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  “What should we say?”

  “Just tell them exactly what happened.”

  Sally agreed.

  I put on a nice dress with low heels for the appointment, applied some lipstick, and walked to Sproul Hall, where Dean McGruder’s office was.

  “Come in, Miss Johnson,” he said, smiling.

  “Thank you,” I said, and walked into a nice office decorated with Cal banners. He motioned to a well-upholstered chair. I sat down in it. I peered into a round-faced individual without distinction.

  “Tell me what happened on the night of September 15,” he said. “Ed Morales was driving me and Sally Zimmerman around the campus on our twenty-first birthdays so we could celebrate. On the way home, we encountered a road block by the Peter, Paul, and Mary concert. Ed got out of the car to remove two of the metal poles that were blocking the road, so he could take us home. When he got back in the car, six Berkeley policemen came up and asked him for his driver’s license. He showed it to them. They asked him to get out of the car; he refused, because they had no right to ask him to do so. The next thing I knew, they were piled on top of him, beating him…”

  “Just a minute, young lady,” said the dean.

  I stopped midsentence.

  “Do you realize what you just said?”

  “You asked me to tell you what happened.”

  “That’s perjury.”

  “What’s perjury?”

  “You can go to jail for it. It’s your word against six Berkeley policemen.”

  “You asked me what happened.”

  “Are you sure that’s all that happened?”

  “Do you want me to analyze every detail? They beat him black and blue!”

  “Just think about what you say before you go before the court.”

  “What court?”

  “Ed Morales is on trial for resisting arrest. There will be a trial with a few of the deans and perhaps the President of Berkeley, Clark Kerr.”

  I must have looked dumbfounded, because he showed me the door and I was soon standing in the brilliant sunshine in Berkeley’s spacious open space, next to Sather Gate, Dwinelle Plaza. The contrast of the threats in his dark office left my head spinning. I had to talk to Sally. Ed had been brutally beaten before our eyes. We had to defend him.

  I ran the ten blocks to my studio apartment and waited for Sally to arrive. She and her boyfriend Jerry often spent time out of town, so I hoped she’d get home soon.

  While waiting, I saw Albert Curtis walk up to his studio, so I stuck my head out and said hello. Albert was tall and slender, with a somewhat beaked nose. He was Berkeley’s first Black English professor.

  He waved. “Do you want to come up later? I’m showing some experimental films to a couple of friends.”

  “I’d love to!”

  I was thrilled Albert had invited me. Experimental films? I’d never seen any, so my curiosity was piqued, plus Albert looked so handsome and dapper in his Brooks Brothers jacket and slacks. Just then, Sally and Jerry walked by.

  “Sally!”

  “Hi!”

  “Have you talked to Dean McGruder yet?”

  She shook her head. “My appointment’s tomorrow.”

  “Make sure you stick to the truth when he tries to rattle you.”

  “Rattle me?”

  “Yeah, he accused me of perjury, whatever that is, if I told the truth.”

  Jerry grimaced at me and pretty much shoved Sally into his apartment. I’d never liked Jerry. I found him unsocial and wondered why Sally put up with his rude behavior. She was shy and unprepossessing, not a beauty like my other friends from the sorority, but nicer. Too nice for her own good, it turned out.

  “We’ll see you later.”

  “Fine.”

  I decided to go watch experimental films at Albert’s. As clips of an octopus eating a glass rolled before my eyes, along with a scene from the Holocaust – fictional, I assumed – of German soldiers eating sausage, slobbering, and chomping their jaws in front of famished Jewish captives, my mind began to reel.

  They finished eating, let the Jews run into the forest, and took off after them, belching and laughing.

  “Did that really happen?”

  “Everything happened in the Holocaust. The Nazis were infamous for their cruelty,” said Albert.

  I’d read about the Holocaust, but not enough to know about the endless atrocities. After seeing Ed get beaten for removing a metal post from the road, my faith in humanity took a stumble.

  “Why do people do such hateful things?”

  “No one really knows, but it’s usually because they themselves have been hurt or because they’re afraid,” said Albert.

  “But no one had hurt the Germans. What did they have to fear?”

