1967

The trial was getting closer and we still hadn’t met Melvin the Great.  It made me nervous. I was anxious to meet Belli in person and size him up. I had done some research and his client list read like a “Who’s Who” of American celebrities. He’d represented my childhood idol, dashing Errol Flynn, who had captured my imagination as Robin Hood, robbing from the rich in Nottingham Forrest to give to the poor. Za Za Gabor, sultry German actress and 1950’s movie screen sex symbol, and even Jack Ruby, the assassin of Bobby Kennedy’s killer, had worked with Belli.

“Look guys, as soon as he returns from Rome, let’s schedule a press conference with Belli and get our case on the map.” Jerry was itching to have at it with the press.

“Sure Jerry,” I said. “Maybe we can bring Tony Curtis on board to push Belli’s movie at the same time. Add a bit more Hollywood glamour to the movement.”

A few weeks later, we stood cockily before Judge Bruin. He glared at us.

“I am issuing an order prohibiting you, your attorneys, your agents and the D.A.’s office, from discussing or disclosing what takes place in my courtroom with the press. Henceforth, and until the conclusion of the trial, if you violate this order you’re going to jail. “

A fucking gag order; So much for free speech in the city of Berkeley.  The D. A. had already roasted us in the press. Delete Maybe the thought of Jerry Rubin, the Barnum and Bailey of the antiwar movement, and Melvin Belli, the world-famous king of torts joining forces in his courtroom was just too much for the uptight judge.

A month later, the Friday morning before the trial began, Jerry, Stu, Steve and I, held a press conference on the courthouse steps, deliberately violating the judge’s order and milking it for all the publicity we could get. We each said a few words into the microphone to be on record. Cops, TV cameras, and attorneys frantically taking notes surrounded us. That was our last blast before the gag choked us off.

The gauntlet thrown down, we headed for the International House of Pancakes to chow on exotic pancakes with all the fixings before we were rounded up and put on the special troublemakers express to holding cells at Santa Rita jail. There, they would slow walk our bail processing and leisurely treat us to dinner. The menu was always the same: Baloney on white bread, without fixings.

We were in a good mood. We had done our best to give the judge a black eye. After we paid the bill, I said to my comrades, “I just want you all to know I’m going underground. I’m not going to make it easy for these clowns. I’m going to have some fun before I get busted. Everyone laughed.

That afternoon, while the rest of the crew was securely locked up in Santa Rita, I was safe and sound in Pam’s cozy little attic apartment on Piedmont, listening to her badass record collection, and smoking a joint.  I had a small stash of high-quality Panama Red hidden close to the toilet bowl for an emergency dump. I made sure the toilet was functioning. I knew too many people who had been busted because of faulty flushing.

Margie had decided not to join me. Playing hide and seek with the police was just a little too nerve-racking for her gentle soul. Her tranquility, however, was shattered in the wee hours of the morning when a dozen cops made a boisterous and over-enthusiastic search of our three-room pad in the notorious Pink Palace. They took their time rummaging around, freaking Margie out, along with all of our dope-smoking neighbors.

I scanned the news that evening. We had a few minutes of TV coverage on the East Bay channel.

“Three out of four of the non-student agitators, who violated the judge’s gag rule were arrested today. The fourth, Mike Smith, recently dismissed from the University of California for anti-war activity, has not yet been apprehended.”

The last story on channel nine, our public broadcasting station, announced the first “Human Be-In,” which would be held at San Francisco’s polo field in Golden Gate Park the next day.

Jerry, along with LSD guru, Timothy Leary, the Diggers, Allen Ginsberg and leaders of various rock bands, planned the get-together as a symbolic wedding of the peace movement: political activists and brothers and sisters in the cultural scene.   The title of the event symbolized the joining of the tribes.” Human,” the young generation’s yearnings for a new life style, and “Be-In” a takeoff of “Sit-In,” the tried and true tactic of the civil rights movement.

Hiding out was getting boring. The Be-In was my solution. The group had decided, at our pre-bust breakfast, to stay in jail until the people raised our bail; an effective way to dramatize the judge’s attack on our rights and to mobilize popular support.

I decided to go in disguise, and interject some realty into the revelry. I’d tell our story, ask the multitudes to support the growing anti-draft movement, and ask for bail money.

I woke up early the next morning raring to go. Over coffee, Pam filled me in on the latest.

