Assata: An Autobiography (14 page)

Talking to Kamau was so good for me. Solitary had affected me really badly. I had closed up inside myself and had forgotten how to relate in an open way with people. We spent whole days laughing and talking and listening to the kourtroom madness in between. Each day we grew closer until, one day, it was clear to both of us that our relationship was changing. It was growing physical. We began to touch and to hold each other and each of us was like an oasis to the other. For a few days the question of sex was there. Then, one day, we talked about it. Surely, it was possible. But, i thought, the consequences! Pregnancy was certainly a possibility. I was facing life in prison. Kamau would also be in prison for a long time. The child would have no mother and no father.

Kamau said, "If you become pregnant and you have a child, the child will be taken care of. Our people will not let the child grow up like a weed." I thought about it. That was true, but the child would suffer. "All our children suffer," Kamau said. "We can't guarantee our children a future in a world like this. Struggling is the only guarantee our children will ever have for a future. You may never have another chance to have a child."

"I have to think," i told him. My mind was screaming. Who would take care of my baby? I thought about what Simba had said about our children being our hope for the future. I had never wanted a child. Since i was a teenager i had always said that the world was too horrible to bring another human being into. And a Black child. We see our children frustrated at best. Noses pressed against windows, looking in. And, at worst, we see them die from drugs or oppression, shot down by police, or wasted away in jail. My head was swimming. What had my mother and grandmother and great-grandmother thought when they brought their babies into this world? What had my ancestors thought when they brought their babies into this world, only to see them flogged and raped, bought and sold. I thought and thought. How many Black children are separated from their parents? How many grow up with their grandmothers and grandfathers? Didn't i stay with my grand parents until my mother had finished school and was on her feet? I remembered all the discussions i had had. "I'm a revolutionary," i had said. "I don't have time to sit at home and make no babies."

"Do you think that you're a machine?" a brother had asked me. "Do you think you were put on this earth to fight and nothing else?"

I thought about what Zayd had always told me. "While you're alive, girl, you betta live."

"I am about life," i said to myself. "I'm gonna live as hard as i can and as full as i can until i die. And i'm not letting these parasites, these oppressors, these greedy racist swine make me kill my children in my mind, before they are even born. I'm going to live and i'm going to love Kamau, and, if a child comes from that union, i'm going to rejoice. Because our children are our futures and i believe in the future and in the strength and rightness of our struggle." I was ready for whatever happened. I relaxed and let nature take its course.

When something important was happening in the kourtroom, we listened. But, usually, whatever was happening droned on in boring chatter that amounted to nothing. Lawyers have the habit of turning ten words into a hundred and saying nothing more in the process. The trial was like something out of some playwright's imagination. We called it the "vaudeville show." Evelyn and Bob, after registering their daily protests, sat mute. The judge raved and ranted. The pigs barked like vicious dogs. The "witnesses" lied like crazy. The jurors (who had been picked solely by the prosecution) looked and listened expressionlessly. There were a couple of Black jurors, and although we held little hope we would be acquitted, we placed the microscopic hope we did have in the Black jurors. Even though we had presented no defense, had not participated in the trial, we thought that there was a slim chance they might not go along with the program. Black people are generally not as brain-washed as white people when it comes to the so-called system of justice.

The whole kourt process began to take its toll on me. Half the time i wasn't eating because they usually served pork for lunch and, sometimes, they had pork for dinner. Breakfast was out of the question. I could never figure out what they gave us. I called it "monster stew." I was always freezing and i didn't have a coat. My mother had brought me one, but i had given it to Simba. She was pregnant and needed it more than i did. One night, when i returned from kourt, i began to feel awful, like a knife was stabbing me in my side. I could hardly breathe. I went to the prison doctor and the diagnosis was plueurisy. When the judge learned i was sick and unable to come to kourt, he had a fit. He acted like i had gotten sick just to delay the trial. The next time i saw the prison doctor, he was nervous and shook up.

