CHAPTER 5: HECKLER’S VERDICT
SAN FRANCISCO COUNTY COURTHOUSE
It was now the final day of JT’s trial stemming from the events at Fisherman’s Wharf four months ago. JT was charged with attempted murder and aggravated assault. Because of public pressure, the San Francisco state’s attorney refused to grant JT a change in venue despite the difficulty in finding an impartial jury and the massive media attention it had received in the city newspapers. The prosecution had also argued against holding a trial in a more rural area, claiming that would result in a jury biased in favor of JT due to the support for the military still prevalent in some other parts of the state. Above all, the state’s attorney wanted to satisfy the local public which demanded blood. The jury consisted of six men and six women, mostly middle aged which probably helped JT’s case, though there were definitely a few hipster and yuppie types there too.
The trial lasted four long days packed with the tearful testimonies of witnesses, many of them friends of the students and the food vendor JT had his altercation with. One after another, they presented JT as a complete psychotic monster while the prosecutor tried to blame JT’s actions on his violent military mentality and harshly maligned the Army culture in an attempt to appeal to any biases the jury might have had. It visibly worked with the yuppies and hipsters who nodded passionately and glared at JT in contempt. The gallery was also filled with students wearing their UC Berkeley colors to support their fellow students and activists. The judge, in an attempt to show impartiality, did order several students escorted out of the courtroom by security when they refused to remove their Communist symbols. JT’s attorney, a veteran himself, did give an impassioned closing argument, detailing the brutal battle JT’s company fought on the Ho Chi Minh Trail, the torture he had endured at the hands of the communists and his love of country, contrasted with the hostile and outright threatening and violent welcome he had received upon his arrival here in the Bay Area. Now was the moment of the truth, JT and his family knew as the judge stepped forward to the bench.
“All rise!” the bailiff said and most of the people in the courtroom did, except for a number of the victims’ friends in the antiwar movement who refused to leave their seats. One of them spat on the ground while others smirked and rolled their eyes.
The judge took his seat in the front of the court and banged his gravel several times. “This court will come to order! Order in the court!” Even he seemed annoyed by the constant ruckus coming from the protestors family and friends up in the galley. The day before, as the closing arguments were made, protestors clashed with police on the plaza in front of the building and make threats with a bullhorn, threatening to burn down the courthouse if there was no conviction. A violent brawl had ensued as the antiwar crowd attacked JT’s family and friends in the room.
“He better be rotting in jail!” a young punk with green hair stood up and shouted. “Remember our promise! We said we’ll burn this shit down and we fucking mean it!” With no delay, more than five cops rushed and tackled him. The punk managed to knock out one cop with a punch to the face before the other officers brought him down with their nightsticks, beating the resistance out of him as he tried to fight back, causing a greater uproar from his supporters in the gallery.
“This morning, we will hopefully see the conclusion of The State of California vs. John Teller.” He turned to the jury foreman. “Have you reached a verdict?”
“Yes we have, Your Honor,” the foreman replied simply, glancing over at JT with a sympathetic look, but also nervously at the crowd of hipster looking people gathered in the spectator section of the courtroom and the line of police officers stationed around them.
“On the charge of disturbing the peace, we find the defendant guilty. On the charge of first degree assault, we find the defendant guilty. On the charge of attempted murder, we find the defendant not guilty.”
JT slowly opened his eyes again. He had been spared the worst, but he was still going to see prison time, for something he didn’t deserve. Yet even that wasn’t enough for some people.
“What the fuck?” a leftwing student screamed, “This is bullshit! He tried to kill my friends!”
The judge slammed his gavel again. “I will have you removed from this courtroom and hold you in contempt!”
“I’m in contempt of this country! Change is coming whether you people like it or not!” the female student screamed. Before the police moved in toward her, however, she shoved her way through the crowd and stomped her way to the exits.
The judge waited a few moments for the commotion to quiet down. “Will the defendant please rise?”
JT stood up, his knees wobbly as he awaited his fate. No doubt the jury’s decision had been affected by the fears of violence that would result if he was not convicted of something.
“John Teller, I hereby sentence you to 18 months in prison including time served.” He slammed the gavel one last time, “All rise! This court is adjourned.”
