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CONTENTS / others' music  / dregeye music  / earth!first / 1st/ jakeis / defuse / simple / sewwatt / whyilldinthestreets  / firstaid / feralmale / sensualanguage /  rrreading

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 did you read the beginning of the story?
 

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   police brutality

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MOVE outside of city hall courtrooms
March 1976

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Beating the Courts

     By confronting the judicial system as an organized, coordinated group not afraid to go to jail, MOVE was able to run circles around the procedures and expose the fallacy of justice.  Ignoring the status and elevation of judges, MOVE remained seated when the order "all rise!" was given, and never addressed the judge as "your honor."  They also rejected plea bargain offers and public defenders.

     In the early years defendants who were released on bail and given a court date would often send a brother or sister member to the trial if they couldn't make it themselves.  Most judges at that time couldn't tell MOVE members apart and sentenced the apparent "defendant" who would be taken into custody and held for the duration.  The original defendant, often arrested again before his or her sentence expired, would just give police the name of another member, leading the system into ever deepening confusion over who was who.

     During a trial, MOVE attacked the legitimacy of the court, demonstrating contradictions in such concepts as the presumption of innocence, freedom of religion, and the right to free speech.  When defendants refused to blindly submit to a judge's arbitrary dictates, the were either ejected from the room, bound and gagged, or cited for contempt. MOVE spectators were often cited for contempt, too.  Sheriffs
proved to be just as brutal as the city cops, at times beating MOVE members in the very presence of judges.  All these incidents only generated more cases, and a time went on, MOVE's practice of appealing at every opportunity further compounded an already overwhelming caseload.

     By 1976 literally hundreds of MOVE cases were clogging Philadelphia's justice system.  Court administrators realized that in a typical MOVE case the city was spending thousands of dollars to prosecute what had often started out as a trivial, trumped-up misdemeanor charge.  To save money, the courts began to dismiss MOVE cases in wholesale lots.

     During the summer of 1976, MOVE began concentrating on setting up chapters in other states and refrained from further demonstrations.  To provide a healthy environment for the children, MOVE secured a mortgage on a 96-acre farm in Virginia.  Meanwhile, Frank Rizzo resented a group of self-proclaimed revolutionaries wreaking havoc in the courts and exposing his brutal police department.  And with no more demonstrations, there were none of the usual opportunities to harass and arrest MOVE.
 

     On November 5, 1976 a hearing was held before Judge Edward Blake regarding several different MOVE cases.  Some 20 MOVE defendants, all out on bail, appeared in court.  Many were given sentences and despite their intention to appeal, Blake ordered them taken into custody.  On the way to a holding cell, sheriff Jerry Saunders began beating one handcuffed young MOVE member, Dennis Africa , and a brief scuffle ensued.  Sheriffs locked up all those who came to Dennis' defense, then also arrested and brutalized Robert, Valerie and Rhonda Africa who had played no part in the altercation. Nearly 9 months pregnant, Rhonda went into premature labor, giving birth to a bruised and injured baby that died within minutes.

     Charges of assault and resisting arrest against those involved were later dismissed, except for Robert, Conrad and Jerry Africa, who were given bail.  The case marked a new era in the conflict between MOVE and the courts.  After hundreds of cases and years of hearings, MOVE had accumulated a through knowledge of what could typically be expected from the courts at every stage of the process.  The courts, in turn, had settled into a grudging tolerance of MOVE's behavior, such as the refusal to stand when a judge entered the room.  At a pre-trial hearing, on February 7, 1977, Judge Paul Ribner ordered sheriffs to force Robert to stand as the judge came in. Ribner then issued bench warrants for Jerry and Conrad, despite Robert's explanation that they were out of town that day and would be present at the next listed hearing.  Officers around MOVE headquarters, who normally would not have immediate knowledge of bench warrants due to the usual bureaucratic delays, began taunting MOVE and talked of forcibly entering the house with the warrants as legal justification.