“Mike, people were cracking up last night at the Blind Lemon. A whole boat-load of Berkeley’s finest showed up in force around midnight, shining flashlights in people’s faces, looking under tables, and asking people if they knew where you were hiding out. It was a blast. Just like the keystone cops. People were hooting, laughing, shouting, ‘He’s over here!’  ‘He’s up my skirt.’  ‘You’re too late. He’s on his way to Cuba.’”

The press jumped into the fray and pumped up the story.  The morning edition of The Berkeley Gazette had a front-page headline reading, “Wanted Activist”.

I had an affinity for American Indians, so I painted my face with colors mimicking war paint. I put on my fringed buckskin jacket over my bare chest, tied a scarf around my head with a few feathers from Pam’s eclectic collection of doo dads, and donned a colorful Halloween eye mask as the final touch.

Some friends gave me a ride to San Francisco. Thousands and thousands of eager people were already there, stoned, dancing and chanting. I arrived early, hoping to talk my way past the usual security and speak to someone with juice to get on the agenda. Everyone was happy to see me. The poet, Allen Ginsberg, asked me about Jerry, who had been scheduled to speak.

“Allen, unless there’s been a jailbreak, he’s still in Santa Rita.”

The MC, a vivacious and energetic dude hugged me.

“Of course you can say a few words and make a pitch.  Just keep it short and punchy. You can speak after Timothy Leary.”

I dove into the safety of the swaying, gyrating, swirling, butt-wiggling crowd, caught in the throbbing beat of the new music being nurtured in the Fillmore and Avalon ballrooms. New, local bands, like the Grateful Dead, Quicksilver Messenger, Jefferson Airplane and Big Brother and the Holding Company, were creating these magical sounds. Their tantalizing, trippy lyrics and entrancing melodies would give birth to Acid Rock.

I looked around. Could this be the beginning of a new world? The Hells Angels, who broke our bones two years before when they attacked the Vietnam Day Committee’s peace march, were rounding up and babysitting lost children.

From time to time, the music stopped, people stopped dancing, and joined in chanting Buddhist mantras. Poets like Allen Ginsberg led the crowd in gentle, harmonious, hypnotic chants. “Peace in Berkeley.” “Peace in Vietnam.”  “Peace in San Francisco.”

Stanley Osley, the San Francisco street chemist who discovered how to crystallize acid and make it available for the masses, wandered through the crowd with his disciples handing out colorful paper tabs in defiance of the California law,  passed three months earlier, criminalizing LSD.  This was giving the Sacramento know-nothing crowd the middle finger.

I was tempted for a moment to take just a lick or two of a magic tab. Enough to get a burst of psychedelic energy, a shower of rainbow colors, a shimmering of sensual hallucinations and a jolt of spirituality before I ended up behind bars again.

Thank God a voice inside warned me to be careful. I flashed back to my acid trip in a Berkeley courtroom two years before; an iron vice gripping my arm, a bloodthirsty buzzard cawing my name. I shook my head. Christ, I thought, sometimes I’m crazy. I’m a wanted activist. The cops are on my tail. I may soon end up in jail: Definitely a bad trip.

“No thanks. I’ll take a rain check.” I hugged the stoned sister with the acid in her outstretched hand.

I looked around. Bangles, beads, feathers, flags, noisemakers, tambourines, peace symbols and incense mixed together in a kaleidoscope of colors, shapes and sounds.  Weed drifted in the air; smoked cautiously, in half -assed, semi-secret fashion behind and under blankets or robes, and boldly, in the open, fears and inhibitions conquered by our numbers.

For some reason the cops were nowhere in the swarms of people, content to watch in relatively small numbers on the outskirts of the park. The ever-present, covert plain-clothes cops and clandestine undercover agents still lurked in the shadows watching, but not acting. Maybe the scene blew the cops’ minds. This scene wasn’t in their playbook, so they seemed to be sitting the day out.

The crowd grew by the minute. A mix of cultures of all colors, sizes and shapes. Curious bystanders, young and old, black and brown, grandpas and grandmas, young families with kids, straight looking crew cut guys, hicks with Jackie Kennedy hairdos straight from the suburbs, and bare-assed, bare-breasted hippies all mixed together.

I was getting down with the rhythms of Santana, a new group straight out of the Mission district, when the MC announced between songs,“ Get ready, folks. Timothy Leary, the guru of LSD is going to be the speaker after this set.”