STOCKTON STATE PRISON – CAFETERIA
“I’ll be damned! John Teller, right?” one of the many heavily tattooed prisoners said to JT as he grabbed today’s prison dinner, a meatloaf that tasted like it was cooked three days ago and some poor excuse for a macaroni salad that was only a few steps up from his middle school cafeteria. “We went to school together, remember? Otto Moran, and this here’s Lenny Janowitz. Of course we weren’t one of the cool jock boys like you, but in here, we’re all a much of Charming hicks. Gotta stick together you know.”
The man and one of his friends stood up and cleared a place for JT at one of the many metal tables in prison’s cafeteria. “Hey, my homeboy is going to eat with us today,” he said to a scrawny inmate who was halfway through his meal. The other inmate looked up.
“In other words, we need this table so get your fucking ass out of here!” Lenny, who was shorter but stockier than Otto, made a quick move toward the other inmate. The scrawny man smartly decided to do as he was told, even if he couldn’t help cursing under his breath. “You see, JT?” Lenny said, “Here you either get respect, or you’re somebody’s bitch, like that pathetic boy just now. He’ll last a few more weeks if he’s lucky. That’s what happens when you don’t got nobody sticking up for you.”
“I know who both of you are,” JT said with a smirk, and he didn’t think very highly of them. He recognized their faces from their time at Charming High School though they were seniors when JT was a freshman. He didn’t know about Lenny, but he knew for a fact that Otto Moran had been drafted but refused to go. At first JT thought that was the reason Otto was here until Otto himself volunteered the info about his crimes and those of Lenny. Otto, Lenny, and their group of friends were seen as losers and troublemakers by the more respectable families in Charming. Above all, they were known for prowling the town streets and the rural backroads around Charming in their souped up motorcycles, dirt bikes, and four wheelers at all hours of the day and night. Even as the son of a mechanic and garage owner, JT at the time didn’t look highly upon this crowd at all. He came from a good family that abided by the law, attended mass every Sunday and quite a few Wednesdays, and operated their own business. He joined the military to defend his country like previous generations of Tellers had done. Of course JT loved to ride his own motorcycle and was quite good at it, but he was never the biker gang type that these two and their crew seemed to be aspiring to be. Yet now he was in here, sharing a lunch table with Otto and Lenny, something he never would have done at the Charming High School cafeteria.
“You’re a pathetic stoner and draft dodging coward,” JT said to Otto, “You think you’re a tough man cause you can steal cars and go on a high speed chase with the cops for ten miles? You can win in a prison fight, hell maybe you can even go toe to toe with those gangsters from Compton. But guess what, I watched men close to me, much better men than you die right in front of me so you have the freedom to be a nobody and fuck up your own life! You make me sick.”
“I’ll show you who’s tough, Teller,” Lenny glared, “Except I just want you to know, we can still build this bridge before you burn it. A few weeks, a few months in here, you’ll see. Being from Charming means more than you probably understand right now. For now, enjoy your dinner.”
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA – BERKELEY
“You know what?” Professor of Sociology and chair of the American Studies department Walt Rogers shouted loudly as he paced quickly back and forth across the front of the lecture hall in UC Berkeley’s ornate, neo-classical Wheeler Hall, one of the most prominent buildings on campus. “I am passionate like this because I need to be!” He then paused and looked at his audience of over 100 freshmen and sophomore students. “You know, I was reading through one of those anonymous course evaluations from last semester though I’m sure it was that inbred hillbilly from Chattanooga, Tennessee whom I hopefully enlightened, who said I reminded him of a Southern Baptist preacher.” Several students, particularly in the section of the room where most of the out of state kids from the Northeast sat, chuckled at the reference in their typical snobbish fashion.
Well guess what? I….we have to be that way because our enemies are that way! That preacher and his backwoods congregation pushing their fairy tales on the rest of us, the greedy banks and the corporate robber barons that trap their workers in modern day slavery in the name of their obscene profits……” His voice then rose to a shout so loud that the wooden doors to the hallways and the podium all shook with his rage, “And the corrupt military-industrial complex and the genocidal American soldiers raping and pillaging the brave, defenseless people of Vietnam…they are all equally passionate except unlike me, unlike us, they want to protect the status quo that benefits them at the expense of real people!”
Shouts of “hell yeah” and “damn straight” sounded from across the room. A particularly loud voice yelled "God damn America!" eliciting ever more thunderous applause. The majority of these students came from middle class and upper class backgrounds, but through Professor Rogers was able to channel the pent up anger that welled up inside them. Yet it was professors like Rogers who made them angry, who told them that they had to be angry, that they had to feel guilty about the emptiness of their comfortable upbringings while there was so much war, poverty and inequality in the world.
