Recipe for Hate

by Warren Kinsella

  Finally, she sat back in her chair and shook her head. “I’m very sorry all of you are being subjected to this sort of thing,” she said. “Some of these messages are clearly threats. So I reiterate my suggestion that we bring in some officers with experience in this area, so they can investigate and take steps to protect those who need protection.”

  I spoke first. “Detective Murphy is a good guy, but the rest of them have been totally useless,” I said. “The murder investigations have been a complete farce.”

  “There is an excellent detective on the force that I think would be helpful. He has a lot of experience dealing with cases like this. I’ll ask if we can get him involved.” Martin was talking about the Chow brothers’ dad, turns out.

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door. X and I moved so it could open all the way. A junior lawyer from the DA’s office stuck his head in.

  “Um,” he said, looking around at the visitors in Martin’s cramped office.

  “What is it?” Martin said, irritated.

  “Judge O’Sullivan has sent word over that he’s going to rule on the guilty pleas,” the junior said. “He wants you over in Courtroom 200 in one hour sharp.”

  A few minutes earlier, in his chambers — and as the indiscreet court reporter and the dazed defense lawyers looked on — O’Sullivan fixed a menacing gaze on Martin and asked her if she, as an officer of the court, believed there was “a factual basis” for the pleas that Bauer, Wojcik, and Babic had made. After nearly a minute of total silence, Martin finally said, her head lowered, “No, Your Honor. As an officer of the court, I do not now believe there is a factual basis for the pleas as entered in court.”

  O’Sullivan looked at her, feeling satisfied but unhappy all at once. He was satisfied because Martin, who he obviously thought was a highly ethical attorney, had told him what he knew she knew was the truth. But he was pissed off; one, because she hadn’t stood up to her boss and refused to prosecute the skinheads, and, two, because he knew his ruling would set off a colossal media and political shit storm. And he and Martin would be at the center of it.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, his contempt obvious, as the clerk captured his every word. “Lest you think that you have pulled off some sort of a historic legal coup, let me tell you why I am going to be refusing your clients’ guilty pleas, and why I am very reluctantly putting them back on the street in a few minutes’ time. It is not because any of you are good at your jobs.

  “In your written submissions to me on this matter, not one of you — not one — indicated that you had carefully canvassed the implications of a guilty plea with any one of your clients. You didn’t do that, even though you are required to do that.

  “And, as you should be aware, that would be tantamount to a fraud on the court. And a fraud on the court represents a miscarriage of justice. And a miscarriage of justice would serve to bring the administration of justice into disrepute. And I will be damned, by God, if justice is brought into disrepute on my watch, in my court. Even with clients as clearly despicable as yours.”

  “That is what I intend to rule. Now, all of you head into Courtroom 200 before I change my mind.”

  They did, quickly.

  In Courtroom 200, the three skinheads were slumped in the prisoner’s box, with lots of police and security flanking them on either side. The four of us — me, X, Patti, and X’s dad — along with McLeod, were the only ones in the visitor’s gallery. Judge O’Sullivan and his clerk stepped briskly into court, and all of us stood up. The skins didn’t.

  From the bench, over the top of his reading glasses, O’Sullivan peered at the accused with open disdain. “I won’t ask you to stand, gentlemen, because I know you do not have any respect for this court,” he said. “I would say that the feeling is decidedly mutual, but I think you know that already.”

  O’Sullivan looked down at the papers in front of him and continued: “I have received the submissions of counsel. As is well established, the court is always under a duty to inquire as to the validity of guilty pleas entered before it. The court is not bound to always accept guilty pleas, particularly in cases where the charges are very serious. The charges here, murder, are the most serious. In cases like these, there cannot be a superficial acceptance of responsibility. The accused must be competent, their plea must be free and voluntary, and there must be a factual basis for the plea they have made.” There was a long pause before he continued. “I also note that the accused must not be coerced into making the guilty plea.”

  Oh, no. Here goes.

