crisis: October 28, 1967

When I was convicted of assaulting Odell Lee in 1964, the court sentenced me to three years’ probation under condition that I first serve six months in the county jail. After release I reported regularly to my probation officer, all through the months that we founded the Black Panther Party and began our work in the community. The probation officer was better than average, really a pretty nice guy, intelligent and fair, and we got along well. Nonetheless, I was relieved when he told me early in October 1967, that my probation would end on October 27 and parole would begin. One of the requirements of parole was that I avoid some parts of Berkeley; in any case, no more reporting. October 27 was going to be a very special day, and my girl friend, LaVerne Williams, and I agreed that we would celebrate the occasion. On the afternoon of October 27, I was scheduled to speak at a forum on “The Future of the Black Liberation Movement,” sponsored by the Black Students Union of San Francisco State College. Requests for speaking engagements had been coming in frequently since the end of the summer. The Sacramento publicity prompted a number of college groups to ask for an explanation of our approach to the problems of Blacks. They were also interested in hearing why we opposed spontaneous rebellions in Black communities and how we viewed the recent riots in Newark and Detroit. Bobby was in jail, and I was filling as many of these requests as possible, even though I am not very good at talking to large groups; nor do I enjoy it. Abstract and theoretical ideas interest me most, but they lack the rhetorical fire to hold audiences. I went to San Francisco State, anyway, because I was eager to increase our contacts with Black college students. Sharing the platform with me that afternoon was Dr. Harry Edwards, the sociology professor from San Jose State College, who was organizing the Olympic boycott by Black athletes.

That session was particularly challenging because it offered the opportunity for a lively discussion with people who disagreed with my ideas. (This was in 1967, just after one of the longest, hottest summers in American history. Student consciousness had never been higher. ) I talked about the necessity for Black people to gain control of the institutions in their own communities, eventually transforming them into cooperatives, and of one day working with other ethnic groups to change the system. When I had finished speaking, an informal dialogue began; almost all the students’ questions and criticisms were directed at the Black Panthers’ willingness to work in coalition with white groups. We maintained this was possible as long as we controlled the programs, but the students were opposed to working with white groups, or, for that matter, almost anyone but Blacks. While this viewpoint was understandable to me, it failed to take into consideration the limitations of our power. We needed allies, and we believed that alliances with young whites—students and workers—were worth the risk.

I pointed out that many young whites had suddenly discovered hypocrisy; their fathers and forefathers had written and talked brotherhood and democracy while practicing greed, imperialism, and racism. While speaking of the rights of mankind and equality for all, of “free enterprise,” the “profit system,” of “individualism,” and “healthy competition,” they had plundered the wealth of the world and enslaved Blacks in the United States. White youths now saw through this hypocrisy and were trying to bring about changes through traditional electoral politics. But reality is impervious to idealism. These youngsters were discovering what Blacks knew in their bones—that the military-industrial complex was practically invincible and had in fact created a police state, which rendered idealism powerless to change anything. This led to disillusionment with their parents and the American power structure. At that point of disillusionment they began to identify with the oppressed people of the world.

When the Black Panthers saw this trend developing, we understood that their dissatisfaction could help our cause. In a few years’ time, almost half of the American population would be composed of young people; if we developed strong and meaningful alliances with white youth, they would support our goals and work against the Establishment.

Everywhere I went in 1967 I was vehemently attacked by Black students for this position; few could present opposing objective evidence to support their criticisms. The reaction was emotional: all white people were devils; they wanted nothing to do with them. I agreed that some white people could act like devils, but we could not blind ourselves to a common humanity. More important was how to control the situation to our advantage. These questions would not be answered overnight, or in a decade, and time and again the students and I went for hours, getting nowhere. We talked right past each other. The racism that dominated their lives had come between us, and rational analysis was the victim. When I left San Francisco that afternoon, I reflected that many of the students who were supposedly learning how to analyze and understand phenomena were in fact caught up in the same predicament as the prisoners in Plato’s cave allegory. Even though they were in college, they were still prisoners in the cave of exploitation and racism that Black people have been subjected to for centuries. Far from preparing them to deal with reality, college kept their intellects in chains. That afternoon I felt even more strongly that the Party would have to develop a program to implement Point 5 of our program, a true education for our people.

When I returned home around 6:30, I had a happy, righteous dinner of mustard greens and corn bread with my family. We discussed the college students and their attitudes and how difficult it had been to get through to them. That was our last meal together as a family for thirty-three months. But I had no premonition of this when I left the house and set out on foot for LaVerne’s. The friends with me at San Francisco State had taken the car after driving me home. On the way, I planned our evening together, and thought about some of the things I might do now that I no longer had to report to my probation officer. At LaVerne’s house, I found to my disappointment that she was ill and did not feel like going out. Although I wanted to stay with her, she insisted that I take her car and celebrate. She knew how much it meant to me that probation was over. By this time it was getting late, close to ten, so I decided to visit a few of my favorite places.