I was scheduled to speak after Leary, so I hightailed it to the stage in time to hear Leary’s now-famous words that became the symbol of 1960’s cultural rebellion. He paused to look around, a twinkle in his eye and made history with six words: …”turn on, tune in, drop out.” The crowd roared. They got the message. So did I. I could dig “turn on” and “tune in,” but what does “drop out” mean to an organizer. We had a war to end. We needed everybody to join the fight.

The throngs were fired up. I decided to keep it short. The MC introduced me. “We have a brother from the Berkeley Peace Movement who needs our help for some brothers in jail.”

“My name is Mike Smith. I’m a wanted a peace warrior. I’m tired of our troops dying in an unjust, illegal, immoral war.” I gave out a war hoop. The crowd roared its approval. “Some of us were arrested in Berkeley, last fall, for taking on the draft. We need your help. My brothers Jerry Rubin, Steve Hamilton and Stu Alpert are in jail right this moment for violating the Judge’s gag rule prohibiting us from talking about our trial to the press. We need money for our bail. We need you to join us in the fight to stop the killing in Vietnam. “ Once again, the crowd went wild.

A voice behind me said, “Mike. I’m not in jail I’m right behind you.” I turned around. There stood Jerry Rubin for a moment grinning at me like a Cheshire cat. Then he got down to business.“ Mike, I appreciate your hutzpah, but you have to turn yourself in. All the press is talking about is your sorry ass.”

“Okay, Jerry. I promise to turn myself in. Just give me one more night and I’ll show up on the Berkeley cops’ front porch bright and early tomorrow morning, if they don’t bust me today.”

Believe or not, they didn’t. I was smuggled out of the park with a Moroccan robe covering me head to toe, lost among the exiting crowd.

The next morning, I walked into the police station. I was amazed the desk sergeant didn’t recognize me. I said,” I’m here to talk to the officer of the day. It’s really important”. He shook his head and said, “Follow me, he’s just finishing the morning report to the guys”. He took me through some locked doors and into a large room full of cops listening to a police lieutenant finishing his briefing.

“Men, we have to bust that asshole, Smith. It’s getting to be an embarrassing situation for us. I want him behind bars today.”

“Officer,” I said, with a shit-eating grin, “You don’t have to look too far. Here I am: all yours for the taking. He looked stunned. The party was over.

A half an hour later, I landed in a Berkeley cell. Luckily, bail had been raised. I missed out on the Santa Rita ritual of having to strip and be sprayed with pesticides to kill any critters lingering in my armpits or crotch.

I rushed back to catch Margie before her first class.

1967

School was out at Berkwood. No more sleepy-eyed kids to greet at seven in the morning. Margie had taken the letter from Leslie as a big deal. Fed up with my antics, she declared a time out from our relationship, dropped out for the semester and went back to Ojai with her parents to think things out. We gave up our treasured pink palace apartment overlooking Telegraph Avenue. Everything was up in the air. Part of me panicked. Part of me relished the freedom.

A few weeks later, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. I hitchhiked from a Peace and Freedom party convention in Santa Barbara to her house in Ojai to patch things up. Her parents were cold. She was distant. We had separate rooms. I convinced her to sleep in the apple orchard with me, hoping to rekindle the fires of love. We didn’t.

I grabbed my funky Montgomery Ward sleeping bag with grizzly bears printed on the inside, my army-issue duffle bag and headed out the door, dressed in my finest movement version of hippie attire.

I wore my trusty blue denim shirt, blue jeans and scruffy cowboy boots. For flare, I replaced my worn-out World War II brown leather bomber jacket with a treasure Margie had found in a second hand store: an antique, yellowed buckskin jacket with fringe fit for wild Bill Hickok. I perched my battered straw Mississippi freedom hat on my head. It had been a gift from my jailhouse buddy, Ben Brown. It was adorned with the iconic SNCC button with its clasped black and white hands and a United Farm Workers button with Mexican Revolution hero, Pancho Villa, sporting a ten-gallon hat and crossed bandoliers. I wore a necklace I’d made on my last trip to the beach with Margie: a leather throng with shiny blue-green abalone shards and exquisite, tiny seashells. A “Free Huey” button, the Black Panther leader sitting in a chair, holding a rifle, was its centerpiece. My final touch was a leather belt with silver conchos.  A worn scabbard hung on my hip holding a hunting knife. I wasn’t exactly subtle.

As the sun rose, I stood on the freeway, my thumb out, waving a cardboard “Big Sur” sign.

