'Nuff Said

Click on the plaque to read my entry on this subject, written exactly one year ago today.

I just can't do it again this year.

The Barrel of a Gun

Last night, I was privileged to sit in seat A-109 in the balcony section of the Merriam Theatre at the premiere of Tigre Hill's film, "The Barrel of a Gun." The film was more than a mere documentary about a cop-killing that happened so many years ago-- it was the putting into proper, historical context of a singular act of rage, defiance, political power, animosity, vigilantism and brutality:

A bullet through the back of a 25-year-old police officer, and then another one through his brain-- fired while the officer lay, bleeding, face-up outside 1234 Locust Street at 3:52am on December 9, 1981.

Mr. Hill's film has vindicated the city of Philadelphia, which has played dubious host to protest after protest in misguided honor of a convicted murderer. For once, we, and a film director whom we as a city have raised, we have stood up and comported ourselves with dignity in the face of malice, and we have placed a value on truth.

Philadelphia Police Officer Daniel J. Faulkner was most certainly murdered in a cold-blooded, calculated ambush. But he did not die in vain, and the film I saw last night made sure of that.

Thank you, Tigre Hill. Well done.

Rage and The Machine

I've written some things in the past that I'm not proud of.

Let's just get that said right at the start.

As some of you know, one of the things I wrote that bore my name got me excused early from a temporary job that had all the trappings and promises of a possibly excellent career. It was that very regrettable incident that might have led me to silence myself forever, for fear of it, or something worse, ever happening again. Ironically, it was that very event that started my blog.

Lucky you.

I'm proud of most of the things I've written on this blog, except for maybe one or two things I've said about Meredith Vieira that probably border on slander, if you're a real stickler for that sort of thing. Though I can't say for sure, because I haven't written it yet, I'm pretty sure I won't be prouder of another post than this one.

Why? Because, today, I'm raging against the machine. And that always feels good.

You've probably heard of the band "Rage Against the Machine," right? Morello, etcetera... They're part of a large contingent of folks who support a new trial or the outright release of convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal. Just like Ed Asner, Mike Farrell, Danny Glover, Tim Robbins, Susan Sarandon, and a lot of other famous people who, apparently, are very bored and have already given as much time and money as they can to Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, Barack Obama, and Angelina Jolie's Give-Me-More-Children Foundation.

It's kind of funny, actually, that a band calling itself "Rage Against the Machine" is a notable member of what is arguably the most organized, well-coordinated, web-savvy social movement engaged in attempting to gain freedom for a killer in the 20th, 21st, or any century. "Rage Against the Machine," and the thousands and thousands of Mumia supporters all over the globe are, effectively, "The Machine."

They've got the power, they've got the money, they've got the sexy message, the alluring cause, the first-rate legal assistance, the constant web and media exposure. And they've got you Googled. Google "Justice for Mumia" and you get 396,000 hits. Google "Justice for Daniel Faulkner," Mumia's victim, and you get less than half that many.

It sure sounds like the Free Mumia Movement is The Machine to me.

In case you don't know what the hell I'm talking about, let me take you back in time-- 28 years to the day, in fact. It's December 9th, 1981. 3:50am Picture yourself standing in the freezing cold of a Philadelphia night at the intersection of 13th and Locust Streets. It's a pretty seedy block in a seedier time-- it's not the bustling, jovial gayberhood of today. A scuffed up, dented, blue Volkswagen Beetle is traveling the wrong way down the street. It does so a couple times. Officer Daniel Faulkner, with five years on the force at the age of twenty-five, observes this behavior and activates his patrol car's emergency lights, pulling the car over.

He keys his radio and reports the location of the traffic stop: 1234 Locust Street. Moments later, it appears that he is going to effect an arrest, as he calls for back-up, and then changes his mind and requests an EPW (emergency patrol wagon) to come to the scene.

He'll be dead in a minute.

Faulkner moves in to arrest the driver of the Beetle for an unknown reason. As Faulkner is searching the driver, he swings around and punches Officer Faulkner in the face. A scuffle ensues. From a parking lot across the street, a cab-driver named Mumia Abu-Jamal witnesses the fracas and runs over, pulls out a revolver and shoots Daniel Faulkner in the back. Faulkner spins around and shoots his assailant once in the chest. As he lies there on the pavement, looking up, Mumia Abu-Jamal straddles Faulkner and fires a high-velocity bullet into his brain, killing him instantly. Jamal takes a few steps before he collapses, wounded and losing blood, on the pavement as the sirens of an approaching police unit are heard. The first responding officers found their dead comrade, Jamal's brother standing there with his hands up shouting, "I ain't got nothin' to do with it!" and Mumia, bleeding, his gun next to him.

Jamal was immediately arrested, treated at Jefferson University Hospital, and tried for murder at a trial he routinely and obscenely disrupted-- threatening the judge and berating his defense attorney. He was convicted by a racially-mixed jury and was unanimously sentenced to death. That was back in 1982. Since then, the Free Mumia Movement has grown like an aggressive cancer, and it has been just as devastating to Officer Faulkner's widow, his police colleagues, his friends and his family. His conviction has been upheld time and time and time and time again.

It seems, unfortunately, that there just aren't enough people out there raging against this particularly insidious, misguided, ill-informed, often abusive and threatening machine.

28 years later, the Mumia Machine is operating as smoothly and efficiently as ever, organizing parades and protests and misinformation campaigns, conducting benefits and raising money. Jamal speaks and writes from beyond prison walls, though the one thing he steadfastly refuses to speak about at any length and detail are the events of December 9, 1981, and I suppose that is with good reason-- it seems like he has finally decided to start listening to his lawyer.