  “They didn’t come out of World War I unscathed… And then, Hitler rose to power… on anti-Semitism. It was uncanny, but it worked. He bullied the Germans into submission. He said he’d make Germany great again, and they believed him.”

  “But that was before World War II.” I gave him a guileless smile. "Why didn’t they stand up to him?

  “How could a tiny little man with a silly mustache be so… so scary? There’s got to be a psychological reason. What would Freud say?”

  Albert could see I was not terribly hip to world history, and psychology wasn’t his field. He changed his tack. “Many of them regretted it later. Most of them claimed they had no choice.”

  “Especially after they lost the war.”

  “Especially,” said Albert with a wry smile.

  We were starting to become good friends. I told him about my encounter with Dean McGruder, as well as the threat of perjury and jail. He advised me to stick to the truth.

  “I always tell the truth.”

  He smiled at me in approbation. Maybe he thought I was nice. Nice was my specialty, unless someone put their hand on my knee.

  The next day dawned bright and clear. I received another telegram telling me to be at Sproul Hall at four o’clock the next afternoon. I wondered about Sally.

  I dressed in a conservative shirt dress, popular in 1963, and low heels to impress the jury favorably. After a quick brush of my long dark blonde hair and a dab of lipstick, I headed for Sproul Hall, which was only a few blocks from Sally’s and my studio apartment.

  I loved walking along Telegraph Avenue and passing through Sather Gate, Berkeley’s famed campus entrance of wrought-iron artistry. How many times had I passed under it carrying a couple of books and laughing with friends? No one wore backpacks. We just carried our books in our arms.

  This time, I looked skyward as I passed under the famed archway and hoped for the best. I walked up the marble stairs to stately Sproul Hall and found the room where the trial would take place. Dean McGruder and other stern-looking men were already there. He motioned for me to sit down. I took a seat and waited.

  The men looked at their watches. It was time to begin, but Sally hadn’t arrived yet. They started without her. They ushered me into a rectangular room with about seven men seated around a mahogany oval table and Ed seated next to Dean McGruder. We exchanged looks; I nodded. I’d never been in a courtroom before, but there was no judge or jury, not even a secretary to take notes. It seemed rigged.

  There was no formal swearing in; they simply started questioning me immediately.

  “What were you doing at 12:30 a.m. on September 15, Miss Johnson?”

  “I was driving across campus with Sally Zimmerman and Ed Morales, our driver.”

  “What happened at 12:30 a.m., Miss Johnson? Innocence Ann Johnson, correct?”

  “That’s correct.” I smiled at him and started to tell the story.

  “The road was blocked with metal posts. We couldn’t get through, so Ed got out of the car and removed two of them so he could take us home. When he got back in the car, several policemen approached us and asked for his driver’s license, which he showed them. They asked him to get out of the car, which he said he didn’t have to do
under constitutional law. Then, they pulled him out and beat him…”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying?” asked Dean McGruder.

  “Yes, I’m aware of what I’m saying.”

  “Had you been drinking?”

  “Sally and I were celebrating my birthday, but Ed had had nothing to drink!”

  “Answer the question.”

  I stared at the older man in a rumpled tweed suit. “We’d had a few drinks. He tried to fight them off, but there were six of them, so it was six to one.”

  “That will be enough, Miss Johnson.”

  “We ran to the kiosk…”

  “So, you were absent during part of the event.”

  “We…”

  “You may go now. Thank you for your testimony.”

  I looked at them. “I haven’t told the entire story,” I protested.

  “That’s quite enough, Miss Johnson. You may go. Innocence, indeed!”

  Anger coursed through my veins like molten lava. I had no idea what to do. I left the room, chagrined. I felt I hadn’t defended Ed well enough, although I’d done my best.

  I passed Sally, white-faced, as I left.

  “What happened?” She looked terrified.

  “They just asked me what happened.”

  “Did you tell them?”

  “Yes. Now it’s your turn.”

  “I’m so nervous, Inny,” she stammered. She slumped against me and grabbed my arm.

  I steadied her and hissed, “Just tell the truth, Sally!”

  She went in and I waited in the hallway. A few minutes later, she staggered out, white as a sheet.

