the police began to handcuff him. The six-foot Robinson suddenly turned and grabbed the officer. The three men punched and kicked each other until finally one of the policemen got his baton against Robinson’s neck and choked the bank robber briefly into unconsciousness.
As they walked out the front door, a large crowd of black people from the neighborhood gathered around. Robinson, his hands cuffed behind his back, his nose streaming blood, stopped suddenly and held his head high. The two officers who were holding his arms came to an abrupt halt. Looking at the crowd, Steven Robinson shouted in a loud voice, “Why are black people without jobs or homes when there is so much money in America’s banks?” Many of the people in the crowd shouted their agreement and a few even began to applaud. The police hurriedly shoved Robinson into the squad car.
James Johnson and Steven Robinson went to trial, respectively, in the spring and summer of 1971. In both trials the political reality of what it means to be black in America became an essential part of the defense. These trials marked the modern development of the black rage defense.
“Black rage” is the term commentators and the media have used to describe a defense strategy that attempts to bring a very particular social reality into the courtroom. But while the term evokes violent, aggressive images, the black rage defense encompasses a broader view of African American life than just rage and violence. It includes pride in one’s heritage. It explains hopelessness and sheds light on the darkness of fear and abuse. Most of all, it says to the American legal system: You cannot convict me without hearing who I am and what shaped me. I was not born with an M-1 carbine in my hands. My childhood dreams did not include robbing a bank.
The black rage defense raises fundamental issues regarding crime, race, and justice. It forces us to grapple with questions the criminal justice system does not want to hear. Why does a person commit a crime? What is society’s responsibility for shaping the person who commits a crime? These and many other questions that lie festering in the juncture between race and the law will be addressed in the following pages. But first we need to get a grasp on the black rage defense. Therefore, let us look in depth at the Steven Robinson case. (The James Johnson case is discussed in chapter 4.)
San Francisco is a city divided up into distinct neighborhoods. After World War II, the city had two primarily black neighborhoods. One was Hunter’s Point, a remote district that was home to the Naval shipyards. The other, near the heart of the city, was called the Fillmore. Running through its heart was Fillmore Street. At one time Fillmore Street had been a thriving business and cultural section. But then urban redevelopment came along and much of the Fillmore ended up being divided into real estate parcels as many black people were moved out. April 4, 1968, the day Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated, marked the death knell for the Fillmore. There was an uprising of black people who as in other cities, burned what was nearest to them. They burned down building after building along Fillmore Street, and for years afterwards the economics of the free market resulted in nothing new being built.
In 1969, among the rubble and vacant lots, a small community school was started. It was called the Malcolm X School, and the teachers taught the children black history and black culture along with a standard curriculum. They tried to instill in the children respect for each other and pride in themselves. Steven Robinson was music director at the school. He loved teaching even though there was no money to pay him.
The school was housed in the back of a church on Fillmore Street, but the church was slated to be torn down and the school needed financial help. Many of the children came to school without breakfast, and the staff could not always provide hot lunches. Steven watched the children trying to learn, reaching out for a better life. He cherished running the music program, integrating traditional African music into the curriculum and making jazz accessible to young minds.
Since the Malcolm X School could not put Steven on salary, he looked elsewhere for employment. Having been trained as a draftsman, he went to many job interviews at architectural firms. But there seemed to be no place for a black draftsman. After a number of failed attempts he sought out the help of the Bay Area Urban League. The League’s veterans’ affairs coordinator thought highly of Steven and was able to obtain a position for him. The work situation turned out to be difficult. He was not accepted by the white employees, and when the firm’s business slowed down he was let go. He got another draftsman’s job, but again he was laid off. In early 1970 he was without work and unable to find a job. He continued his volunteer position at the Malcolm X School, but he became more and more frustrated as he watched the young, gifted black teachers confronting the overwhelming problems of poverty and dislocation.
Fortunately, Steven had met a wonderful woman named Elaine. He took her and her eight-year-old daughter into his heart and the couple was soon married. They lived in a small apartment and struggled to survive. After he became unemployed their situation worsened. Elaine could not find work, and in the fall of 1970 both she and their daughter Kamisha developed a persistent, deep cough. Steven took them to the Blackman’s Free Clinic, where they were examined and given antibiotics. But neither of them got better. Steven worried that they might have tuberculosis like his uncle, and he took them back to the clinic. This time the doctor recommended they see a specialist. But they had no money for a specialist. Elaine asked Steven if she could apply for welfare. His response was angry and bitter. “No wife of mine will ever take the white man’s handout,” he shouted. “I can take care of my family; I’m the man of the house.” They had discussed and argued about accepting welfare before; each time Steven’s pride was wounded and he would retreat into a shell of silence. This time the frustration of days of knocking on doors for jobs that were not to be seemed to rush out of him in a torrent of words. Elaine understood that his failure to provide for them went to the core of his being. There would be no more discussions.
Christmas passed. The New Year brought only more frustration. Steven allowed Elaine to go to Sacred Heart Parish on Fillmore, where Eugene Judge, president of the Sacred Heart Conference, had won the respect of the community for his work. Judge gave Elaine a food package and offered to help obtain a new stove for them. A week later Steven fixed a car for a neighbor. He was paid twenty dollars and given a .22 caliber derringer for the other ten dollars he was owed.
Kamisha’s cough had not gotten better, and now there was a new worry—Elaine was pregnant. Instead of joy and excitement Steven felt only anxiety and anger: anger at himself for failing to protect his family, and at society for limiting his dreams.
Elaine was worried about her husband. He wasn’t acting like himself. They argued. He yelled at Kamisha. He was distant and strange. On the evening of January 21, 1971, Steven left the apartment, simply saying he was going to a friend’s house. He hung out with his friend listening to music until after midnight. Then he started home, but confused, he found himself two miles away, near Golden Gate Park. He fingered the unloaded derringer in his pocket. He thought of robbing a bank. Yes, that way he could take Kamisha and Elaine to a specialist and could buy a new stove. He wandered for a long time, along the streets of the Western Addition and along the confused pathways of his mind. He soon found himself in front of a burned-out, boarded-up building near the bus stop at Eddy and Fillmore streets. That ugly building had been standing like that for two and a half years. The vacant, garbage-filled lots were all around him. Why didn’t white investors build something here? he wondered. Black people needed jobs, needed homes. How many years would the Fillmore stand as a monument to the black rage of 1968 and to the white neglect of always? Steven’s thoughts, usually precise and organized like his drawings, were jumbled and hazy. But his emotions were powerfully clear—rage boiled inside him.
He spent the rest of the night at his friend’s apartment thinking about his father, his own life in Chicago, his failures in San Francisco. He fell asleep in the early morning. Upon waking, he got dressed, grabbed a pillowcase and began walking down Fillmore Street. He saw the Malcolm X School but could not bring himself to go in. He stopped and talked to the hardcore unemployed young black men who hung out in the tiny park on the corner