By noon, I was crossing private land on a faint trail headed for my secret beach; a hidden paradise with a bubbling stream and a waterfall, tons of driftwood for fires or sculptures, and a dugout to sleep in, which we had built on our last trip there.

In a flash, I was naked smoking a joint and mesmerized by the power and beauty of my mighty mistress, the Pacific. I went into a trance, lost in the sun’s golden rays bouncing off of the emerald-green, pulsing waves that exploded into sparkling rainbows of colors. Lulled by sea birds dancing minuets across the shimmering blue sky, I relaxed and let Mother Earth wrap her sensuous arms around me. I drifted off to sleep in a cloud of collective consciousness, memories and longings.

I awoke at sunset, salty, sandy and sunburned, dreams lingering. Images, swirled with fragments of voices: “Sweetie, politics give me a headache. I’m scared your gonna’ get hurt. Can’t you quit?” Margie, the gentle deer woman, with a hurt look on her face, melted into Leslie, my elegant, intellectual enchantress, her eyes possessing me. She seemed enraptured with my bittersweet life. “Michael, I so admire your passion, your love of the people your ability to channel your pain and anger into to action.” I shook my head to clear my thoughts. It was time to look for some warm company.

I headed for Nepenthe, the happening restaurant and bar, perched on a bluff that stretched out over the Pacific. It was a cross between a moneymaking tourist trap and a hippie hangout that had good vibes. It also had, spacious grounds with plenty of bushes and trees to get high behind, spectacular views of the ocean, and a primo juke box loaded with ass-kicking tunes, from old 50s hits to the best of Motown and the latest Beatles. The management was hang lose. You could start at noon, nurse a beer and close the place down. It was definitely the place to meet my kind of folks.

My waitress, attractive in a rawboned, horsey way, with a wide mouth, square jaw, almond-shaped inquisitive, liquid brown eyes, high cheekbones and a nose a shade too big gave me a warm smile and said, “My name is Wanda. What can I do for you?”

I liked her long, sun-bleached and sandy mane, but kept my thoughts to myself.

“My name is Mike. I have a bad case of the munchies. How about a hamburger and French fries?”

Her eyes took me in. “That’s some outfit. Where you from?”

“I’m on rest and recreation. I just got a 60-day sentence for an anti-draft bust in Berkeley.  I need to mellow out.”

“Right on. I hate the fucking war. My kid brother just got drafted.”

“Have you ever been to the Esalen Hot Springs?” she asked, later that night, just before closing. “Some of us are going down after work. You want to come along? We get in free, no hassles, because we know the folks that work there.”

In the old days, when Henry Miller and the beats hung out in Big Sur, the hot pools were nature’s gift to everyone. Now it was a hip scene for rich liberals. A touchy-feely place: nude gatherings, a splash of free love. Wandering hippies were not welcome.

A little after two in the morning, five of us packed into a beat up, green Volkswagen and whizzed past the gate guard who recognized the car. As we pulled up to a large stucco building with lots of windows, I could hear Aretha Franklin blasting out her latest hit, “Respect.” My hips started moving. I was up to get down on some Motown sounds.

The room was crowded with happy folks dancing and carrying on. All ages, all shapes, a mix of staff made up of trim young dudes and delicious, longhaired beauties and an assortment of older paying guests. l just couldn’t hold back. The beat ran up and down my spine. I jumped in and joined the swinging and wiggling butts on the dance floor. My style, sharpened by months hanging out in Mississippi juke joints, stood out and I was soon dancing in and out and around a couple of sensuous women.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. Caught up in the music I just ignored it. A more insistent tap and I turned around. A guy with a smile said, “Sorry to interrupt your fun, brother, we got to talk.”

“Hey man. What’s up?”

“I don’t think you belong in here. You’re not a guest and you don’t work here.”

“Look man, I’m with Wanda. She invited me.” He looked over at Wanda who was watching the scene come down. She smiled at him and yelled, “Tony he’s okay. He’s my friend. He’s with me.”

My adrenaline was running. I asked the dude, “Where’s the bar? I need a drink”

“In the next room, brother. I’m sorry I had to hassle you, but that’s my job.”

I hit the bar just as Aretha Franklin finished her last number. A surly looking dude, a cross between a biker and a hippie, with a street-hardened face and jailhouse muscles was pouring drinks and playing the music, “Give me a double whiskey and can you play Aretha again.” He looked me over and shook his head. “Hey man, how in the hell did you get in here?”

