August 3–10, 2000

slant

Talking Cure

by Howard Altman

As the long hot day of increasingly angry protest drags on into the evening, the screamers taunt police and each other outside the Municipal Services Building.

A group of men wearing Danny Faulkner memorial white T-shirts decorated with a drawing of a hypodermic needle face off against supporters of Mumia Abu-Jamal. Fistfights almost break out as one of the Faulkner guys grabs a piece of paper from one of the Abu-Jamal guys.

Tensions are very high here. In one standoff between police and protesters, a nervous cop holds up a red-topped canister, his finger ready to release its contents at protesters. A supervisor comes over and tells him to calm down.

Already, the cops have been pelted with bottles and, in a couple of cases, balloons filled with paint and urine. One cop was surrounded and beaten. Two have been taken to the hospital and released. Scores of protesters have been arrested, many after blocking roadways, wandering around Center City spilling trash out into the streets and setting small fires.

Standing under Jacques Lipchitz’s Government of the People, which the late great Frank Rizzo once disparaged, Pam Africa shouts into the microphone, urging protesters to continue their struggle. Which is taking place, ironically enough, around a defaced statue of Rizzo, which is now wearing an extraneous dappling of red.

Meanwhile, on the streets, police have cordoned off the MSB, Love Park and City Hall, surrounding the protesters and penning them in.

The highly volatile scene threatens to explode until Capt. William Fisher arrives, fresh from a raid on anarchist headquarters in an abandoned warehouse in West Philly.

As the noise increases and people get jumpy, Fisher and his coterie of public and civil affairs officers walk the concourse toward Africa’s group and stop.

At first, Africa scowls at Fisher and waves her hand at him, dismissively. Fisher takes a breath, walks over to Africa and calmly asks what he can do to diffuse the situation.

"We just want to get out of here, but we can’t because the police won’t let us," says Africa.

Fisher promises to find a way out.

Walking with his coterie over to where the white-shirted police brass are standing, Fisher explains the situation, overcomes some skepticism and works out an escape route that will allow Africa’s corps to leave with their dignity intact.

He then walks back to the statue, explains the situation to Africa and her attorney and, for a moment, the uproar dies down.

At this writing, it is only Tuesday night. There are still two more nights of the GOP Convention. Two more chances for Philadelphia to become Seattle.

But when all is said and done, if Philadelphia doesn’t become Seattle, the city will owe a great debt to those protesters who managed to have their say without breaking anything, to the cops who kept the peace, to John Timoney for instituting a hands-off approach — and, perhaps most of all, to Billy Fisher.

For years, Fisher’s Civil Affairs unit has been instrumental in keeping the peace, in dealing with marchers and demonstrators and making sure people have their say without too much upheaval.

During this convention, Fisher has navigated between overheated protest groups and overworked and stressed-out cops to keep the tumult to a relative minimum, keeping his cool in the face of kids’ taunts, roving reporters and the natural instinct to react.

For the Philly PD, it’s been all about letting go. Letting the protesters wear themselves out sans confrontation.

And giving them a chance to make their points.

"You have to keep lines of communications open," says Fisher, who lives just down the street from me. "If you talk to people, you can work things out."

Nowhere is that philosophy more important than a few moments after Fisher brokered his peace treaty with Pam Africa.

Michael Africa was just arrested as he tried to carry sound equipment out of the protest site.

As word spreads, people begin surrounding the police van where Michael Africa is sitting with his arms cuffed behind his back.

"We ain’t moving till we get our brother out," says Ramona Africa.

Others start to shout.

Again, the tension builds, threatening to erupt into violence.

Again, Fisher calmly walks over to protest leaders and gets a read of what they want, which is Michael Africa out of the van and free.

Again, faced with a potential nightmare, Fisher walks over to the other cops and brokers another deal.

"We’re going to let Michael go," says Fisher, fully aware that it would have to be a very serious offense to make it worth incarcerating Michael Africa at this point.

As a growing crowd of protesters, media and other gawking onlookers presses in, Fisher talks to the forcibly subdued Michael Africa, helps him out of the van and releases him after noting his name, address and Social Security number.

Immediately upon emerging from the darkness of the locked, windowless cargo compartment, Michael Africa shouts "on the move," and tells the knot of reporters gathering round that he has scored a great victory for his movement, which is all about information, not destruction.

While Michael speaks, Fisher goes back to doing what he does, which is making sure people exercise their rights to protest safely.

Michael Africa claimed a great victory.

But on this night, with an incendiary confrontation averted, Philadelphia came away a victory, too.

And the city has Billy Fisher to thank for that.