Nothing about my movements that evening was out of the ordinary. I went first to the Bosn’s Locker, the bar where I had started recruiting. Most of the people there were close or casual friends, and I talked, discussing my new freedom and celebrating with a liberation drink, Cuba libre, a rum and Coke. From there I went to a nearby church where a social was in full swing. Every Wednesday night this church held an Afro-history class, and on Friday nights a well-attended social with dancing and punch. I had one more place to go—a party being given by friends on San Pablo Street in Oakland. About 2:00 A.M., when the social was ending, I set out for the party with Gene McKinney, a friend I had known since grammar school. By now it was October 28; I was officially a free man and feeling great. Even though the food was gone by the time we got to San Pablo Street, I did not mind. It was good to mingle with the people and talk about the Black Panthers and answer their questions. We stayed until the very end, 4:00 A.M.

Then Gene McKinney and I headed for Seventh Street, the center of the action for West Oakland. There are a number of bars and soul-food restaurants on the street, a few nightclubs, and at almost any hour you can find something going on. Some of the restaurants serve up barbecue that is really saying something. Gene and I were hungry, and Seventh Street is the place to get righteous soul food.

As I turned into Seventh Street, looking for a parking place, I saw the red light of a police car in my rear-view mirror. I had not realized that I was being trailed by a policeman, and my initial reaction was here we go again, more harassment. But, having been stopped so many times before, I was ready. The police had a list of the licenses on cars Black Panthers frequently used, so we always expected this. I kept my lawbook between the bucket seats, and I knew that once I began to read the law to the “law enforcer” he would have to let me go. I wondered what his excuse would be this time; I had obeyed all the traffic regulations.

I pulled the car over to the curb, and the police officer stopped behind me, remaining in his car for a minute or so. Then he got out and came up to my window. When he got a good look at me, he stuck his head in the window within six inches of my face and said very sarcastically, “Well, well, well, what do we have here? The great, great Huey P. Newton.” I made no reply but merely looked him in the eye. He acted like a fisherman who had just landed a prize catch he had never dreamed of landing. Then he asked for my driver’s license, which I gave to him. “Who does the car belong to?” he asked. I told him, “It belongs to Miss LaVerne Williams,” and showed him the registration. After comparing it with the license, he gave me the license back and went to his car with the registration. While I sat in the car waiting for him to finish, another police officer pulled up behind the first one. This was not unusual, and I attached little significance to it. The second officer walked up to the first officer’s car, and they talked for a moment. Then the second officer came to my window and said, “Mr. Williams, do you have any further identification?” I said, “What do you mean ‘Mr. Williams’? My name is Huey P. Newton, and I have already shown my driver’s license to the first officer.” He just looked at me, nodding his head, and said, “Yes, I know who you are.” I knew they both recognized me, because my picture and name were known to every officer in Oakland, as were Bobby’s and most of the other Black Panthers’.

The first officer then came back to my car, opened the door, and ordered me out, while the second officer walked around to the passenger side and told Gene McKinney to get out. He then walked Gene to the street side of the car. Meanwhile, I picked up my lawbook from between the seats and started to get out. I thought it was my criminal evidence book, which covers laws dealing with reasonable cause for arrest and the search and seizure laws. If necessary, I intended to read the law to this policeman, as I had done so many times in the past. However, I had mistakenly picked up my criminal lawbook, which looks exactly like the other one.

I got out of the car with the book in my right hand and asked the officer if I was under arrest. He said, “No, you’re not under arrest; just lean on the car.” I leaned on the top of the car—a Volkswagen—with both hands on the lawbook while the officer searched me. He did it in a manner intended to be degrading, pulling out my shirttail, running his hand over my body, and then he pat-searched my legs, bringing his hands up into my genital area. He was both disgusting and thorough. All this time the four of us were in the street, the second officer with Gene McKinney; I could not see what they were doing.

The officer then told me to go back to his car because he wanted to talk to me. Taking my left arm in his right hand, he began walking, or rather pushing me toward his car. But when we reached it, he kept going until we had reached the back door of the second police car, where he brought me to an abrupt halt. At this I opened my lawbook and said, “You have no reasonable cause to arrest me.” The officer was to my left, just slightly behind me. As I was opening the book, he snarled, “You can take that book and shove it up your ass, nigger.” With that, he stepped slightly in front of me and brought his left hand up into my face, hooking me with a smear that was not a direct blow, but more like a solid straight-arm. This momentarily dazed me, and I stumbled back four or five feet and went down on one knee, still holding on to my book. As I started to rise, I saw the officer draw his service revolver, point it at me, and fire. My stomach seemed to explode, as if someone had poured a pot of boiling soup all over me, and the world went hazy.

There were some shots, a rapid volley, but I have no idea where they came from. They seemed to be all around me. I vaguely remember being on my hands and knees on the ground, disoriented, with everything spinning. I also had the sensation of being moved or propelled. After that, I remember nothing.