Fuck this, I thought. “I’ve already been checked out once, so lighten up and pour me a drink.”

His jaw tightened.

“That’s it, buddy. You’re eighty-sixed.” He rushed around the bar grabbed my arm. “Out of here.”

“Cool down man. Get your fucking hands off me. Check it out before you do something stupid.”

He turned red in the face and yanked my arm roughly. His mistake. My left hook knocked him on his ass. All of a sudden, the dancing, peace-loving people turned into a lynch mob. Screams drowned out the music. “He hit the bartender!” “Get him!” “Get him out of here!” People were all over me, both the guests and the hired hands, like chickens seeing blood and pecking some poor bird to death. Outnumbered, I decided discretion was the better part of valor. No more left hooks or combinations.

But if they were going to throw me out, they were going to have to drag me out. The whole place was a bedlam.

“This is bull shit,” I yelled. “What we get for free, you’re paying for. What happened to all your love? I’m a freedom fighter. The real revolution isn’t happening here. It’s happening in the streets.” That just pissed them off more. I was spoiling their party.

As they pulled me towards the door my fist shot in the air and I shouted, “Free Huey.” A punch hit me in the eye. Someone grabbed my free arm and wrenched it behind my back. Pain shot through my shoulder. A boot smashed down on my instep.

I heard Wanda’s voice screaming, ” Are you guys crazy? Leave the poor guy alone. He’s with me.”

It was at least 100 yards up the hill. I felt like Christ carrying the cross. I wasn’t going to go down. I wasn’t going to give up. They were going to have to earn their silver pieces.

One of the kinder stooges said, “Bill, let’s not hurt this guy. He’s one of us”.

Shit, I thought. Bill. That’s Pam’s friend. Pam, who aided and abetted me when I was Berkeley’s most wanted radical, had filled me in about her on-again-off-again boyfriend, who worked there, just before I left. “Mike, look him up. He knows his way around Big Sur.” I had hoped to bump into him and maybe work my way in.

Luck of the Irish, I thought.

“Bill, I know your girlfriend, Pam. Calm your buddies down.”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, ass hole.” He punched me in the ribs.

A little while later, I found myself in Wanda’s nest, a one room cabin snuggled in the pines. With a fire going, candles burning and Ravi Shankar’s gentle tones playing, two naked bodies linked in a soothing embrace. My wounds were licked with love. We blended gently. I sunk into her sweet-smelling honeypot, and we exploded together, a celebration of love and caring. We fell asleep two strangers linked by our shared dreams, touching briefly in the tapestry of life.

Wanda woke me up the next morning coming back from the store with breakfast.

“Mike you sure shook this little town up. The word’s out about last night’s Battle of Esalen. The community is buzzing. You’re either a wounded peace warrior or an aggressive troublemaker. Depends on who you talk to.”

We ate, talked about the night and a bit about ourselves. It turned out she was a UCLA drop-out, an art major, following in the footsteps of generations of artists, seeking serenity and creative stimulation in the rugged beauty of Big Sur. With a little prodding she opened up and shared her work. I was struck by her vivid surrealistic paintings, which had a touch of my favorite painter, Vincent Van Gogh.

We sat on her bed and watched a deer and two fawns quench their thirst in a fern-lined, rippling creek. Our eyes met. Our bodies followed.

Later, we headed for Nepenthe.  I decided to head for home. Wanda asked around to see if anyone was headed for Berkeley.

There was no secret about who I was. Besides my garish get up, I sported a black eye and I had a slight limp where the foot had ground into my instep.

Gradually, people came over to the table with comments like, “Brother, what a bum deal. They shouldn’t have done you like that”. “Keep on trucking. We’re with you.” Maybe they were all Wanda’s friends trying to make me feel better. I felt a deep sense of community, and fought back tears.

Wanda, God bless her, found me a ride. We hugged. Two strangers: suddenly brother and sister, lovers who touched each other’s souls and then moved on.

I didn’t have a permanent pad in Berkeley. Since Margie and I had separated, I’d been moving around with my sleeping bag from couch to couch. I ended up staying at Percy’s house. He was an energetic, fast-talking black guy, who always had good pot, never missed a demonstration, had the best Motown collection in Berkeley and threw parties at the drop of the hat.

