Download PDF of this full issue: v38n2.pdf (20.2 MB)

Recollections of Gainesville

By Bill Shunas

During the Vietnam War, the anti-war movement came under attack by the government. The attacks took different forms, one of which was to use the criminal Justice system to prosecute anti-war protesters, often targeting leaders of the Movement. The most famous was the Chicago Seven (eight). Other trials of this kind took place around the country including cities like Camden, NJ, Harrisburg, PA, Seattle,WA, and others. The government also came after VVAW when eight members, including four regional co-ordinators were arrested and charged with conspiracy to disrupt the 1972 Republican National Convention in Miami. The Gainesville Eight were John Briggs, Scott Camil, Alton Foss, John Kniffin, Pete Mahoney, Stan Mickelsen, Bill Patterson and Don Perdue.

The trial took place in Gainesville, Florida during the summer of 1973. The Gainesville Eight had a defense committee that consisted of lawyers, family and friends. Also in Gainesville was a group, including myself, who were there for two purposes. We were to organize activities like courthouse vigils, street theater and finally a major demonstration on the Saturday before the trial. Our second mission was as a press office to give the VVAW spin during these events and the course of the trial. We called ourselves the Gainesville Eight News Bureau. For legal reasons we operated separately from the Gainesville Eight Defense Committee. What follows is remembrances of my experiences.

I drove down to Florida with the late Walter Klim several weeks before the trial. It so happened that there was a pre-trial hearing to be held in Pennsacola, Florida so we headed there first.

The National Office of VVAW had printed up an issue of the Winter Soldier (predecessor to The Veteran) and asked us to bring several bundles to Florida to be distributed during the course of the coming events. The headline of that issue read "Come To Gainesville - Live the American Revolution."

"Man, this is bizarre," said Walter as we drove through Tennessee. "Two northerners driving through the South with a trunk full of newspapers saying 'Live the American Revolution'."

I was relatively new to VVAW. Walter had better antenna for these kind of things. These were times when you needed to watch your back. VVAW was finding police infiltrators among its ranks around the country. That would be highlighted at the upcoming trial. Movement people were always targets of the right wingers and the government as we would soon see. And now we were in the New South which was still like the Old South. We didn't expect to be welcomed.

Hours later, Walter said, "This is fucking crazy. We're driving through Alabama with a trunk full of newspapers saying, 'Live the American Revolution'." Relax, Walter.

We made it to Pennsacola without incident, found the courthouse, the courtroom and slipped into the back row to watch. This pre-trial hearing was being held in Pennsacola instead of Gainesville because Judge Winston Arnow and chief prosecutor, Guy Goodwin - a pair who worked together for the entire trial - said they were afraid there would be undue publicity if it was held in Gainesville.

I had read a tiny bit about Star Chamber proceedings in the British court system. They were held in secret, and the accused was badgered and maybe tortured before being found guilty. It was an arbitrary, unjust and inquisitional procedure that was abolished 332 years before the Gainesville Eight trial. But sitting in Winston Arnow's court, you'd never know it was gone.

One of the issues in this pre-trial hearing was the role of VVAW in speaking out about the trial and having demonstrations and so forth. Goodwin, supported by Arnow, felt this would prejudice the case against the government. The Gainesville Eight attorney wanted to show that VVAW and the defense committee were separate entities, so that whatever was said or done by VVAW was not the defendants trying to influence the outcome of the trial.

To make this point the Gainesville Eight attorney called VVAW coordinator Brian Adams to testify. Brian duly testified that VVAW would act independently of the defense committee, using our right to comment freely on the case.

Then it came time for prosecutor Goodwin to cross-examine Brian, and that's when things turned dark and menacing. On TV, courtroom scenes require that cross-examination have something to do with the original testimony. Not here. This was inquisition from both Goodwin and Arnow.

Tell me, comes the stern voice, who are the people who are here to plan these events. Adams fumbles for words. The defense attorney objects. Arnow shoots him down. Says, "I want to hear this." More objections are made during this sequence, but they are ignored. Arnow wants to get to the bottom of this conspiracy. Answer the questions. Brian hesitates, says he doesn't understand the question. Names, says Goodwin. Uh, says Adams, there's Walter Klim and Bill Shunas. Walter and I sink low in our back bench, letting out a silent groan. How many eyes are looking at us? I've been in VVAW less than a year and already I'm an Enemy of the State.