“College is a time for new experiences, for you to question everything that you have been taught! In this class, you will learn about this country through the lives and experiences of the voiceless and subjugated, ” he said passionately as he walked over to the American flag hanging in the front of the room. “I’ve sure you’ve been taught before, especially those from East Tennessee, or Bakersfield for that matter, to pledge allegiance to this flag, that we are ‘one nation under God’, whatever the hell that means.” Rogers snatched the flag in his hand. “You know what this country’s so-called greatness is based on? It’s based on the rape and plunder of the Third World by our banks and corporations and our military which does their bidding. That is what the American Dream is based on!” Professor Rogers continued his rant in front of the captivated audience. “And when people of the developing world seek out global justice, like the Vietnamese freedom fighters are doing, our government sends our CIA agents and those psychotic soldiers and pilots and Marines on a mission of terror and genocide! It is not enough to be angry. We must act on this anger!” Rogers then stuffed the American flag into the trash can. “I am taking this symbol of colonialism and oppression, and putting it where it belongs!” he shouted as the students’ cheering reached fever pitch.
Rogers went back to the dais and pulled out a copy of the recently published book Rules For Radicals by the left-wing, nationally known community organizer Saul Alinsky which was required reading for this class, as was the case on college campuses from coast to coast. “One of the things that Saul Alinsky mentions in this book is that when we provoke violence from our enemies, that turns the public against them, for it reveals our enemies for who they are. Some of your classmates has already done this!” Rogers motioned for a student to stand, and it was one of the men who had attacked JT at the San Francisco waterfront.
The class clapped passionately for the student, who was still visibly scarred and bruised from his encounter with JT. “And after that day, people saw exactly what these Army soldiers are like. And it was the public pressure that forced that jury, a jury that is not like us, to do what we wanted them to do! I look around this room, and I hope there are more brave heroes like this young man who have the courage to stand up against this system!”
AMERICAN STUDIES DEPARTMENT OFFICES, UC BERKELEY
The students filtered out of Wheeler Hall across the grassy expanse of Memorial Glade as Rogers watched from the large windows of his office. Also with him are three of the students from his class whom he had already taught in a different sociology course. His connections with them ran well before that, however, as he had picked them out and they had spent much time together away from campus. Rogers and the students gathered here in his office were the leader and core operatives of the Northern California chapter of the Weather Underground, a left wing terrorist organization. The Weather Underground supported all leftist and anti-capitalist causes, but they were most passionate about ending America’s participation in the Vietnam War.
“That was quite a lecture, I’m sure it’ll make all their other classes seem boring,” said junior philosophy major James Winston Nelms in a pronounced Massachusetts accent. The son of a prominent Boston physician and prep school math teacher, his upbringing in a liberal Northeastern bubble had saturated him with upper middle class, white Western guilt well before he set foot in what was arguably America’s most radical college town. Next to him was his girlfriend Deanna Lunsik, an engineering student from Sunnyvale originally following in the footsteps of her father who worked nearby at the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory. That was before she became politically radicalized in the Berkeley scene. It was hard for her to name an exact moment that made her devote her life to activism, but if she had to choose one, it would be when Tracey brought her to hear Saul Alinsky speak in person. Through her new friends at Berkeley, Tracey became disillusioned with the comfortable life she knew and was disgusted with the work that her father did supporting the US government and its crimes around the world. She instead decided to dedicate the science and engineering brilliance she inherited to fight for what she saw as more just causes so that America and the world would be a better place.
The third student, a double major in psychology and political science, was named Antonio Garcia according to his university records. In reality, he was an illegal Mexican alien with dozens of names and identifications. Antonio was smuggled across the border as a child and through perseverance and hiding his illegality managed to escape the graffitied barrios of Oakland and get admitted to Berkeley on a scholarship program for inner city youth. His story should be an example of the American Dream, but his illegal status and his upbringing in the inner city created a bitterness that never left him. What galvanized him into violent extremism was his brother’s deportation back to Mexico after being taken in for questioning by LAPD officers investigating the killing of a white business owner by Hispanic robbery suspects. A week after his brother’s deportation, Antonio received word that he had committed suicide.