  At this, O’Sullivan stopped and looked up at the skinheads. For the first time, the sneers had slipped off the pale, sociopathic faces of Bauer, Wojcik, and Babic. For the first time, they seemed really, really uncomfortable about something. They seemed afraid, even.

  I looked around. Like O’Sullivan, like Martin, X wasn’t surprised, at all. He had his arms crossed and his expression seemed to be saying Knew it.

  O’Sullivan squinted down at his notes. He quickly mentioned a few relevant cases, and then he glared at the prisoner’s box. “This court considers that accepting the guilty pleas would represent a miscarriage of justice, and would bring the administration of justice into disrepute. As such, gentlemen, your plea is struck from the record, and you are, for now, free to go, pending the assault matter that is within the jurisdiction of district court. Good day.”

  And with that, O’Sullivan brought down his gavel, stood up, and swept out the courtroom, his clerk hustling after him.

  C H A P T E R 42

  North American punk rockers between the years 1977 and 1979 didn’t know much about organizing protests. In those days, we were way more busy trying to avoid getting the shit kicked out of us. And getting together in one place often led to beatings.

  Britain’s Rock Against Racism gigs and rallies inspired North American punks, however. Tens of thousands of Brit punks showed up to those. Those rallies reminded us that there was, as X said, punk strength in punk numbers. And the decision of Maine’s judicial system to put Martin Bauer, Peter Wojcik, and Dragomir Babic back on the street gave us a really good reason to come together in great numbers.

  Three neo-Nazi skinheads who had admitted they were guilty of murder had been set free. Even though X, me, and the Upchucks believed the skins were probably blameless in the murders of our friends, the overwhelming majority of Portland punks felt otherwise. Same with the public. All over town, all over the state, the three skinheads were considered guilty as charged, throw away the key.

  There was real, honest-to-god outrage, then, when they were let go. Local labor unions, feminists, and environmental groups — along with student leaders from the University of Maine and a half-dozen area high schools — were super pissed off, too, and they wanted everyone to know it.

  So, at noon on the Friday following the judge’s decision, about three hundred people assembled outside the main doors of the district courthouse on Federal Street, and plenty of others gathered in Lincoln Park, directly across the street. In the crowd were X’s parents, as well as various siblings and relatives of Jimmy Cleary, Mark Upton, and Danny O’Heran. It was a sunny kind of a day, not too cold, and none of us had bothered to obtain a permit, on purpose. The Portland police, as a result, were out in full force. A half-dozen of them had donned riot gear.

  They look fucking ridiculous. Morons.

  X and I silently observed the stupid cops as labor organizers tested their bullhorns on the courthouse steps. In all, there were about two dozen officers there, but no sign of either Murphy or Savoie.

  Two men stood near the line of cops, both with short, cropped hair and wearing long coats. We pegged them as detectives right away. When they saw us, they walked straight over. The first one, who had black hair and an easy manner about him, extended his hand. “Hello, boys,” he said, smiling. “My name is Richard Chow. I’m a detective with Portland PD. This is my colleague, D
etective Steve Wright. We’ve been assigned to investigate the threats some of you have been receiving. I believe Sharon Martin may have told you about us.”

  I shook Detective Chow’s hand, then Wright’s. X, reluctantly, did likewise.

  When Detective Chow spoke again, it was to X: “I think you might know my sons. They like the same music you do.”

  X nodded. “We’ve met them,” he said. “They’re smart guys. You must be proud of them.”

  “Yes, I am,” the detective said, smiling and pulling his glove back on. “Their mother and I are also interested in keeping them safe and sound. So we have a personal interest, you might say, in ensuring that these crimes get solved and ensuring the bad guys get put away.”

  “Us, too,” I said.

  “Good,” Detective Chow said, waving a gloved hand in the direction of the gathering crowd of protesters. “I understand you boys helped to organize this rally or protest or whatever it is?”

  “Protest,” I said. “We want to protest the way in which the justice system has botched solving the murders of our friends. And other stuff, too.”

