Jesus and Gandhi showed us the true nature of real revolution, the kind that makes permanent change. Martin Luther King. And now Cesar Chavez.”

  Christian watched Kathy, loved her.

  “You think they would have listened to us?” Andy cried, his voice filled with sarcasm. “You think they would have taken us seriously? We had to make waves to get their attention. If we had stood around saying please and offering them our suggestions on paper, we would have been thank you’d to death. And put off. When we made demands, they sat up a little straighter. Took notice.”

  “I’m not saying we give up,” Kathy told him. “But whatever method of change we use has to be nonviolent. Look at Cesar Chavez’s hunger strike last year. Twenty-eight days without food, only water, until the macho younger men finally understood. Nonviolence forces you to find creative alternatives to old games. Sure, getting the grape strike going was a lot of work, but Middle America’s joining in and supporting the workers.” Kathy shook her head, “Somebody died today because we wanted to create a park where things would grow.”

  “Someone else was blinded,” Marcie added. “An artist.”

  Andy paced the room nervously. “They just fired into the crowd. Buckshot …” He rubbed his hand across his eyes, his voice harsh from breathing tear gas all day. “They meant to kill. I watched as they took their time and aimed at the backs of running men and women.”

  “Quiet!” Kathy ordered. “They’re reading the statistics.”

  “… James Rector, a carpenter from San Jose, was killed by buckshot. His family maintains that he was only visiting Berkeley for the day when he must have become caught up in the melee …”

  “It could have been any one of us,” Kathy whispered. “Anyone who just happened to be on the street.”

  “… another man, Alan Blanchard, a Berkeley artist, has reportedly lost his sight due to buckshot pellets.

  “Local hospitals have reported twenty-nine civilians wounded by guns. Seventy-four other persons were treated for a variety of other injuries due to the confrontation.

  “Authorities believe that the actual number of wounded will probably never be known, because many were treated privately.

  “In answer to the overwhelming public outcry over the use of buckshot, head of the Alameda County Sheriff’s Department, Frank Madigan, has claimed that he and his officers were taken aback at ‘the new sophisticated fighting methods among the demonstrators’. Madigan cited the stockpiling of weapons, including bricks, bottles, and steel bars, that were used as projectiles, as reason for ordering the use of buckshot.

  “One officer’s breastbone sto
pped a knife that had been thrown …”

  “Ha! It should have killed the bastard,” Andy retorted.

  “Confusion in today’s protest was blamed on the large number of law enforcement departments participating in riot control. Each group was responsible only to its individual superior. These groups included the Alameda County Sheriff’s Department, the Berkeley Police Department, the California Highway Patrol, and the University of California Campus Police.

  “Authorities have also admitted that no centralized form of communication existed between the commanding officers of the various groups, making it still more difficult to control the rapidly changing situation.

  “Chancellor of the university, Robert Heim, who relinquished control of the situation to police, could not be reached for comment, because he is out of the state attending a conference …”

  “That bastard,” Andy chimed. “He set us up. He let them clear the park and then split so he wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

  “… In view of today’s distressing events, Governor Ronald Reagan, claiming that the university has become a ‘haven for communist sympathizers, protestors, and sexual deviants,’ has ordered two thousand National Guard troops to maintain control in the city. The city of Berkeley will be under martial law until further notice …”

  “What?” Richard spoke everyone’s thought.

  “Governor Reagan said today, ‘If it’s a bloodbath they want, then let it be now.’

  “Economically, expectations are that law enforcement alone will cost the state over one million dollars.

  “Coming up next, film footage from today’s conflict …”

  “Listen, will you guys just turn it off?” Marcie asked. “I’m sick of it.” She reached down to hand John a rice cracker. “Who wants to help with dinner?”

  “I’ll help,” Kathy said. “I’ll start washing lettuce. Jesus, the National Guard,” she mumbled.

  “It’s that idiot, Reagan,” Andy told them. “He’s the one who was actually in charge today. He gave the okay for the buckshot. Not only is he single-handedly destroying one of the best public schools in the nation by selling off its priceless rare books and cutting faculty salaries, but now he wants to kill our students if they don’t agree with his policies!”

  “Richard, can you get the phone?” Marcie called from the kitchen.

  He picked up the receiver. “… Yes. Just a minute. Christian … telephone.”

  “Great,” Kathy said. “At least we’ll know when we can get Kevin out of jail.”

  “Hello,” Christian answered.

  “Christian …” The voice hesitated. It was Lance. “I made the inquiries. I’m sorry. Your buddy didn’t make it.”

  “What do you mean?” Christian stiffened, felt he could not take another breath.

  Every head turned, as Christian sat down heavily, his body sagging, his eyes closed, hand to his head, listening. Without a word, because there were none, he put down the phone, and slowly turned to the room, oblivious of the tears running down his cheeks.

  “Kevin’s dead. They shot him when they went through the door.”

  KATHY AND CHRISTIAN

  BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA

  MAY 1969

  Kathy woke the following day to find the city transformed. Now, mixed among local law enforcement were the green regulation uniforms of the US National Guard. In addition to highway patrol and police cars, the streets held army jeeps and troop trucks.

  “My God, what will come of this?” she whispered to Andy as they walked the streets close to noontime.

  “We’ll just have to wait and see,” he answered. “The memorial service is at noon. Sproul Plaza.”

  “Andy, you were right yesterday. Reagan’s looking for a way to get his name in the national news. Don’t create that opportunity for him.”

  Across the street, the park sat lifeless behind the fence.