And the voices thunder at Adams. Who else. Tell me the names. Brian searches for words. What others they want to know. Nobody in the room moves a muscle. We are barely breathing. Tell me who, Arnow demands. Give us the names, Goodwin demands. Brian finally says that other VVAW members will be coming. Who are they is demanded. Some VVAW members, Brian says. Who? He doesn't answer. They take turns yelling at him. Finally, in the midst of this brooding drama a courageous soul from the Defense Committee stands up and yells. I don't remember exactly, but I think all he said was, "Stop!" Then all the Gainesville Eight and their supporters stand and start shouting. Arnow and Goodwin are stopped in their tracks. Arnow calls for order which doesn't happen. A recess is called. I breathe again. My shirt is soaked with sweat. When the court reassembles, Adams is off the witness stand, and the court returns to the twentieth century - or maybe the nineteenth.

Walter and I leave out of Pennsacola. "Mother fucker Winston Arnow and that Guy Goodwin made us a target," says Walter. I'm beginning to see his point. Now we've got over three hundred miles to Gainesville. Through the South. Two northerners. With a trunk full of newspapers with a headline that says "Live the American Revolution."

In Gainesville finally we are among friends. We rent a house in a low rent district near the courthouse and across the street from the Gainesville Sun, the town's main newspaper. To prepare the home for occupancy we closed all the windows, set off bug bombs inside, and didn't return for three days at which time we swept out a couple of thousand cockroach corpses. We were ready to go.

VVAW members began to arrive to help make preparations for the demonstrations and the other events. Then Winston Arnow struck again. We would not be permitted to speak on behalf of the Gainesville eight. We would be impeding justice. The gag order applied to any person who was in concert with the Gainesville Eight. We would hear those words often over the next few weeks. "In concert."

We had a meeting the evening of the day that Arnow issued the gag order. That was one of the heaviest things I ever experienced. We felt the power of the State had come down upon us. It was doom and gloom.

There must have been twelve or fifteen of us at this meeting. We came to the conclusion that we had to challenge the gag order. We would say that we were not "in concert" with the Gainesville Eight. We were only exercising our right to free speech. Then came the heavy part - deciding to go to jail.

We would call a press conference the next day. One person and one person only would speak out. After he was arrested, a press conference would be called the following day for a second person to speak. This would go on until all of us were in jail. At the end of the meeting we established the order in which we would speak out and go to jail. Bart Savage of the National Office would go first, followed by the regional coordinators and the chapter coordinators. I felt fortunate that I had no title. I would have ten or twelve more days of freedom.

The next day we called a press conference. The press came. Bart spoke. He spoke about the trial and the gag order and said we'd continue to speak out. We weren't disrupting the trial or acting in concert with the defendants. Nothing happened. Nothing happened the next day. No arrests. Winston Arnow had backed down. We went back to organizing.

We had decided to reach out to the community to build support, to build for the demonstration, and to counter government claims that we were dangerous and in Gainesville to disrupt. My job at this time was to arrange speaking gigs and talk to community organizations churches, students and so forth.

One of the ironies of the situation happened when I got the idea to visit the President of the Chamber of Commerce to reassure the local establishment of our peaceful intentions during the upcoming week. This man was very, very nice to me. He was very, very polite. And he very, very much did not want to engage in dialog with me. And I thought this was very, very strange. When the trial began a few days later his wife was in the jury pool, was chosen to be on the jury and chosen to be the jury foreperson. I've always wondered if that explained my strange conversation with him.

Back in those times the anti-war movement or Movement consisted of two kinds of people. There were those who had a political take on the war and everything else. And then there were those who simply wanted to be part of the Counter Culture. Really, everyone was a combination of the two strains of thought even if it went 90%-10%. One way or the other I was amused during the week prior to our planned demonstration when we did set up a camp in the boonies outside of Gainesville as a place to stay for people coming to the demonstration. I would give directions to the camp in which I told people that when they reached a certain intersection they should go straight and would find the camp. For that I was reprimanded more than once. "Go forward, man. Don't go straight." Alas.

In the five days before the demonstration VVAW members fanned out into the community, passing out leaflets about the trial and the winding down, but still unfinished war in Vietnam and Cambodia. A couple thousand would come for that Saturday demonstration, and there would be a silent march of four hundred to the courthouse. At the rally there would be three speakers: Tom Hayden, an anti-war activist and member of the Chicago Seven; Virginia Collins from the Republic of New Africa and Tony Russo who along with Daniel Ellsburg had released the Pentagon Papers. Providing the music would be long time activist and folk singer Pete Seeger.

As it happened I got the best assignment. I had to pick up Pete Seeger at the Jacksonville airport. The airport at Jacksonville was 55 minutes away. I would be alone with America's legendary folk and protest singer for 55 minutes. What great conversation we would have.