  “How did it go?”

  “I tried to tell the story, but I got mixed up.”

  “About what?”

  “About when we were in the kiosk and why the police started beating Ed.”

  “What?” I had a sinking feeling that Sally had screwed up.

  “Well, that dean threatened us with perjury and I was scared.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Sally, they beat Ed brutally right before our eyes!”

  “Yes, but I was a bit drunk…”

  I knew Ed was in trouble. Sally had gotten the facts mixed up plus it wasn’t a fair trial. They hadn’t let me finish testifying and there was no one to take notes.

  “I have to meet Jerry now. He wants me to take a flying lesson.”

  I knew Jerry was trying to make Sally learn to fly, to conquer her greatest fear: her fear of flying. I shook my head in dismay. Sally ran to meet her tormenter.

  I waited for the court to decide Ed’s fate. He came out about ten minutes later with an ashen face and downcast eyes. He’d been expelled from Cal Berkeley in his senior year.

  "What are you going to do? I asked, panicked. I couldn’t believe this had transpired. And, it was partially Sally’s and my fault for asking him to drive us, though we hadn’t encouraged him to remove the roadblock. Still, he was beaten black and blue by six Berkeley policemen, a police force with a reputation for violence.

  Janey came around the corner, her lovely oval face and shimmering blonde hair catching everyone’s eye.

  “Ed’s been expelled!” I told her.

  We sat down on a bench. Ed and Janey hugged for a long time.

  “I told them the straight truth.”

  “Your story was fine. Sally wobbled all over the place; she didn’t tell it straight.”

  “Sally always screws up,” I said, shaking my head. “She has no confidence in herself.” I put my hand on Ed’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I feel like it’s partly my fault.”

  Ed shook his head. “You did fine. I’ll try to make an appeal.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “I hope they reconsider your case. I’ll be willing to testify anytime you need me to.”

  Ed smiled through his pain. “Thanks, Inny. Let’s just make sure Sally tells it straight.”

  “I’ll grill her next time!”

  Since Ed couldn’t afford an attorney, the appeal disappeared like so many foggy, alcohol-soaked Berkeley nights. He finished his college degree at a university in Florida, far from Berkeley and Janey.

  I didn’t know how to help him, though I made an appointment with Chancellor Glenn Seaborg to set the story straight. A towering figure of a man tut-tutted me after I told him what had happened.

  “Surely you’re mistaken, young lady.” He showed me the door in less than five minutes.

  I left in confusion, wondering why he hadn’t taken me seriously. It never occurred to me that the University’s reputation might come ahead of a silly girl’s story about police brutality on the sacred Berkeley campus. My studies and blossoming friendship with Albert Curtis kept my mind absorbed. I had been ignored before, for unknown reasons, and had yet to develop a sense of outrage over such acts. I wanted to help Ed, but I didn’t know how. He seemed to be taking this unfair turn of events in stride.

  I walked into my cozy little studio apartment and put my books down on the kitchen table. It was actually part of the living room, which had room for a double bed. I sat down and paged through my behavioral psychology textbook when I heard a ruckus next door at Sally and Jerry’s apartment. He pushed her outside and wouldn’t let her back in. I opened my door to find her sobbing like a lost puppy on her master’s doorstep.

  “Sally! What happened?”

  “Jerry… Jerry gets upset with me sometimes,” she faltered, sobbing.

  “And locks you out in the cold hallway, crying your eyes out?” I was shocked. I helped her stand up and led her into the studio we supposedly shared.

  “Could I spend the night with you here tonight?”

  “Yes, of course! But I think you need to stand up to Jerry!”

  “I’m afraid to.”

  I put my arm around her shoulders. “Sally, he’s not for you. Let’s face it.” I looked deep into her eyes. She looked at me and then averted her face with a look full of shame.

  “Why don’t you come to the Monkey Inn with me tonight? All our friends will be there! We can have some beer and some fun!”

  “Jerry doesn’t like me to go to bars.”

  “Well, isn’t that too bad? He pushes you into the cold hallway and wants to make you suffer. No friend of mine is going to be humiliated like that! Come on!”