"They keep calling me about you," he said. "They want you back in court right away. They want to know how fast I can have you back in the courtroom."

"Who keeps calling you?" i asked.

"Everybody. People. I've got to get you back in court as soon as possible. "

And that's exactly what he did.

Every day they brought us into the kourtroom. And, every day, as soon as the jury came in, we began to tell them what was happening, that we were being forced to trial without being given time to prepare a defense. And every day, the judge ordered us removed from the kourtroom and cited us for contempt. It was comical.

"What are you going to do?" i would ask him, after i had been cited for contempt for the hundredth time. "Put me in jail? Lock me up?"

One day, when the judge had been particularly crazy and the marshals had been particularly brutal, Evelyn just couldn't take it anymore.

"I'm not going to sit here and watch this spectacle," she said. "If you won't permit me to defend my client, there is no purpose in my being here." And with that, she got up and started to leave.

"Get back in here," the judge yelled. "I order you to get back here and sit down."

Evelyn kept walking.

"If you don't come back and sit down, I'm citing you for contempt."

Evelyn walked out of the kourtroom. The judge cited her for contempt. (In 1975, after all appeals, including the supreme kourt of the united states, were denied, she served the ten-day sentence in maximum security at the westchester county jail for women.)

The trial soon ended and we waited patiently for the verdict. Evelyn and Bob gave us lectures. "Expect nothing but the worst. There's a chance, but it's slim." Kamau and i waited for the conviction. One day of jury deliberation passed. Two days passed. The jury seemed to be taking forever. We wondered what was taking them so long. It was an open-and-shut case. We had cross-examined no witnesses, presented no defense. Kamau and i spent the time tenderly, savoring our last few moments together.

The next morning Evelyn and Bob came in, grinning. "It's a hung jury," they giggled. "gagliardi is fit to be tied. They're going to call us into court in a few minutes. We just thought we'd come in and give you the good news." Ten minutes later we were in the kourtroom. The judge was grimly thanking and dismissing the jury. The marshals looked like they wanted to fight. The prosecutor looked like he wanted to cry. We found out later that a lone Black juror had refused to convict us. He had heard us. The look on gagliardi's face gave me great pleasure. I looked at him and gave him my most meaningful smile. His face turned red and he looked away.

Afterward, we met with the lawyers. We were still giddy and in a state of shock. "What does this mean? Are they going to try us again?"

"They're going to try you again, and right away," Evelyn told us. "The new trial will begin on Monday."

Kamau and i looked at each other. We were sick of this case but were ecstatic that we were going to have more time together.

"Are we going to have the same judge?”

"No," Bob said. "They've got to assign a new judge.”

Evelyn was caught up in our gleeful mood, but, as usual, she was business first. "We've got to come up with a trial strategy." Sitting in that courtroom day after day and watching that fiasco enabled us to do one thing. We were able to see and analyze their case. "I feel that now we are ready to go to trial."

"They don't have a case," Bob said. "I don't even know how they got an indictment."

"We know," Kamau and i said.

"Their case is utterly absurd," Evelyn said.

"We know," Kamau and i droned again.

"Their witnesses are as phony as three-dollar bills," Evelyn said.

"We know."

"They don't have one piece of physical evidence," Evelyn ranted. "No photographs, no fingerprints, no witnesses, no nothing."

"We know," Kamau and i chanted in unison.

"They couldn't possibly have any evidence," i said. "We weren't there."

"Well, I know that," Evelyn said indignantly. "That's not the point. "

Bob and Kamau looked perplexed. Evelyn and i just looked at each other and smiled knowingly. We had found out in new jersey how "evidence" could appear out of nowhere and other evidence disappear.

Evelyn and i have a very close relationship. We love each other intensely and we get along wonderfully. Usually! But when we argue or disagree, it's awful. We are both outraged that the other one doesn't agree or see our point and we feel betrayed and furious. And neither of us has the mildest temper in the world. Add to that the tremendous pressure we were both under, and you have the recipe for fireworks.