  “I understand,” Chow said. “You have that right, although it would have been better if you’d obtained a permit. But I suspect you did that on purpose, maybe to provoke a confrontation?” He smiled.

  “We don’t like asking for permission,” X said, his voice even.

  “So I’ve heard,” Chow said, still smiling. “In any event, you have my word that we won’t intervene if people remain peaceful. We would only ask that you stay off Federal Street and keep open a path for pedestrians. And that you get a permit for your next protest. All right?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Good, good,” Chow said. “So, have a nice protest, and Steve and I look forward to meeting with you to discuss the unpleasant material you have been receiving. Good day.”

  With that, the two detectives walked off and started talking to some of the uniformed officers.

  At that moment, the Upchuck sisters appeared with Mike the bouncer. He was wearing biker boots, a biker jacket, and his FTW T-shirt, and looking completely out of place. “Look what we found,” Sister Betty said, an arm hooked through Mike’s. “Our friend here wants to protest, too.”

  We exchanged handshakes with Mike. “Really?” I asked. “What do you want to protest?”

  “Everything in general,” Mike said. “But cops in particular.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” I said. “We generally hate everything, and we hate cops in particular.”

  “Sign me up,” Mike said, as the first of the sort-of spontaneous speeches began. The protestors started moving toward the courthouse steps, applauding the first speaker. X looked around. There were probably more than four hundred protestors now, and about three dozen police. For law-and-order Portland, which had never been big on protests of any type, that many rabble-rousers showing up on a cold winter morning was a huge deal. So, there were three TV news crews shooting video for the local CBS and NBC affiliates and what looked like about a dozen print and radio reporters, too, watching everything carefully. Ron McLeod was one of them.

  Around the courthouse, in the windows of the dull old office towers that housed myriad State of Maine public servants, people were looking down at the motley crew of punks, unionists, students, and average citizens. Some of the protestors were carrying signs. “NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE,” some read. “SMASH RACISM AND FASCISM,” declared a few others. One sign was attracting a lot of cameras: “COPS AND KLAN, HAND IN HAND.” Leah Yeomanson, the drummer with the Punk Rock Virgins, was carrying it. Cops were glaring at her.

  “Leah’s sign sure is edgy,” X said, looking amused.

  “I dig it,” I said.

  As a bearded, burly local labor leader started to speak, attacking the outcome of the skinhead prosecutions, another labor guy approached X. He introduced himself as Jim Muretich, with the American Labor Congress. “We were wondering if you could say a few words, Chris,” Muretich said. “A lot of the people here are your friends.”

  “It’s X,” he said, “and I’m not much of a public speaker. What do you want me to say?”

  “Sorry … X,” Muretich said, smiling. “Say what you want. Say why you and your friends are here.”

  I nudged him. “C’mon man, do it. You’ll do good.” Mike and Sister Betty nodded. Patti leaned closer. “You should do this, babe,” she said. “It’s important.”

  X looked at Patti and me for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, I’ll say something.”

  Three union leaders, three student leaders, and one antiracism activist spoke, yelling well-intentioned stuff about the rise of organized racism and how unjust the U.S. justice system was, blah blah blah.

  When it was X’s turn, he jogged up the steps and took the megaphone from Muretich. Dozens of punks started to shout: “X! X! X! X! X!”

  When the shouting died down, he held the megaphone up. “Hi, guys,” he said, as the punks shouted greetings back at him. “My name is X. And, as God is my witness, I say to the bastard who killed my friends, and who is probably listening to us right now …” He paused, looking toward the street. Detective Chow was furiously shaking his head back and forth, clearly unhappy.

  “I swear that we are going to find you, and we are going to end you.”

  Oh, boy. Here we go.

  C H A P T E R 43

  The reopening of Gary’s wasn’t a super big deal. No hoopla, mainly because the owners didn’t ever want to spend any money they didn’t have to. The signing of the Hot Nasties to Stiff Records, however, was a big, big deal for all of us.