     As the case continued, MOVE could see that Ribner's odd demands and threats, and the unusually large number of armed police and sheriffs present in the courtroom created a situation in which a physical courtroom confrontation could result in some "accidental" MOVE injuries or deaths.  After the defendants refused to participate further, Ribner tried them in abstentia, and instead of the usual county jail time, gave them longer state prison sentences.  They were soon shipped off to Graterford prison, about 30 miles outside of Philadelphia.  MOVE was outraged at such a blatant set-up and railroading of Robert, Corned and Jerry, who were political prisoners.
 

     In late April of 1977, MOVE set up a sister organization called the "Seed of Wisdom" in Richmond Virginia.  In less than a week Virginia police provoked a minor confrontation by surrounding the house and attempting to take custody of the children.  Meanwhile, MOVE foresaw the possibility that Philadelphia police could storm their 33rd Street headquarters, kill those inside, and blame the victims for their own deaths in an operation similar to the type of government terrorism used against the Black Panthers.  Information from sympathetic sources in city government confirmed that plans for some type of police operation had indeed been made.  To safeguard the Philadelphia base, MOVE staged a major demonstration May 20, 1977 on a platform outside their house.  They demanded the release of their political prisoners and as end to the violent harassment by the city.  To keep an increasingly brutal police force at bay, some members held firearms.  Police tried to hold back a crowd of on-lookers, but the growing numbers of people soon broke through police lines and swarmed the platform to hear MOVE speak.

"WE TOLD THE COPS THERE WASN'T GONNA BE ANY
MORE UNDERCOVER DEATHS.  THIS TIME THEY BETTER
BE PREPARED TO MURDER US IN FULL PUBLIC VIEW,
CAUSE IF THEY CAME AT US WITH FISTS,
WE WERE GONNA COME BACK WITH FISTS.
IF THEY CAME WITH CLUBS,
WE'D COME BACK WITH CLUBS,
AND IF THEY CAME WITH GUNS, WE'D USE GUNS TOO.
WE DON'T BELIEVE IN DEATH-DEALING GUNS,
WE BELIEVE IN LIFE.
BUT WE KNEW THE COPS WOULDN'T BE SO QUICK TO ATTACK US IF THEY HAD TO FACE THE SAME STUFF THEY DISHED OUT SO CASUALLY ON UNARMED DEFENSELESS FOLK."

     Aware that the Third Amendment guarantees the right to bear arms on one's own property, Police Commissioner Joseph O'Neill told reporters, "under the constitution you have a right to speak your mind and apparently that what they're doing."  Yet four days later, the city sidestepped the lack of firearms violations by having Judge Lynne Abraham issue warrants for 11 MOVE members on riot charges and "possession of an instrument of crime."  The media unfairly depicted MOVE as illegal gun-toting bandits.
 

STANDOFF
       Police set up a 24-hour watch around MOVE's headquarters to arrest members when they came off the property.  On June 12, 197 7 Sue Africa left the premises and was apprehended a few blocks away.  The other members remained at the house as months passed and police continued to watch and wait.

     MOVE had files a $26 million civil suit against the city for the March 28, 1976 death of LIfe Africa and the brutality leading to miscarriages from 1974-76, but the standoff prevented MOVE plaintiffs from attending the hearing and the suit was thrown out of court.  While the standoff continued, some Philadelphia politicians and reporters went to the Virginia area, where MOVE's farm was located, and spread slanderous misinformation among people on adjoining properties by describing MOVE as a group of drug-taking cannibals who would slaughter everyone's livestock.  The rumors set off a rash of complaints to the Realtor who demanded that MOVE pay off the entire mortgage at once.  Unable to raise the full sum, MOVE lost their farm.

     Rule 1100 of Pennsylvania Criminal Procedures sets a time limit of 180 days within which to either execute an arrest warrant or file for an extension.  On November 20th, the deadline on the MOVE warrants passed.  The next day the DA's office filed a late request for an extension.  (They may have forgotten to file on time or were just accustomed to bending the laws when prosecuting MOVE.) Judge Edward Blake granted the untimely extension.  (Blake became the Common Pleas Court President Judge in 1991.)

