Raven

by Reiterman, Tim

  With organ music and people keeping time with their hands, Jones shouted over them like some Bible thumper, urging people not to hate because it boomerangs, decrying loopholes that let the rich escape taxes, calling for freedom from the bondage of the aristocratic rich. Then, in frantic and seemingly incoherent fashion, Jones railed about the theft of the Bill of Rights, the spread of social disease; drug abuse by eight- and nine-year-olds and drug pushing to fourth graders even here, in rural Redwood Valley. No heavenly God could cope with those things, could he? He reminded them of his own miracles and parapsychology—and social goals—all in one breathless rush.

  “If you don’t need a God, fine. But if you need a God, I’m going to nose out that God. He’s a false god. I’ll put the right concept in your life. ”

  “You understand the mystery? If you don’t have a God and you’re already believing that you have to build a society to eliminate poverty, racism and injustice and war, I will not bother you. ”

  “But,” he exclaimed, “if you’re holding onto that sky God, I’ll nose him out, ten lengths every time!!! ”

  “Will you tell me you believe in God out there?” he shrieked in anger at imaginary doubters. “So what? What’s your sky God ever done? Two out of three nations in the world are hungry. Misery in every one of your homes....” His voice rose to a crescendo: “The only happiness you’ve found is when you’ve come to this earth God!”

  Waiting for their cries to die down, he went on. “When you came to your socialist worker father, some of you never knew the fulfillment of happiness, you never knew that anyone cared. Your children were in difficulties. No one came to the jails. You prayed to your sky God and he never heard your prayers. You asked and begged and pleaded in your suffering, and he never gave you any food. He never gave you a bed, and He never provided a home. But I, Your socialist worker God, have given you all these things.”

  Then, in a display of power, as though to demonstrate that no harm would befall blasphemers, he slammed a black Bible to the floor. There were cheers. “No fears of doing that,” he said, almost out of breath. “Say what you feel. Tap all the resources of energy within you!”

  “No, it’s not sacred. You won’t die if....” He flung the book down again. “If you drop it. You won’t die if you stand on it.” He put both feet on the book, the toes of his shoes hanging over the edge, and tottered a little.

  His audience delighted in the performance, reveled in his rebelliousness; they too were above the Bible that had guided the lives of so many of them. “You won’t die if you jump up and down on it.”

  Jones calmed himself purposefully. “I talk pretty loud. Hope I didn’t strain your ears.”

  They laughed and spoke in unison, “All right.”

  He told them, “I want you to realize that you must be the scripture, that any other scripture other than you and the word that I am now imparting is idolatry.”

  “Yeah!” They were with him again. He urged and they urged back. They were one.

  “I know where I am going. I know what I believe. And I know what I’m doing,” Jones hollered, straining for a peak. “And I’ve got a principle that will carry me on if the world passes away. ”

  “When your world has failed you, I’ll be standing,” he murmured, braking himself, savoring each word as if it were being handed down from the Almighty. “Because I am freedom. I am peace. I am justice.... I AM GOD!!!!”

  They went wild, cheering, cheering, cheering.

  “See socialism as God in me,” he told them. “Look upon me harmoniously. Every service I’ve said that socialism has a higher dimension than the three dimensions. You don’t have to worry about that God up there,” he told those who still believed in a heavenly Being. “I can heal your back when your spine’s wasting away and your doctor says you can’t be helped, and I cure it. You’re free! You’re free of God! I want you to penalize that old God up there!” He was ranting now, shouting at the heavens, challenging.

  “If you’re all-powerful, send one of your magic wands,” he mocked. “Send your electric lightning. Send your thunder. Let it rain!” He stopped to give God a chance to perform. Nothing happened. The people chortled.

  That contest won, Jones took it one step further. “When I was laying on springs with no covers, and the rain was pouring through the roof of my old ramshackle house, and they told me to pray to God ... there was no God that came. The rain kept pouring. I had a beam of consciousness. I said there shouldn’t be any poor; there shouldn’t be any private property.”