During one of our strategy meetings, Evelyn and i locked horns. Try as we might, we couldn't reach any kind of agreement. After a while, we weren't even communicating. It became a matter of who had the last word and the final decision.

"I'm the lawyer," she yelled. "I know what I'm doing! If you aren't going to listen to me, then what's the point of having me defend you?"

"I'm the client," i yelled back. "I'm the one who's gonna do the twenty-five years in prison if you're wrong."

"What you're saying is that you don't trust me or my judgment." Evelyn said. Our argument went from bad to worse. After a while we were saying all kinds of things we didn't mean to each other.

"I don't need this shit," Evelyn stormed. "What the hell do I need to defend you for? You haven't got an ounce of sense."

"You don't have to defend me if your don't want to," i responded. "Don't do me any favors."

"You need all the favors you can get," Evelyn countered.

"Well, i don't need them from you. I can defend my damn self as well as you can."

"I'd like to see you try it. I don't need this mess." "I will. I don't need you either."

"Well, go ahead and defend your stupid self then." Evelyn screamed.

"I will."

After the argument i was tired and blank. All the tension had been drained out of my body. I was still mad, but i was sorry, too. Evelyn was probably right, and i was probably crazy. It's so hard working with someone who is so close to you. It's like having your mother or your wife or husband as your lawyer. It's real hard to be objective. Personal stuff sometimes gets in the way. I didn't know whether i was being a sane adult or a rebellious child.

The next time we came to kourt, i could see right away that Evelyn was still angry with me. I fully intended to try and make up, but her cold manner made me draw back and get mad all over again.

"Is your decision still the same?" she asked coldly.

"Yes," i responded icily.

"Judge," she told the new judge, "I wish to be relieved from the case. Ms. Shakur wishes to retain another lawyer.”

"Is this true?" the judge asked me.

"Yes. I want to defend myself." A little while later she was off the case.

As i sat in the bull pen feeling stupid and stubborn, the guard brought in a public defender. Gagliardi had assigned him because he didn't like the way Evelyn was behaving. I told him i didn't want him to represent me, that i was representing myself, the judge had assigned him to my case.

"What did you do before you were a public defender?"

He told me that "once upon a time" he had been a prosecutor. That was the end of the conversation. I would rather have had an alligator for a lawyer. I don't even remember his name, but he sat through both trials as my supposed lawyer, even though i refused to even speak to him.

Since i was now defending myself, i was entitled to a lawyer as an adviser. Everyone suggested lawyers, but most of them were white leftists. I wanted, if at all possible, a Black woman. Not just any Black woman lawyer, but someone who was in tune with the politics of the Black Liberation struggle.

One of the names given me was Flo (Florence) Kennedy. She was a Black lawyer who was very active in the women's movement, well known on the speaking circuit from coast to coast and more renowned as a feminist and political activist than as a lawyer. She fit the bill perfectly. She was just what i wanted.

Some argued against her.

"But, Assata," they said, "she's not a trial lawyer. Flo is not a criminal lawyer. You need both, someone who can give you sound advice." I was unmoved by their arguments. "She's wild; she's flamboyant and eccentric; she might scare the jury."

"She can't be any wilder than this case is," i countered. "Besides, i don't need a criminal lawyer because this isn't a criminal case. I need a political lawyer."

I was in a wild mood and i was determined to handle the case the way i saw fit. I wasn't expecting any such thing as justice! This case was like something out of The Twilight Zone and i was convinced that it couldn't be treated like a normal, run-of-the-mill criminal trial. I was determined to use this case to expose the deceit and crookedness of the government. A meeting between Flo and me was arranged. Flo warned me over and over about her lack of trial experience.

"You know, darling, that I haven't been inside a courtroom to try a case in years."

"I don't care," i said. "You've been out in the world; you know what reality is and that's enough."

Flo agreed to be my legal adviser. And i was ready to go to trial.