The gang wars claimed lives in Oakland almost every day and the cops turned a blind eye, but when one rich white man got killed, they swarmed the Mexican barrio looking to bring the killers to justice. Why was he illegal, Antonio had thought. How dare the gringos call him that and say his family didn’t have to right to live here, when this was his people’s land before the United States stole the Southwest from Mexico? At Berkeley, Antonio quickly became part of the activist scene. He found the desire for violent action as he met Professor Rogers and these other students. Yes, they were gringos, but they were not part of the establishment that oppressed his people. And in them, he found his comrades in arms.
“The plans that we’ve discussed, they’re coming along nicely?” Rogers inquired.
All three of the student activists nodded.
“I’ve done my reconnaissance of the target,” Deanna said. “I’ll go through each and every one in detail, including security and police presence and the kind of resistance we’ll encounter, and possible escape routes as time permits.” She has spent many a summer with relatives in the northern Central Valley so was intricately familiar with the area. Her most recent 2 month stay outside Charming not only allowed her to conduct reconnaissance on possible targets the Weathermen could hit, but further entrenched her hatred of the place. Charming and the other small towns around it represented everything that was wrong with America especially after she started seeing it through her newly enlightened activist lenses. It was Deanna, the somewhat hometown girl, that suggested that the Weather Underground attack a target in or around Charming for maximum effect.
Rogers nodded. “That will wait for another day, but I’m glad things are progressing well on your end.” He turned to the illegal student. “And you, Antonio? Tus amigos de las calles – your friends on the street – you’ve spoken with them?” Rogers prided himself in speaking fluent Spanish which allowed him to fancy himself as being down in the Mexican barrios fighting for the downtrodden.
“Si, patron,” Antonio replied passionately. “Estamos listos.” We are ready.”
“The things that we have discussed, your connections are able to provide all of them for us?”
“Si, of course, patron. As long as everyone gets paid, we get what we need. And all of us are ready to act now.”
VISITATION ROOM, STOCKTON PRISON
Stockton State Prison greatly limited JT’s opportunity for visits, partly because of the court’s recommendations that he be treated as a dangerous, violent criminal and partly because of the overcrowded conditions. The California prison system was well over capacity, but with the increase in drug trafficking and gang activity things were not getting better anytime soon. JT noted that very few individuals here in Stockton prison were here for their participation in violent protests like the one he saw in Oakland or for the violent physical attacks on military veterans and their families all over the Bay Area. Most of those simply got a slap on the wrist by judges afraid of fanning the flames or whom even personally sympathized with them, and those who somehow did get locked up were always put in minimum security prisons or even house arrest in their parents’ homes. The last time he had a visitor was his father four months ago. Now it was Otis Cross on the other side of the heavy glass picking up the telephone receiver.
Within their time limited to 10 minutes, they obviously needed to catch up as much as they could. JT couldn’t help but notice a bald white man, probably one of the racist skinheads in the prison, giving him a death stare from a few positions down. The skinhead obviously disapproved of JT receiving a black visitor. They quickly talked about everything that had happened since returning home from the war. Clay and Piney had decided not to reenlist and to return after their tour of duty was up. The good thing was that they were out of harms way since they’ve been transferred to support positions in Thailand.
“So how’s school treating you, man?” JT asked.
Otis had taken advantage of the GI Bill and was now starting his sophomore year at the University of the Pacific’s Stockton campus where he was majoring in economics and finance.
“To be honest with you, pretty tough, man, but I’m hanging in there. Maybe it’s all a blessing in disguise. But hey, just don’t sound right bitching about my own life when you’re the one locked up for bullshit reasons. And everyone with half a brain knows all this is bullshit.”
JT looked up. “It is what it is. At least you’re ahead in the game, making plans for your future. So what’s this blessing in disguise?”
“Like I was saying, well, University of the Pacific is nothing like Berkeley with all that insanity but it’s not exactly an easy place for me. Just like anywhere else in the Valley, you know, the more progressive half hates me cause I’m a genocidal baby killer like you, the other half still hates me cause I’m a nigger. I’m stuck in the middle, nobody wants anything to do with me. So the major class project we had this semester, we had to come up with a business plan and present it. I did it all of it by myself, and my professor was impressed enough with my work to recommend me for an internship with Armed Services Credit Union branch in Lodi. I’ll be starting next month.”
“I’m proud of you, Otis,” JT said sincerely, “Look, I grew up in the Charming area. I’m not saying its perfect and I’m sure you know that better than me, but at least people will give you a chance. When you first go into that bank, people might have stereotypes and misconceptions of you, but that will change once you show them who you are and what you’re capable of.”