  The pain of poverty and disadvantage flowed from his voice; a matter-of-fact righteousness, vengeance, swelled his chest. “Every time I take a drive in the country, and I see ‘Private Property—No Trespassing,’ I take those signs down.” Approving laughter all around. “When I want to trespass, I just trespass. Because they robbed the people to get it! They took it from my people, the Indians! They came and shot down our babies! Raped our mothers!” His words boomed like cannon fire. “They took our babies and stripped off the scalps!”

  He jumped from Indians to the preciousness of children of mixed races, to sex. “It’s come up that there have been bisexual and homosexual patterns [among church members],” he said. “And we got somebody coming in that won’t tell the facts. And they say ... I am a great lover. Now I know what you told me.” He pauses, and there is silence. One by one, he points them out with his index finger, one cluck of his tongue for each. He was making their admissions for them, those homosexuals, latent and otherwise.

  Raising his volume preacherly and righteously, he said, “There can be nothing going on in the bedroom, until mankind is liberated! There’s no freedom in that bedroom! I’ve come to one of you! I’ve come to all of you! As I said, you’d all be happier to admit it.”

  “Right,” a woman called out.

  “Right,” a man called out. “Right” came a whole chorus of voices.

  SIXTEEN

  Wiring the Town

  This little nation’s dealings with the outside world were characterized by paranoia, pragmatism and, always, concealment of the Temple’s inner workings. For self-protection, Jones emphasized a good public image and warm relations with the news media and law enforcement officials. The Temple wanted to be seen as a purely do-gooder church with social services. But Jones’s need for secrecy conflicted with his desire for power and notoriety.

  In relatively conservative Mendocino County, the church as a matter of strategy broke into the Republican power structure. It did the same in San Francisco with a liberal Democratic administration. Jones built peace treaties and alliances across the political spectrum, and called in political debts with the aggression of a backroom power broker. He knew how to woo politicians and public officials, and how to push a bureaucrat, but he also usually knew when to back off. His clever knack for taking the offensive while pleading persecution proved effective. However, his judgment remained flawed by overreaction and, as his power grew, by overkill.

  In a hostile environment, a strong political base became a necessity. In the rural area of Ukiah-Redwood Valley, Jones for the first time realized that his relatively modest numbers of people, if utilized properly, could bring a measure of power to his church.

  To build a positive image, Jones required his people to be well groomed and clean cut, to register to vote and to be model citizens. Many joined the PTA. The Temple also undertook good works with a fervor that defeated their supposed desire for anonymity. Home-baked cakes and candy were packed and delivered to politicians, government officials and just about anyone else whose good will was sought. Sometimes a cake would just appear on a person’s doorstep with a friendly note, incidentally praising Jim Jones. A death in the family, a family crisis, a personal success—anything would fetch cakes and cookies from Peoples Temple. It became a joke around town that if you had not received a cake from Peoples Temple, something had to be wrong with you.

  The timing of the gifts was uncanny. Supervisor Al Barbero received a
cake the moment he came home from the hospital, though he had not told a soul his discharge date. There was, of course, a logical explanation. Several Temple members, including Walter and Patty Cartmell, worked at the town’s only answering service. Church members had access to all the ambulance calls in town; and after hours, the service took calls for a number of Ukiah doctors. Messages for almost a hundred accounts —many the most prominent people in town—were dutifully logged. Temple members could use the service as they wished, not only for “good works,” but presumably for Jones’s revelations as well.

  Jones was never one to underestimate the power of a well-aimed letter. He would direct letter-writing campaigns from the pulpit in the early days of Ukiah, and later, with the addition of college-educated zealots, the process became more streamlined and institutionalized. Thousands were routinely mailed under the direction of Dick Tropp, an English professor at Santa Rosa Community College. The church determined the targets of the letter campaigns and the approaches to take; sample letters were provided for guidance. In 1970, for instance, members were asked to write Congressmen about a host of laws regarding civil liberties. Those involved would gather about once a week and, with a variety of stationery, envelopes, typewriters and pens, each cranked out dozens of letters. Sometimes they borrowed names from telephone books, taking a last name from one person and a first name from another. Often they wrote letters simply praising public figures, tailoring the letters to their political leanings. A right-winger most likely would receive a law-and-order letter, a progressive an antiwar letter.