My mother and stepfather broke up and my mother, my sister, and i moved to a new apartment in a housing complex in South Jamaica near New York Boulevard and Foch. One side was the projects and the other side was the co-op where we lived, but they looked about the same to me. Compared to Jamaica, Parsons Gardens, where we had lived, was a little black dot. South Jamaica, Jamaica, Hollis, Bricktown, St. Albans, Springfield Gar dens, South Ozone, etc., were all joined together to make up a Black city. You could live your whole life in Jamaica and the only time you'd see a white face was when you shopped on Jamaica Avenue or when the insurance man came around. At one time, Jamaica was all white. Black people had moved out to the Island to escape the ghettos of Harlem and Brooklyn. They bought old houses at exorbitant prices, only to find that, within a few years, their "nice" neighborhoods had turned into the crime-ridden, drug ridden, poverty-stricken places they had run from.

I loved Jamaica, and i was just starting to get into the beat of it and to know my way around when my mother and i had one of our terrible arguments. I don't even remember what the argument was about, but i was hardheaded, stubborn, and under the im pression that a grave injustice had been done to me. The next day i got up, packed my clothes, and headed straight for the Village. Greenwich Village was where artists and musicians and all kinds of weird people were supposed to live. I was fascinated by the idea of beatniks and bohemians, even though i had never met any. I figured that if i belonged anyplace, it must be the Village.

I walked around with my suitcase until i was exhausted. I remember thinking that people here didn't look that different from anybody else. I found a place to check my suitcase and spent the rest of the day going around door to door asking people if they had any jobs available. Most didn't even look up at me, they just gave a flat no. At the end of the day, i was tired, disgusted, and hungry. I had nowhere to live and not the slightest idea what i was going to do next. I went back for my suitcase, but the place was closed. After that, i just walked aimlessly until i reached a little park. I sat down on a bench, tired as hell and unable to take another step. After a while, a little white guy with bumps on his face sat down next to me and started talking. I didn't understand half the things he said, but he seemed nice enough. When he asked me if i wanted to go to a restaurant across the street with him, i gladly accepted. I was starving. It was an Italian restaurant and the scent in the air was heavenly. I ordered enough to feed a mule. The guy talked about all these people i didn't know and about his job. He kept saying people on his job were conspiring to get him fired.

"I worked there for eight years and they didn't even give me any notice." He told me over and over that the company he had worked for had stolen two of his inventions and patented them and that when he tried to get paid for them and to get credit for his ideas, the company tried to get rid of him.

"What did they do?" i asked.

"They did everything. They stole my files and my papers and then spread rumors about me." He said he was some kind of engineer. "I should never have trusted them," he kept saying. "You can't trust anybody."

When the food came i ate like i had spent a lifetime starving. "Doesn't this food taste funny to you?" the guy asked. I tasted some more and it was good.

"There's nothing wrong with mine," i told him.

"There's something wrong with this food," he said loudly. "What did they do to my food?"

The waiter came and tried to calm the guy down. "I don't understand," the waiter said, "but if you'd like, I'll bring you another plate." Although the guy said it was better, he still thought it tasted a little funny. To change the subject, i told him a sad story about my mother being in the hospital and that i had nowhere to stay.

"Oh, you can stay at my place," he said. Then, seeing how i was looking at him, he added, "I have an extra bed."

"No funny business?"

"No funny business," he promised. He paid the check and we left.

His apartment was a tiny one-bedroom unit with a dirty kitchen and a green moldy-looking rug. The living room was neat and sterile. There was a plain brown couch that turned into a bed. I asked him for something to sleep in and plopped down into the bed. He kept talking, but i closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. After a while he went into his bedroom and shut off the light. I woke up during the night to go to the bathroom, stumbling around disoriented until i finally found it. When i came out of the bathroom, i went into the kitchen for some water. While i was there the guy came in. His face was all puffed up and red.

"What are you looking for?”

"Some water.”

"Oh, no, you're not," he screeched. "You've been creeping around this house looking for something.”

"What?" i asked. "You're crazy.”