At that moment one of the prison guards banged on the window. “Time’s up Teller, wrap up your shit with that spook right now!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, brother,” Otis said, “I’ll see you on the other side.”
Even without the warnings from the rest of the Charming folks, JT knew his days of relative peace at Stockton prison would eventually run out, though not in the way he expected. It happened less than a week after his meeting with Otis as he was doing his regular workout on the aging weight room equipment in the prison’s large but dilapidated gym.
“Hey soldier boy!” a voice called, “Or maybe nigger lover’s more like it?”
JT angrily slammed down his weights and looked up to see five men that he identified as members of the Aryan Brotherhood, a major neo-Nazi group with a particularly heavy presence in prisons, though he knew they had plenty of friends outside in the Charming area too. The ringleader, a skinhead thug named Welch, was in prison for kidnapping and terrorizing an interracial couple and suspected in an arson attack on a Chinese restaurant. He noticed that one of them was the bald man who had been staring at him during his visitation with Otis, though now he was able to see the large swastika tattoo on the side of his neck.
“I don’t want no trouble right here, alright?” JT said evenly, trying to remain as calm as he could. Above all, he was just exhausted and counting away the days before he could go home. Any kind of trouble here in prison would definitely not help his case. “We need to just stay out of each other’s way like we have so far.”
Welch glared at JT. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have offended me, boy.”
“What the hell is this?”
“Jesse here saw what happened, didn’t you, Jesse?” Welch said, nodding toward the skinhead from the visitation room.
“Damn right,” replied Jesse, “Only the second time somebody visit you, and you already got a porch monkey.”
“Only thing worse than a nigger is a traitor like you, Teller,” Welch said. JT did everything he could to hold his anger while standing straight and not letting these racist thugs intimidate him, but he knew it would not end peacefully when Welch motioned to the guards and they sealed off the doors to the gym, leaving JT, the Aryans and a bunch of other inmates trapped inside.
“Feeling brave, Welch?” JT said, clenching his fists. “Can’t even confront me in a fair fight. Guess you got the guards on your payroll, or they believe the same crap y’all do?”
Jesse laughed. “Or maybe they just want some good entertainment, and trust me, we deliver.”
Jesse and two of the other Aryans charged at JT, but JT ducked just as Jesse swung at him, his punch going wide. JT sent his foot crashing into Jesse’s stomach, the force lifting Jesse a little higher into the air before he collapsed face first to the floor. JT followed through by headbutting another one of the Aryans onto one of the benches. The Aryan struggled fiercely, but JT grabbed one of the heavy weights and dropped it onto his attacker’s hand, smashing it and causing the man to shriek uncontrollably in pain. JT then knocked him out with a punch to the face. However another one of the Aryans delivered a punch straight into JT’s jaw, filling his mouth with blood and knocking him back against one of the metal machines. Another Aryan kicked him in the back as Welch watched and Jesse began recovering from the blow.
One of the Aryans grabbed JT’s neck as the others began to beat him. “You like those niggers, don’t you, Teller?” one of them taunted as he tightened his grip on JT’s neck. “Well now we’re going to show you what it’s like to be one of them!”
Suddenly, however, the Aryan giving JT the chokehold yelped in shock and pain and his eyes went in a daze before he collapsed to the ground. JT looked up and saw that Otto Moran had knocked the Aryan out cold with a chop to the back of the neck, and Lenny was coming too.
Having expected to just observe JT’s beating as entertainment, both Jesse and Welch were visibly shocked at their goons being dispatched not just by JT but by the other two inmates from Charming. Lenny headbutted Jesse, sending him into a weight machine then bashed his head into the metal. Welch grunted as he grappled with Otto but JT recovered and came back with a chop to his neck, causing him to collapse and choke. Otto then gave him a brutal kick in the stomach and groin, Welch whimpering in pain. JT grabbed him by the collar of his prison jumpsuit and elbowed him hard, shattering Welch’s nose and sending him sprawling onto the floor.
Suddenly an alarm sounded and the guards rushed in to restore order. “Show’s over!” one of the officers shouted, “Get back in your routines now!” The medical staff quickly entered to take the more seriously injured Aryans to the infirmary.
JT looked at Otto and Lenny. “Thanks for having my back,” he said simply.
“Charming boys, remember?” Lenny said.