  In order to get more than bland form responses, the Temple sent multiple letters, some with small gifts such as candy. And often Jones would write. The goal was to get a personal response praising the Temple. These were kept behind plastic in a thick binder; and excerpts were reproduced in Temple public relations literature. Apparent endorsements from public figures in Ukiah, San Francisco, statewide and nationally were employed to impress other public officials of potential assistance.

  Typical of the responses was one from then-Governor Ronald Reagan, whom Jones would deplore for shutting down Mendocino State Hospital, thus putting a number of Temple members out of work:

  Dear Pastor Jones:

  I just wanted to take a moment to express my appreciation to the members of your congregation for their many good letters regarding the roses I recently delivered to the wife of one of our servicemen....

  One of the most prized letters came from FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover thanking the Temple for candy at Christmastime. The Temple used donations to stimulate letters from law officials too. Then-San Francisco Police Chief Alfred Nelder thanked Jones for $50 for the family of a slain officer. Ukiah Police Chief Donn Saulsbury thanked “Jim” for $225 donated to the city police reserves for gear. The Temple collected letters from newspaper columnists, including the late Drew Pearson and his successor Jack Anderson, as well as an impressive lineup of politicians, from President Richard Nixon to congressmen all over the nation.

  At a grass-roots level and in the chambers of bureaucracy, the Temple’s most effective public relations instruments were the people themselves. The Ukiah area was saturated with church members, especially in government offices. Among other places, members landed jobs in the sheriff’s office, where Phyllis Houston was a dispatcher, and in the Probation Department, where Sandy Bradshaw was a deputy probation officer. Members found jobs in the private sector too, several dozen of them in the big lumber mills. Their co-workers heard rumors about heavy tithing and queer goings-on at the Temple. But Temple members tended to be good workers, though they sometimes would be exhausted and less than productive after bus trips and late meetings. Co-workers of Temple members at the mills sometimes would stumble upon them curled up in quiet places, sneaking some shuteye.

  Jones and his top aides used personal contacts to build a reputation among influential people in town. They touched all bases, from the most liberal judges to the most conservative political dabblers, such as John Birch Society leader Walter Heady. The friendship of Heady and Jones was based largely upon personality. Heady’s raspy declarations and iron-clad conviction—regardless of his right-wing beliefs—impressed Jones; here was an enemy with whom he could hit it off as a human being. Heady visited the Jones household, and Jones ordered a church newsletter article about Heady and his wife. Jones even invited Heady to make presentations and show Bircher films at the Redwood Valley and San Francisco churches under the justification of “knowing your enemy.”

  Jones and Heady seldom talked about Richard Nixon because they agreed that presidents were puppets of “big government.” Yet in his rambling phone conversations with Marge Boynton, head of the Republican Central Committee, Jones let her know that as a registered Republican he was supporting Nixon for president. Marge Boynton knew of Tim Stoen’s Republican party and Rotary Club work, and she met other Temple members who helped with local antidrug programs and the Heart Fund. Some church members did volunteer work for the Republicans, and one, a popular schoolteacher named Jean Brown, sat on the Republican Central Committee.

  Boynton first encountered Jim Jones through her husband, a children’s dentist to whom the Temple sent so many patients that Marceline reserved a block of three to four hours office time each week.

  The case that most deeply touched the dentist involved a fourteen-year-old runaway who supposedly had been peddling her body. The Temple picked up the stray one weekend, then brought her to the dentist first thing Monday morning because her teeth were rotting. Six sessions later, all paid for by the Temple, she had been transformed into a proper young lady.