"Oh, no, my dear, that's what they want me to think. I'm not crazy in the least. What were you looking for? Who sent you? You didn't find anything, did you? Well, you can tell them, I haven't invented anything else for them to steal."

"I don't know what you're talking about. Nobody sent me no place and i wasn't looking for anything."

"Oh, no! You were just going for a little moonlight stroll. Do you think I'm some kind of fool? I took you in off the street, out of kindness, and here you try and deceive me. They really fooled me this time. I never thought they'd send a nigger. A nigger spy."

"Your momma is a nigger," i told him, "and you're a crazy son of a bitch." I threw on my clothes as i cursed him out.

"Spy. Spy," he kept saying.

"Your mother is a spy, and you can drop dead as far as i'm concerned. "

I slammed the door and walked out into the early morning. The sun was beginning to come up. I walked until i found a drugstore open and ordered tea and an English muffin. I bought a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some makeup so that i would look older. I was going to get a job if it killed me. I got my suitcase, found a bathroom to wash up in, changed clothes, and checked the suitcase again. I bought a couple of newspapers. This time i was going to be systematic about it.

I saw an ad for a waitress and counter girl. That was something i knew i could do. The place was in downtown Brooklyn. I hopped on the first train in that direction and got there about 8:30 in the morning. The cafeteria was in a factory building and was solely for the factory workers. The manager had black and white hair and was big, fat, and sloppy. He wasn't so anxious to hire me at first, so i told him a sob story about coming from down South to help my mother who was in the hospital and that i needed a job as soon as possible. Finally, after looking me up and down, he hired me and said i could start right then and there. I was grinning from ear to ear.

I was supposed to spend the morning making salads and sandwiches and other things for lunchtime. But around ten o'clock, all these men started coming for coffee break. The manager had me running around like crazy, toasting bread, buttering buns, and getting the men their orders.

"Move faster, move faster," he kept telling me. Every time he told me to move faster i tried until it seemed that it wasn't humanly possible for anyone to have moved faster. Then i noticed he was always brushing against me. His hands were always "accidentally" touching my behind. I'd move his hand away but that only seemed to make him bolder. Every time i bent over to get something out of the freezer or off the food shelves, he would try to slide his hands up my dress. After a while, i began slapping his hands away. This, too, seemed to make him bolder. Finally i told him, in a nice, quiet voice, "Would you please keep your hands off me? Would you keep them to yourself?"

"Whattaya talkin' about?" he said, acting surprised. "I ain't done nothin' to ya."

As the day wore on, he accelerated his shouting at me. "Can't you move any faster?" he would yell. "Get that lead outa your ass." He stopped putting his hands on me for a while, but in about an hour he was right back to his old tricks. He acted like it was some kind of joke or something. I didn't think it was funny worth a damn. Lunchtime was super-busy and i was moving super-fast. After lunch, we started getting ready for afternoon coffee break and after that we started getting ready for dinner. Dinner was from 4:30 to 6:30, and 7:00 was quitting time. When dinnertime came, i was tired and miserable. I needed the job desperately, but the manager was driving me wild putting his hands all over me. When i told him to stop, he would grin, throw his hands in the air, and say, "What am I doing? What am I doing?" Then he started a new trick. He'd pull the elastic of my panties through the uniform and let it pop like a rubber band.

"Stop it!" i yelled. "Just stop it!"

"Stop what? What am I doin'?"

By the time dinner was over i knew i couldn't take it anymore. Bad as i needed the job, i couldn't take that big fat pig's hands all over me. Just before i was ready to go home, i told him.

"Look, if you can't keep your hands to yourself, i'll quit. I can't take it anymore."

"Whattaya mean, you'll quit? You're fired. You got lead in your ass and you don't know how to treat your boss. Now get the hell outta here."

"Just give me my money and i will."

"I ain't gonna give you shit," he said, " 'cause you ain't did shit."

"Look, mister, you gonna pay me my money. I worked hard and i want my money."

"Come back at the end of the week.”

"No, i want my money now. I need it now.”

"You ain't gettin' nothin' now, I told ya. Come back at the end of the week.”