The time came. I headed for Jacksonville and found Pete at his gate. I threw his bag and guitar in the trunk, headed for the parking lot exit, paid the fee and turned toward him with my first question and - Pete Seeger was asleep. Every few minutes I glanced over to the passenger seat. Pete Seeger was asleep. Fifty-five minutes later we arrived at his quarters. I woke him up, and he was very appreciative of the ride. So much for our conversation. For those who are interested. Pete Seeger snores. Not too loudly.

The day came for the march and rally. One of life's lessons came here. It came from Tony Russo's speech. We had been dancing around Winston Arnow's gag order, saying, no, we weren't the folks "in concert" with the Gainesville Eight. We were just ordinary VVAW folk exercising our first amendment rights and not causing any trouble.

Tony Russo got up to speak, and the first words out of his mouth were, "I ... am ... in ... concert ... with the Gainesville Eight." There it was. All our hemming and hawing was really bullshit. If you're going to be involved in something like this, you don't go halfway in.

If what I have written suggests that there was some paranoia among Movement people of that time, that's because there was. Jail and health problems and occasionally even death were not out of the question. But it was more than that. It was the feeling that the power of the government was too relentless. During the trial the defense was given a room where the defendants and their lawyers and friends could gather and retreat to during breaks. On the first day of the trial they discovered a couple of FBI agents with recording equipment in a broom closet in the defendants' room. Why was anyone surprised?

As the trial proceeded the government called witness after witness who prior to their court appearance were thought to have been friends. Some were VVAW members who had really been police informants. It was the times. Back then it was less sophisticated. No stealing of e-mail or picking up cell phone conversations. It was simple things like phone taps. Crude, too. On one occasion I picked up the phone to make a call. No dial tone.It sounded like a live phone. "Hello," I said. "Hello," was the answer. "I'd like to make a call," I said. "Oh," he said. And then I got my dial tone. Nice agent.

We settled into a routine once the trial started. There were five of us in the Gainesville Eight News Bureau. Two or more would go to court each day, take notes, come back to our office, hand out a press release and talk to the press. We still operated separate from the Defense committee, following Winston Arnow's orders. The trial fell into a routine. One day the government would bring out a witness who's spectacular testimony would be somewhere between exaggeration and straight out lie. The next day the defense would cross examine and expose lies.

During this time I had one more encounter with a Movement folk singer. It was a Thursday night when I got the phone call. It was Phil Ochs. He was in Miami, flying to New York. He'd stop in Gainesville and do a concert on Saturday if we'd just pay the difference he'd be charged for the added stop. I didn't know what to say. How can you organize a concert in a day and a half? So I told him, "Sure."

We couldn't find a place to hold a concert at the last minute so we got permission from the Gainesville Sun newspaper, and held the concert in their parking lot, passing out leaflets to try and attract a crowd. It was pathetic and embarrassing. Fortunately, Phil Ochs was a nice man. He arrived about three hours early. And fortunately he liked cheap cigars and beer of which we had a good supply. Then he went out and gave a helluva concert for the handful of people who came.

After a few weeks the trial was turned over to the jury. I believe this was on a Thursday or a Friday. In either case, it was expected that the jury wouldn't reach a verdict until the following week. So we decided to have a trial's end demonstration that weekend. I went to police headquarters downtown to get the demonstration permit. While I was filling out the form, the sergeant came in and told me to forget it. More bullshit, I thought. I started my protest, but he caught me short. "It's over." The jury had come back in four hours. Not guilty. No need to demonstrate. Elsewhere in Gainesville, friends were hugging each other. Me? I'm with six cops. I made the party that night.

The jury had actually made the decision in an hour and a half and then played with a slingshot that was a prosecution exhibit. (The Gainesville Eight were supposedly going to attack the Republicans with slingshots.) The victory was sweet. The Eight were free and VVAW was vindicated. It was not without cost to the organization. Organizing in the South had more or less stopped. The trial cost the organization much money. Alton Foss told me that the lawyers told him that the government had 24 more witnesses they hadn't called. Presumably these would be more friends. They could be anyone. He couldn't trust anyone any more. Paranoia still ruled.

During that summer, John and Cathy Kniffin's cat had a litter. By the end of the trial the kittens were weaned, and John and Cathy were kind enough to give one to me. One of John's heroes was Emiliano Zapata, the Mexican revolutionary hero who sacrificed his all for his people. His followers affectionately called him Miliano. So that's what I named the kitten. Walter had left Gainesville a few days before me. So it was only me and Miliano that drove back to Chicago. It had been a stressful few months, and it didn't feel like I had Lived the American Revolution. Got to swat a few fascists, though.