  The Temple’s good deeds likewise impressed Sheriff Reno Bartolomie, who noticed that Temple kids from broken homes and probation departments stayed out of trouble. And he admired the church for weaning people from drugs in a county where marijuana was fast becoming one of the biggest cash crops. To enhance its image and help the prisoners, the church donated almost $400 for a stereo-radio for county jail inmates. Stoen became a political supporter of the sheriff—and Bartolomie and Jones became friendly, if not friends.

  The Temple found the relationship beneficial. At least two members, including Stoen, became reserve deputies and received concealed weapons permits. Then Stoen asked the sheriff for at least a dozen and perhaps as many as twenty additional gun permits so Temple members could guard large sums of money collected at services. The Temple was granted a handful.

  The relationship with Bartolomie was amicable, so the Temple supported him for reelection in June 1974. But they were not sure he was going to win, so they supported his opponent, Tom Jondahl, as well. The strategy proved prudent. Jondahl, police chief of Fort Bragg on the coast, upset the longtime sheriff and took office the following year.

  Jones and Stoen also established a good rapport with the Ukiah Daily Journal. Jones had made a point of inviting Managing Editor George Hunter and his reporter wife Kathy to his home when the Temple first came to town. The Temple showed particular attention to Kathy Hunter, and she in turn wrote favorable stories about the church. The reporter had ongoing health problems, including back pains that drove her to alcohol. Whenever she was hospitalized, the Temple sent her cakes and get-well cards. And while others in town sometimes dismissed her as an eccentric or a crackpot, Jones seemed to treat her with respect—though he called her a drunk behind her back. For every unsavory rumor about the Temple, George Hunter got a friendly phone call from the church, or a helpful news briefing from county counsel Tim Stoen. The grapevine always had the Temple fixing a widow’s broken fence or mowing someone’s lawn; and there was scuttlebutt too about some racial incident or harassment.

  To Hunter, the Temple was not entirely unlike other churches. For example, it advertised its Sunday services in the Journal. But Jones took a more active interest in politics than most ministers. Before each election, Jones would call the editor and ask him which candidates deserved the vote of Temple members. Usually, Hunter would laugh and say, “Look
over the field, and make up your own mind.” Still, Jones never missed a flattering election eve call.

  In political circles, it was common knowledge that the church voted as a block, a fact since substantiated by a check of precinct records. Temple members made political contributions; the church bought tickets to Republican fund raisers. When the voting age was reduced to eighteen, the Temple drew up a list of newly eligible voters so the Republican party could register them. And despite all the Republican flag-waving, Jones would support Democrats, too, and some of his members were registered as Democrats.29

  Marge Boynton figured the Temple controlled two hundred to three hundred votes in one area alone. Anyone could see that a few hundred votes could have a very substantial impact on the outcome of a first supervisorial district election with 2,500 to 3,000 voters.

  From his pulpit, Jones would discuss the various candidates and issues and, nominally, solicit the congregation’s reaction. “Do we want to vote for ... ?” he would ask, then shake his head no or nod yes, or point his thumbs up or down, afraid to verbalize his choice in case he was being taped. To be sure that his message was executed, he had church secretaries phone members on election eve. At the next service, everyone was required to bring a polling place receipt showing they had cast their ballot.

  One of the biggest potential trouble spots for the Temple was the county Social Services Department, the agency responsible for overseeing the Temple care homes. Dennis Denny, the director of social services, was not impressed by the church’s do-good reputation and was wary of the presence of five to eight Temple members in his own agency. He had come from Orange County in 1969 with experience in jousting with religious organizations and cult groups that tried to exploit or defraud the welfare system. And it did not take him long to conclude that Jones had settled in Ukiah in large part because of the Mendocino Plan, a nationally known program designed to get mental hospital patients into local board-and-care homes. Denny estimated that through about ten care homes with up to fifteen patients each, Jones had a tremendous revenue source, plus a new source of recruits. He frankly warned Jones not to abuse the system.