"No, you're giving me my money now; i want my money!"

"Well, you ain't gettin' it.”

"I'll call the cops on you," i bluffed.

"I'll call the cops on you," he said, "if you don't get your ass outta here.”

"You better give me my money," i repeated, looking wild and about ready to jump out a real bag.

Some people from the factory came in and stood at the back of the cafeteria looking.

"Keep your voice down," he said, acting like he was going to be cooperative and pay me. "I'll tell you what. You come in the back with me now and I'll pay you for an extra day. I'll even let you keep your job, and, if you're good, I'll even give you a little extra change."

"I'm not going any damn where with you. Just give me my money! "

"Now, why do you want to be like that?" he asked, putting his hands on my shoulder. I was hot and fit to be tied.

"Get your hands off me," i yelled. "You don't want nobody to know what kind of a dog you are. Well, i'm gonna tell everybody. If you don't give me my money, i'm gonna make you wish you had. I'm gonna tell everybody what you are." I started to walk to where people were working in the factory part.

"All right, all right," he said. "Here's your goddamn money. Just get the hell outta here."

The people who had been standing in the back moved up closer to see what was going on. The man went to the register and counted out my money. I was dead tired and felt like a fool, but at the same time i felt kinda good inside. I was still in the same boat, but i was thirteen dollars richer and i had enough self-respect not to let any old lecherous white man feel up and down my body.

I had enough money altogether to rent a cheap hotel room. I got my suitcase and checked into a hotel. I think it was the Hotel Albert. After i had hung up my clothes and taken a shower, i decided to get something to eat. Downstairs in the lobby, there was this big, tall Black woman, dressed to kill. She had black hair with silver streaks running through it, long false eyelashes and a lot of makeup.

"Well, look at the baby!" she said, looking straight at me. “Pa-lease tell me how you wound up in this joint? Are you straight from Alabama, dar-ling? Where are you going, honey?"

I just looked at her.

"Do you speak, dar-ling? Can you talk? Where are you going, honey?"

"I'm going out to eat," i said, a little wary.

"Where are you going to eat, love?”

"I don't know.”

"Well, come with me, honey. We can eat together. I'm having a starvation attack.”

I just stood there looking at her.

"Well, come on, love. You don't want me to die of malnutrition, now, do you? Do you like Chinese food?”

"Yes," i told her, wondering why she was taking all of this interest in me and wondering how she knew i was new at the hotel. We walked around until we came to a Chinese restaurant. The whole time she talked nonstop. Suddenly i remembered how little money i had. I had intended to eat a hot dog or something.

"Look," i told her, "i don't have enough money to go in there. This place looks expensive and i'm kinda on the broke side. Maybe another time i'll come eat with you."

"Listen, love," she said, "I didn't drag you all this way to eat alone. I hate to eat alone so you're just stuck with my company. It looks like I'm gonna have to treat your broke ass to dinner."

I was extremely grateful. Miss Shirley (that's what she called herself) was one helluva talker. She sounded sophisticated and country at the same time. She was from Georgia, but she had been in New York for a long time. She had lived in the Village for a long time, too, although she said she was a gypsy. I ordered something like chop suey, the cheapest thing on the menu.

"What is you tryin' to do, honey?" she said. "Make me sick? Look, you sit there with your ears open and let me do the ordering." She ordered all this stuff and, when it came, we feasted. There was so much we could barely finish it.

"That's better, honey. Now Mother can join the living.”

The waiter came and asked if we wanted anything else.

"If I can't have you," Miss Shirley said with a wink, "I'd like the check.”

The waiter, a tall, thin Chinese man, blushed and hurried away. This is one bold chick, i remember thinking.

"How long is your place rented for?" Miss Shirley asked. "Until tomorrow.”

"What are you going to do after that?”

"I'll find another job," i told her. Then i told her about my job at the cafeteria. She laughed her head off.

"Well, honey," she asked me, "what in the hell are you running from or what in the hell are you running to?”