     Throughout the standoff, mediators and negotiators from a number of community coalitions and intervention agencies relayed messages between the city and MOVE in an attempt to come to a peaceful settlement.  But talks always broke down over the issue of releasing MOVE political prisoners.  MOVE would not compromise.  Their demand for Robert, Conrad, Jerry and Sue's freedom was absolutely non-negotiable.  Mediation went nowhere as city personnel were telling MOVE off the record, "We'll kill all of you before we let your people out of jail."  A federal agent who had begun lurking around the barricades likewise informed  MOVE that the Feds were going to infiltrate, disband and destroy them.
 

     To force the wanted MOVE members from the house, Rizzo got court approval to starve them out.  On March 16, 1978, an arm y of h undreds of cops invaded the area and sealed off a four block area.  While sharpshooter posts and machinegun nests were set up, workmen shut off the water to MOVE's headquarters.  Those inside included pregnant women, nursing babies, children and animals.  Rizzo boasted that the perimeter was so tight "a fly couldn't get through."  When various community members, who opposed Rizzo's cruel tactic, made humanitarian attempts to rush the barricades with food and water for MOVE, they were arrested and beaten by the police.

     With loudspeakers and amplification, members exposed the filly of the city's action in spending thousands of dollars a day on police overtime just to stand around and watch MOVE.  As police in stake-out posts at surrounding rooftops, apartments, and parked patrol cars were treated to a steady stream of revolutionary commentary, supervisors instructed their men not to listen to anything MOVE said, after too many officers began to seriously consider what they heard.

     There was a great deal of dissention in police ranks regarding the handling of MOVE.  Some cops had taken to tossing bottles, rocks, and firecrackers into MOVE's yard, hoping to provoke a confrontation.  But it only resulted in a police fist fight wherein two officers got in a scuffle with a third one who had been throwing rocks at MOVE babies.

     Rizzo's attempt to starve MOVE out continued for almost two months, capping off nearly a year of continuous 24 hour police surveillance that had begun on May 20, 1977.  Traffic had been detoured, neighbors had to show identification going to and from their own homes, and reporters noted that city spending for police overtime had passed the million dollar mark.  On April 4, 1978 thousands marched around city hall in a massive demonstration protesting the city's barbaric action.  As the absurdity of Rizzo's police siege became internationally known, Philadelphia became an embarrassment to the human right initiatives of President Jimmy Carter and United Nations Ambassador Andrew Young.

     Under federal pressure to end the stalemate, city officials pushed for a negotiated settlement, but with MOVE standing firm in their demands, the city had no real leverage.  For Rizzo it became a matter of making the necessary concessions, but doing it in such a way that his tough-guy "law and order" image remained intact.  The city announced terms of a settlement in May of 1978, though final clarification was still going on behind the scenes.  To save face, the city had make certain oral promises that were not spelled out on paper so as to cover up the fact that court procedures would be by-passed to spring MOVE's political prisoners.

     MOVE was wary of making deals with a government that had historically broken every treaty ever made with Native Americans.  But the final terms of the agreement gave them what they wanted, so any broken promises would only further expose the system's deception and lack of good faith.  Implementation of the agreement began on May 3rd.  Escorted by civilian observers, the police took MOVE members, one at a time, to the police administration building where they were arraigned and released on their own recognizance.  The barricades and roadblocks surrounding the area were pulled open.  To the chagrin of anxious ATF agents, police and DA personnel, all the MOVE "guns" and "explosives" cops had spotted at one time or another were revealed to be inoperable dummy firearms or road flares disguised as dynamite.  A search of the house with metal detectors found nothing incriminating.  On May 8th, Jerry, Conrad, Robert and Sue Africa were released.  The DA's office, headed by Ed Rendell, agreed to dispose of all pending MOVE cases within 4-6 weeks and thereby purge MOVE from the court system.  In order to prevent the start of another quagmire of contempt charges, the city arranged that attorney Oscar Gaskins would handle all remaining legal proceedings and members themselves would not make any court appearances.  The agreement also provided that during a 90 day period, the city would assist MOVE in finding another location in which to reside.

     MOVE's victory was impressive.  The confrontation initiated on May 20, 1977 had succeeded, without bloodshed, in freeing their political prisoners and forcing Rizzo's cops to back down.  It also provided a powerful example of a fully dedicated and committed group of people fighting the system and winning.