“You know, JT,” Otto said, “I didn’t choose to stay home because I hated you or the other soldiers. I never burned my draft card, I just let it sit in my house. All it was….was that I didn’t feel its worth what they made you all go through. Like….we’re right here, its not like the commies are going to be rolling through Charming tomorrow. If that did happen, you bet my guns would be ready. I swear that to God. I just didn’t think it was worth Americans like us dying over there to save South Vietnam from the commies.”
JT looked him straight in the eye. “Whether you believe it or not, whether you admit it or not, the enemy’s here. And every newscast about additional American casualties only makes them more confident.”
“I know that now, JT, and I respect what you did over there. I figured you should know that.”
PROFESSOR ROGERS’S RESIDENCE, BERKELEY
Professor Rogers was wary not to be seen with Jimmy, Deanna, or Antonio in public so he could maintain the illusion that it was just a faculty-student relationship for his own protection in case the authorities ever started investigating the local Weather Underground chapter, even though he in fact was the leader of it. Saul Alinsky, though, was a nationally known scholar, activist, and community organizer so Rogers had absolutely no qualms about entertaining him in his bungalow located in a leafy neighborhood less than fifteen minutes from campus. In fact, the fact that Saul Alinsky himself would personally visit him at home only elevated Rogers’s stature among both at the university and the Berkeley community at large.
After reminiscing about old times together over several glasses of wine on the back porch, the two men finally retired to Rogers’s living room which was decorated in an interesting mix of yuppie chic and counterculture themes. Rogers mentioned the rave response that Alinsky’s Rules For Radicals had gotten from both the faculty and students at UC Berkeley and several other colleges where Rogers was an adjunct professor.
“Seriously, Saul, I don’t know what I should do,” Rogers said at last, finally getting to the most important matter he wanted to discuss with his mentor. He spoke of the Weathermen he led and the passion and energy these students had, then specifics about the tentative plans they have made together, including Antonio’s connections on the Oakland streets that would come in handy.
Alinsky paused for a long time, looking at Rogers with a mix of sadness and envy. “You….if I believed in God, I’d say you’re very blessed with the students and the resources you have here. So many dream of being where you are, and you’re questioning yourself? Come on, this is not the usual Walt Rogers I know.”
“It’s….everything will be different if we go through with this.”
Alinsky sighed and took a long swig of his exotic wine. “Let me tell you something, Walt. People all over the country, myself included, dream of being in the position you’re in to bring about change. In fact its been a disappointing week for me, very disappointing.” Alinsky walked over to the counter and opened up another bottle of wine, this one freshly imported from Portugal.
“So disappointing that even a glass of wine as fine as this cannot remove the cloud that’s hung over me. There’s a very promising young woman I’ve been in contact with for a number of years. Name’s Hillary Rodham, very strong student leader at Wellesley College until she graduated recently. She even did her senior thesis on my activism and my principles. Called me and corresponded with me by mail a number of times and of course I proofread her thesis paper for her. All the right ideas. And yet when I offered her a job within my movement, she declined, said she decided to go to law school. I tried to talk her out of it, but her mind was set. She has the right mindset no doubt, but she’s living under the illusion that she could change the system from within. What can I do about it, you know?”
Rogers scoffed. “Changing the system from within? I’d say she’s about forty years ahead of her time at this stage.”
“Yes, even someone as motivated and as ideologically pure as this young woman from Wellesley,” said Alinsky as he finally put down his wine glass. “Didn’t have the guts to carry through. What you have here, what your operatives are willing to do under your command, is rare. We have protestors. You have an armed insurgency. You have the power to change the world, to make a real difference, Walt. Many people wait a lifetime for the opportunity you have right in front of you.”
“Trust me I know that, Saul,” Rogers replied, “But once I cross thar line, there’s no going back.”
Alinsky smiled. “You won’t want to go back, Walt.”
Note: Saul Alinsky is a real historical figure and is used fictitiously here. The history between him and Hillary Clinton is true including the fact that her college thesis was written on his activism which she highly respected. More of this is detailed in the film “America” by Dinesh D’Souza, one of the best documentary films I’ve seen. The Weather Underground was also a real organization and its leader Bill Ayers was an influential figure in Barack Obama’s life though the actions of the organization are exaggerated in this story and all of its members here are fictional and not based on real figures either alive or dead to the best of my knowledge. I believe this story shows what the Weather Underground would be like had all of their plans been successful. I chose to feature Saul Alinsky in this story instead of Ayers because Alinsky is dead and cannot be libeled. J