Free Panther Baby by Jamal Joseph Page B

Eddie Joseph, also known as Jamal Baltimore, is charged with conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to commit arson, and attempted murder. How do you plead?”
    “What?” was all my confused brain and shocked mouth could blurt out.
    “ Th e defendant pleads not guilty,” Kunstler said.
    “Bail is set in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars,” the judge said.
    “What?” I repeated. Th e number staggered me. Noonie and I had never even seen a thousand dollars.
    “Judge, this is the defendant’s first arrest. He is an honor student, has strong ties in the community, and is barely sixteen. He should not be charged as an adult . . .”
    Th e judge cut Kunstler off: “Bail is one hundred thousand dollars. Remand the defendant.”
    “Power to the people, Brother Jamal!” someone shouted as I was led from the courtroom. I reflexively raised my first in the black-power salute and shouted, “Power!” Th e supporters began applauding. I caught a glimpse of Noonie in the third row, looking very sad. “Noonie,” I called out, “Ma!” But my voice was drowned out by the clapping, revolutionary slogans, and the judge banging his gavel for order. Noonie waved back as two burly court guards escorted me from the courtroom.
    Th e court guards placed me in a small holding cell. I had expected to be reunited with the other Panthers, but the guards had other plans. A few minutes later the guards put Katara in the cell with me. “What’s happening? Why aren’t we with the other Panthers?” we demanded of the guards. Th e guards ignored us except for a black guard who eventually informed us that because we were under twenty-one we were being taken to Rikers Island.
    A few hours later a contingent of guards and cops shackled us and led us to a paddy wagon. It was built low and wide like an armored car. Th e prisoner compartment was like a tomb: metal benches along the wall for seating, tiny barred slits for windows. Th e paddy wagon pulled off, escorted by two police cars. Th ere were no seat belts and every time we hit a bump, Katara and I would bounce around like jumping beans, sometimes banging our heads on the ceiling or winding up on the floor. Since we were shackled we would have to roll and shimmy around the paddy wagon in order to get back to the bench.
    It was around midnight when we got to Rikers. A team of guards took us from the van to holding cells. Katara and I were strip-searched and led to isolation cells, also known as the hole or the bing in different cell blocks. My cell was cramped and dirty, with a paper-thin mattress on a metal slab passing for a bed. My only bedding was a coarse gray blanket. Mice darted around the floor looking for food like shoppers at a mall. When I stomped and yelled, they would dart into holes in the concrete, and then reappear moments later. Th is was obviously their jail and I was the visitor.
    Fighting my fear, fists clenched, I stared at the single lightbulb hanging in its metal enclosure. “I’m a Panther,” I repeated aloud. “Pigs can’t break me.” Th en I recited the Ten-Point Program. “We want freedom. We want the power to determine the destiny of our black community.” Th e guards turned the cell light out. I started thinking about Noonie, wondering if she was okay. Th en I pretended I was in the bunk at Camp Minisink, which finally relaxed me enough to fall asleep.

6
    To the Belly of the Beast
    E ven though it was a city jail, as opposed to a state or federal prison, Rikers Island, or “the Rock,” as it was known by inmates and guards, was a hard place to do time. Part penitentiary, part gladiator school. A person doing time on the Rock quickly found out that you had to be strong to survive.
    Th e next morning the guard opened my cell and a young black prisoner handed me a breakfast tray. Watery powdered milk, a box of generic corn flakes, four slices of white bread, and a cup of coffee that tasted like brown dishwater. Later the guard let me out of my