  It was fucking huge. Stiff Records!

  Stiff was a British independent label. Without it, punk rock wouldn’t have attracted so much attention at the start — or, possibly, even existed. Formed in 1976, Stiff wasn’t affiliated with the great big multinationals who insisted on dropping coma-inducing corporate crap on the uncritical masses. “If it ain’t Stiff, it ain’t worth a fuck,” was Stiff’s unofficial slogan, which the media always reprinted with asterisks, which fooled no one. Stiff was indisputably punk.

  To us punks in the hinterland, in remote places like Portland, Maine, Stiff’s slogan was also the truth. If it wasn’t on Stiff, it usually wasn’t worth listening to.

  Elvis Costello, Nick Lowe, the Damned, Wreckless Eric, Ian Dury, Madness, Devo, and many other punk or new wave acts signed to Stiff in the early days. The signing of Akron, Ohio’s Devo was, for North American punks, an important event, even though Devo’s music could be occasionally irritating (“Kiss for college kids,” Robert Christgau hilariously wrote in Creem). It was important because it meant that Stiff — and the very few other labels like it — were prepared to sign punk and new wave bands who weren’t British. North American bands, even.

  Like, say, the Hot Nasties!

  The label had first heard about the Nasties in the pages of the New Musical Express in November, when no less than Charles Shaar Murray had written that positive one-paragraph review of the band. After that, however, the Nasties had only appeared in sensational media reports about the Portland punk rock murders, or when Jimmy Cleary was referenced as the band’s deceased lead singer. So Stiff’s guys sent away for The Invasion of the Tribbles EP — and after giving it a spin, they wanted to sign them.

  Stiff’s Jake Riviera and the Nasties’ Sam Shiller shared a couple of late-night phone calls about the band’s future. At first, Sam had said that the band couldn’t go on without its lead singer and cofounder. Riviera, a legend who had managed pub rockers Dr. Feelgood, among others, encouraged the band to stick together and keep at it. “We want to remix and rerelease the Nasties’ extended play over here,” Riviera said over the phone. “If it does well, we would look at some more singles and maybe an album. A tour would be a good idea, too.”

  But to do a tour and more recording, the Nasties
needed a new lead singer. Initially, Sam, Eddie, and Luke considered everyone from X to the Modern Minds’ Moe Berg. But, after apparently little debate, they settled on the only punk they apparently felt could do it right.

  Me.

  I knew every Nasties chord and lyric, true. I had seen the band at every single show they had ever played, true. And, while the Social Blemishes’ style was more chaotic and noisy than the Hot Nasties tight pop-punk stuff, they felt I was a good enough singer and rhythm guitarist to fit in. I was the logical choice, they told me.

  But I wasn’t so sure. It was a big step, filling Jimmy’s shoes. So me, Sam, Eddie, Luke, X, and the Upchucks met for a historic punk rock summit in the basement at Sound Swap. “How could I ever replace Jimmy?” I asked, shaking my head. “It’s fucking impossible. It can’t be done. It’s insane.”

  “Brother, we’re not asking you to be Jimmy,” Sam said. “Nobody could ever replace Jimmy. We want you to be you.”

  “Our sound was never going to be the same after losing Jimmy,” Luke said, sitting on the wooden stairs down to the basement, cradling the brand-new Fender Bullet bass he bought after Stiff came calling. “We knew if we stayed together, everything would have to change. We can’t go back to what we were.”

  I was still unsure. I looked at X and the Upchucks. “What do you guys think?”

  “Kurt, after Danny got put in the hospital, you weren’t even going to keep the Blemishes going,” Sister Betty said, while Patti nodded her head. “This makes sense. I mean, fuck, it’s Stiff Records.”

  X, with his arms folded and sitting on Sound Swap’s stairs, looked at me. “Chances like this don’t come along very often, brother,” he said, his voice low. “You know what Jimmy would have said.”

  I wish Jimmy was here. I fucking miss him so, so much.