They call him "The Voice of the Voiceless" which I find kind of ironic, seeing as Mumia supporters don't really seem terribly voiceless to me-- their shouts ring in my ears constantly. Daniel Faulkner is really the one whose voice was silenced, 28 years ago, by a bullet to his brain. If Mumia is the supposed voice of the voiceless, who is being Daniel Faulkner's voice? Sure, he has friends and allies, and they may be strong in numbers, but their voices do not always get the attention they deserve, perhaps because there are precious few celebrities who can claim Justice For Daniel Faulkner on their roster of favored charities. And that's a shame, but I guess supporting an incarcerated African-American "political prisoner" is a lot sexier and does more to boost your star power in Hollwyood than backing a dead 25-year-old policeman and his now middle-aged widow.

I suppose you may be asking yourself right about now, "Well, okay, but, what does he want from ME?" I don't know, really. Maybe I just wanted to let off a little steam. Maybe I just wanted to recognize what went down on that Philadelphia street corner twenty-eight years ago. Maybe I just wanted to rage a very little against a very large machine. Maybe I just want to be David to its Goliath. Or maybe I want to influence you-- to make you care about something I care about, to see it from another perspective. I hope you don't think I'm shoving it down your throat. I don't want to do that to you-- I'm very fond of you after all-- and you have such a nice throat.

Just take a moment today. Send up a quick prayer for Daniel Faulkner, if you do that sort of thing. If you don't, noodle around online and take ten minutes out of your day and educate yourself a little more about this case. Maybe write something. Tell your friends. Join a Facebook group. Learn about it. Talk about it.

And rage.

The High Court Has Spoken

Twenty-eight years ago, a young Philadelphia police officer out on patrol alone was murdered in the middle of a cold, December night. He was in the process of arresting a man who had just assaulted him, when another man walked up and shot him in the back. The police officer spun around and fired once at his attacker, hitting him in the chest. The officer then fell to the ground and stared, face-up as his assailant stood over him, put the muzzle of his revolver not inches away from the officer's face, and fired-- ending a new marriage, a budding police career, and a promising life.

Thanks, Mumia.

Twenty-eight years later, after a myriad of appeals, a dizzying array of conspiracy theories, smokescreens and fantasies, and a revolving door of defense attorneys, the United States Supreme Court has denied Mumia Abu-Jamal's request for a new trial, period. Now, barring any extraordinary new evidence, the best Jamal can hope for is to avoid the death chamber, as the Supreme Court is still reviewing whether or not to reinstate his original sentence of death.

Abu-Jamal has long asserted that he was denied a fair trial. Yet, if one reviews the original court transcripts, it's easy to realize that Jamal did everything in his power to ensure that his original trial was not fair: he interfered with court procedure, he shouted profanities at the judge, he refused to cooperate with his attorney, he was disruptive, abusive and apathetic. He had to be removed approximately eleven times, just so the trial could proceed. Blame it on youth, rage, and hormones, I guess.

Now, a wizened, graying, 54-year-old prisoner called "Pops" by his fellow inmates, the more mature and mellow Mumia is all-of-a-sudden invested in a fair trial. I wonder, if he got one, if he would wear a coat and tie and follow court procedure this time. Would he keep the "Fuck you, Judge!" outbursts to a minimum? Probably. It's too little too late, though.

The fact of the matter is that this crime was committed by a hateful, thoughtless, fearless young man-- and the behavior exhibited in the courtroom during the 1982 trial matched his street actions quite accurately. But somehow Jamal has been able to make much of the world forget his violent and callous disposition of yesteryear and lull us into complacency with his eloquent poignancy of today. It's no different than imprisoned killers who suddenly find religion-- their's or somebody else's, in jail. Mumia found an attractive persona that endears him to white and black alike, and he wears it like a comfortable sport coat.

But, sport coat or not, he won't be getting a table at the Supreme Court's restaurant.

Nevertheless, the throng of Mumia supporters will not be quelled so easily. They do not want this book closed for, once it is, what is their purpose in the world? Who will they chant for in the street? Whose name will they shout relentlessly in the ear of a tired, ostracized widow?

I'd like to say something directly to all of you supporters of this man: you have devoted significant portions of your lives to the aim of supporting Mumia Abu-Jamal, a convicted cop-killer-- a man whose appeals have been slammed and rejected time and time again. Yet, each time, you take to the streets of Philadelphia, Chicago, Los Angeles, Paris and beyond, and cheer him on. You write leaflets and create websites and you march and you speak and you write and you give time and compassion and energy and money. You have done much for him, and have asked for nothing in return.

Well, I think it's time you start asking him for something in return.

Ask him for his version of what happened on December 9th, 1981, between 3:50am and 3:52am.

Go ahead. Ask.

He's never volunteered the information, you know. Not once has he ever explained in detail his own actions and whereabouts during those critical two minutes-- two minutes that I am certain he remembers very, very well-- even after twenty-eight years. Maybe he hasn't described the events of that night because none of his supporters have asked him to. Well, no time like the present. The "Free Mumia Abu-Jamal" website even encourages you to contact him.

I think it's a great idea, too.

Mumia Abu-Jamal
AM 8335SCI-Greene
175 Progress Drive
Waynesburg, PA 15370

Go ahead and drop him a line. He certainly has plenty of time to answer your letters now.