  “Look at that,” he pointed. “National Guard tents set up in between the swing sets. Jeeps resting on the flowerbeds. Over there … portable toilets. Where were they when we needed them?” He wore a black armband around his bicep. “We have to have that rally. A man was killed yesterday.”

  “I don’t want it to happen again,” she cried vehemently. She closed her eyes against the quick, hot tears for Kevin.

  Andy looked at his watch. “I have a meeting in a few minutes. Meet me at noon, okay?” And without waiting for an answer, as if he didn’t want to listen to any more of Kathy’s indecision, he was off and running down the street.

  Kathy continued slowly along the sidewalk next to the park, getting smiles from the young National Guardsmen. “Say, baby. What’s your name?” one of the guardsmen called to her, walking on the flowers as he followed her along the fence line. The sight of his boots stomping the garden decided her. She headed toward Sproul Plaza.

  Three thousand people were already there when she arrived, wearing black armbands, waiting for the rally to begin. She pushed her way through the crowd, trying to reach Sproul’s broad steps. Desperately, she searched for Andy, knowing the speeches would start any minute. Where could he be? If things got weird, she didn’t want to be alone.

  One question was tangibly poised in the air: What would happen today? From her vantage point at the top of the stairs, she had a good view of the sea of people. Standing near the speaker with the microphone, her gaze scanned those nearest for Andy’s face. She searched farther back in the crowd, finally reaching the perimeters of the Plaza. When her eyes found the edges of the masses, she froze.

  “Oh, dear God,” she mumbled aloud.

  Walking swiftly, in a single shoulder-to-shoulder line, wearing gas masks, bayonets drawn, were men in green guardsmen’s uniforms. At a command they stopped, sealing off each edge of the Plaza. The crowd shifted uneasily, a herd just before the stampede, uncertain what to expect or where to go. The speaker paused, went silent, watching, waiting.

  A helicopter descended on cue, white gas streaming behind, the lightning bolt, the rifle shot, the signal for the stampede to begin. The crowd roared, heaved, and tried to scatter through the barrier of bayonets.

  Kathy stood frozen until the swirling waves of people pushed her left, then right. Panic stricken, she heedlessly shoved her way through the mob, hoping to find a way out of the trap. She waited for the choking in her lungs to begin, for the tears to fill her eyes. It was difficult to breathe, yes, but something more began to happen. Nauseated and disoriented, she smashed into other gagging and vomiting people as the terrified crowd realized that they were being gassed, not with tear gas, but with some unknown chemical. Kathy fell to her knees near the bottom of the plaza steps, lost in the white cloud. People tripped over her. She retched, crouched on all fours.

  A strong hand grabbed her around her black armband. She looked up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Christian stood over her, his shirt off, covering his nose and mouth.

  “Come on!” he shouted in her ear above the furor.

  “We can’t. They won’t let us leave the plaza!”

  Christian pulled her to her feet. The Guardsmen were not prepared to use bayonets. The crowd had broken through in many places. Behind the Guard, local law enforcement stood with huge gas mask eyes, clubbing people as they tried to run for safety. The helicopter continued to spray.

  Christian held tightly to Kathy’s hand and looked for a way to run the lines.

  Hand in hand, feeding an urgency to each other that propelled them through the mob and police, the bayonets and clubs, they took the paths open to them. The run up Bancroft was a gauntlet, dodging nightsticks, shaking more than one cop who followed close behind, but who relinquished them for slower prey. Kathy dashed in wild-eyed terror, sure she would be the next to feel the baton. More than once, she wanted to stop, to stand against an act of brutality—the woman who was brutally clubbed across her lower back, books spread beneath her; a man sent sprawling to the ground, a billy club applied to the side of a knee; another pulled and dragg
ed by his hair, beaten as he crawled, blood spreading everywhere. As she hesitated, winded, retching, and shaking from emotion, Christian forced her to keep moving through the phalanx of officers who grouped and regrouped.

  On a side street where there was less turmoil, they threw themselves onto a patch of grass, Kathy dry heaving over and over, finally collapsing stomach down onto the ground.

  “Christian,” she rasped. “What are you doing here? Why did you come?”

  “Because someone died yesterday.” He was breathing hard and laid a hand on her shoulder. “And because I knew you would be there alone. God, I’m so sick.”

  Andy had deserted her; she had no idea where he was, but he was taking care of himself. Suddenly, she was back at Haleakala and the sun was setting. Everyone else had disappeared over the hill. All but Christian, who thought more of her than himself.

  He’s been in one riot already, she thought. That he would enter another. For me.

  “There’s nothing more we can do,” he told her. “We’re still in danger here. I’m going to find a phone and have Richard pick us up. Can you make it to Northside?”

  “My house is closer.”

  “Kathy, look at those helicopters. They’re spraying everywhere. Come up to my house in the hills. Marcie and John moved up this morning. That baby can’t breathe this shit. Let things settle down. And I need a joint for this nausea.”

  The television at Christian’s house told them what the gas was. Pepper gas. One of the gases used in Viet Nam.

  Kathy stood near the sliding glass door of the bedroom wearing one of Christian’s T-shirts, her hair wrapped in a towel. Smoke from a jay floated around her head, settling her stomach. From the back of her mind, she heard Andy’s words, full and bold and clear, “We will seize power!” How good they had felt to utter! Her heart and soul stirred to action, like any soldier who was confident and ready to join in battle!

  And so we fought our war, she thought. A little one, assuredly, but enough to teach us what we already know—that when the fighting’s over and the dead and injured are counted, all that’s left is anger and sorrow and impotence at the waste.