I felt a burning need to tell the story of my Esalen experience. I sat down to write an account of two communities clashing, of conflicting ideals and of pain and love. I sent my ramblings to Max Baer, the publisher of the Berkeley Barb. He said he’d think it over.

The next morning, thoughts of Esalen had vanished.  A story in the back pages of the San Francisco Chronicle broke my heart. “Ben Brown a 19-year-old civil rights worker, had been killed by the Jackson police the day before, during a demonstration. Grief overwhelmed me. Anger exploded in my brain. “No. No!” I burst into sobs. “Not Ben.’’

A few hours later, a poem poured out of me.

The Berkley Barb published my poem, “Who was Ben Brown?”

October 1967

A week before Stop the Draft Week, we decided to take a dry run. It wasn’t going to be spring training. We weren’t preparing for Cal football team’s opening game. We planned to stop the buses loaded with draftees headed for the Oakland induction center. We were putting our bodies on the line to shut off the pipeline feeding our brothers into the jungles of Vietnam.

We spread the word among our supporters and recruited monitors to attend a practice session at Jefferson Park, where charter buses would drop thousands of protestors off before dawn on D-Day, October 17.

That night, we held a post scrimmage review of the day’s adventures. We were winding up our discussion when Lisa asked, “Anything unusual happen today?

” Yeah, I think we have a police spy in our ranks,” Steve said. “This guy is just too much, too goody-goody, too kiss-assy. Everything is, “Yes, Sir. No, Sir. He’s always the first to volunteer. He’s always by my side. It just doesn’t feel right.”

Everybody jumped in with opinions. I respected Steve. We usually agreed on things, but I had a problem with purging people because they didn’t fit in.

“Steve, where is this guy from?”

“Walnut Creek. He’s a student in junior college.”

“Well, what do you expect? If we’re reaching out to blue-collar communities outside of Berkeley, where working-class kids don’t have deferments and are the cannon fodder for LBJ’s war, we’re going to run across people that don’t fit in.”

“This guy just gives me a bad feeling.”

We weren’t naive. We suspected we had infiltrators, but our commitment to participatory democracy and organizing trumped our concerns for security. After further discussion, I carried the day.

The day before the demonstration, I got up early to get the soundtrack ready. Running the sound truck was my specialty. was my specialty. Big, bold signs, lots of popular music and very few announcements were my style of getting the word out. Emotional, punching messages set my tone. People got pissed off listening to long-winded speeches.

I’d been driving with a suspended license since high school, but I didn’t want to take a chance on getting busted that day. I asked one of the eager-beaver new guys to be my chauffeur, the same guy Steve thought was a spy. I decided to put my money where my mouth was and take a chance.

Everywhere we were greeted with V-signs and fists pumping in the air, smiles from business types and hand-waving old ladies A few construction workers yelled “right on” while others flipped us the bird. This was Berkeley not Walnut Creek, but I felt something special was coming down. I could feel the vibes.

My driver wasn’t much on conversation, but he did ask a lot of questions. Finally, I said, “Say, man, relax. Just listen to the music.”

We’d been driving around for most of the day when I realized it was getting late and I had to pick up my hero, Don Duncan, at the airport. Don was a decorated Special Forces veteran and would be the featured speaker at our rally that night in Provo Park, next to Berkeley High School.

“Thanks for driving,” I said. “You’ve been really helpful. I have a suspended license, so I couldn’t take a chance driving, at least not in a sound truck.” His face lit up.

A few minutes later, he said, “Mike, I gotta’ hit the head. Can we stop at that gas station over there? ”

“Yeah, I don’t want you to piss your pants.”

We pulled into a parking space half a block from the station, and the newbie jumped out, running. I decided to stretch my legs and followed him. He ran right past the restroom to the nearest payphone.

I abandoned the car and headed down the block towards the safety of the campus. Suddenly, three Berkeley cop cars appeared out of nowhere. One car pulled alongside me. The cop on the passenger side rolled down his window.

“Hey, Mike.”

They all knew me by name.

“Come on over here. We need to talk to you about something.”

I knew my rights.

“I don’t have anything to talk with you about unless you have a warrant.”

The other cop jumped out of the driver’s side and headed towards me.

“Forget it.” His buddy said, “We didn’t catch him driving. It’s not worth hassling with his lawyers. We’ll have plenty of chances to nail him. He’s a loudmouth troublemaker.

I owed Steve an apology, and we had a big problem to deal with before the next day’s demonstration.