  Sally dried her eyes and tried to smile though her tears. Her bangs got in the way, so she pushed them aside. “I can’t go. I look awful.”

  I brushed her bangs aside. “Sally, just comb your hair and you’ll look fine. There’s nothing wrong with the way you look.”

  Sally shook her head. No one could convince her she looked okay. I took her into my studio… our studio, considering she paid half the rent. I suggested she take a shower and change clothes. I couldn’t understand why she allowed Jerry to treat her badly. My father always treated my mother like a queen. I’d never seen anyone accept such demeaning behavior.

  Once she was refreshed from her shower and dressed, I fixed her some tea. We sat down at the kitchen table to drink our tea. I delved into her relationship with Jerry. “Sally, no one should have to spend the night in a hallway. Why does he do that to you?”

  “He says he’s important, and that I’m lucky to have him. I know I’m not very pretty…”

  “Every woman has her own special beauty.” I took a sip of tea and looked at her with encouragement.

  Her eyes opened wide. “Not me!”

  “Do you mean to say that, because you’re not Marilyn Monroe, you have to accept horrible treatment? What else does he do to you?”

  Sally cleared her throat. “When he had a job as an engineer in India, he used to make me fly with him in a private plane. I almost got sick.”

  I remembered flying from Berkeley to Los Angeles with Sally. She clenched her hands the entire way and hid her head in her plaid skirt. She was waiting for the plane to crash. I laughed and tried to get her to shape up, but to no avail. She had a fear of flying; a terrified phobic reaction. Psych major that I was, I cou
ld see she was afraid of dying… a phobic fear. She needed to see a therapist. That Jerry would take pleasure in her terror made him a sadist.

  “You’ve got to ditch Jerry!” I said.

  “But who else will have me?”

  “Who cares? Why do you need someone else? I’ll be your friend forever!”

  “I need someone to…”

  “No, you need to get a good job!”

  “I’m afraid of typing. I’m not pretty like you and Mary Jane…”

  “Jesus, Sally! You’re just right. You need some self-confidence.”

  She started to cry again. I put my arm gently on hers and tried to solace her. “Just get a good night’s sleep and think about disentangling yourself from Jerry. I think you should tell your parents.”

  “They’re divorced. They don’t love me.”

  I guided her toward my double bed. “You just think they don’t. Mine were virgins when they married, and except for me and my sister, I think they pretty much still are. They treat me and I’m an alien.”

  A smile flickered across her face. “Innocence?”

  I laughed. “I’m pretty sure. How do you think I got my name?” “We can go the Monkey Inn and have some fun tomorrow. Or just do what you want to do. What do you want to do, Sally?”

  Her face clouded over. “I don’t know what I want to do.” She started to sniffle.

  “Let’s talk more tomorrow,” I said.

  We turned down the blankets and went to sleep, side by side, Sally sniffling in her pillow.

  She was cheerful the next morning. We decided to go to the Monkey Inn that night and have some fun. Our old buddies would be there. We could dance. I knew I would, because the minute I heard rock and roll, I danced as the music penetrated my soul. I didn’t care who saw me or what they thought. I felt alive and happy. Sally’s introverted shyness kept her from standing out or enjoying herself.

  That evening at the Monkey Inn – a popular student haunt with sawdust on the floor and a ramshackle appearance, on Shattuck Avenue, near the campus – our friends appeared, all in high spirits. Karen and Lynn drank a few rounds of beer with the boys, Chunky Charles and Fast Freddie, the latter of Danish descent with a more than decent build. He was tall and broad-shouldered, yet slender. I’d admired him a number of times. Lynn and Charles had been dating for a couple of months, which would be years in non-Berkeley time. Boys came and went; it was all in good fun. I suppose there were girls looking for husbands, but I wasn’t one of them. I lived for the pulsating moment; this was in the early Sixties where people were fighting for integration in the South, but most of my friends weren’t politically involved, although we admired black people. We frequented the Boson’s Locker, a black bar where they always gave us a sincerely warm welcome and a wonderfully sweet birthday party for Mary Jane last year. I was beginning to like black people better than white ones. They sure treated me better.