Public Enemy by Bill Ayers Page B

underground,” I suggested. “Not funny,” she said, but smiled nonetheless.
    Grand juries are oddities descended from English common law, established originally to provide a buffer for the ordinary people against the unchecked power of the king, but in modern times turned into their opposite: star chambers where prosecutors alone wield powerful weapons and act on their own authority, virtually unchecked. Bernardine would be required to enter the chamber alone, without counsel, without representatives of the free press, without a public gallery. She would be asked to answer questions without benefit of context, without being told what evidence was already before the panel, without knowing if she herself was the target of an investigation, and without being able to face or contradict or cross-examine any possible witnesses or accusers. I reminded her that when John Brown was indicted by a slave-loving grand jury in Kansas, members of the panel ended up dead. “Please shut up, honey,” she said. “Please and thank you.” “Just a joke,” I said, but again not funny, and I did shut up, of course, very politely and quite contritely.
    Though famously also refusing to talk to the media since we had come aboveground, Bernardine gave an interview to CBS reporter Chris Weicher in Central Park, noting the unjust and unconstitutional uses of the grand jury throughout US history and explaining her pending refusal to cooperate, despite her disagreements with the Brinks robbery. She highlighted other grand jury resistance, including the scores of people who had refused to cooperate with grand juries seeking information about the Weather Underground. When she spoke about defying the subpoena as the most difficult decision of her life, given her young children, she teared up and ended the interview.
    We’d stayed close together that whole weekend, lots of quiet time and calm and familiar pleasures: baking cookies with the kids, walking to Broadway for pizza and ice cream, playing in the Eighty-fourth Street playground and picnicking under flowering cherry and apple trees in Central Park. Bernardine knew from the start that she would never talk to the grand jury, and she knew, too, that she would likely be jailed for that refusal. She explained to the boys that she would be going away on Monday, but that “Poppy will be here to take care of you,” and that BJ and all their friends would be here too. It was all a bit abstract. They all knew that their momma would be in jail for a while, but jail was already familiar to all three because of visits with and phone calls from Kathy and David. Chesa had enough prison visits in his life, so we planned for him to see Bernardine infrequently; Malik and Zayd could visit her every week and talk to her on the phone and write letters to her every day. Malik and Bernardine clung hard to each other, but none of it made Monday morning any easier.
    We stuck to our routine, and after breakfast dropped Malik and Chesa at BJ’s Kids—the good-bye hugs lasted longer, Bernardine’s backward glances were heavier, and her tears were just barely in check. How could she leave them? How long until she saw them again? We were scared and we were miserable, but we wanted to be strong, to assure the kids that their lives would be OK, that we would be OK. BJ as always rose to the occasion, kissed us all and wished us good luck, and then quickly swept the kids up and away into a project making papier-mâché masks and cloth capes for a dramatic play.
    Zayd wanted to see what would happen, and Bernardine always talked to him about everything anyway, so he came along with us to the anticipated nine o’clock collision. We would stay together as long as possible, but my first responsibility was to him, to be sure nothing scary happened for Zayd. As the three of us held hands and mounted the imposing staircase to the federal courthouse, a media mob descended, cameras flashing, reporters shouting questions, and Zayd