The manual offered advice on wreaking violence on clinics, blockading, acid attacks, arson, bomb making. When the siege ended, most protesters returned to their homes, and lives. Jim? The cause was his life, and he had no home. His lists of aliases continued to grow, a tactical move, but also, perhaps, a sign that his identity had ceased to rest on firm ground even in his own mind. He was a chameleon. He was John Doe, James Charles Copp, John Kapp, Clyde Swenson, Clyde Swanson, Jack Cotty, Jack Crotty, John Kopp, Jacob Koch, Charles Cooper, John Capp, Jim Cobb, James Cobb, Samuel E. Weinstein, Jacob I. Croninger, Enoch A. Guettler, Jonathan H. Henderson, Samuel E. Blanton, Soloman E. Aranburg, Aaron A. Bernstein, Eli A. Hochenleit, Dwight Hanson, K. Jawes Gavin, P. Anastation, and B. James Milton.
On January 28, 1989, Jim was arrested at a protest in Woodbridge, New Jersey. Later that year, he attempted to realize the destiny he had long pondered, converting to Catholicism. He turned to a priest, who was based at a reputable university, to oversee the process. But first Jim had some views he wanted to air with the priest. He wanted to talk about the notion of unjust laws in the eyes of God, and what the committed Catholic should do when an unjust law is forced upon the people. The priest listened and was concerned. He already knew that Jim Kopp had been rejected for conversion by another priest, due to his views on fighting abortion. This man, Kopp, was sounding like someone who wanted to be an avenger for the pro-life cause, perhaps use extreme violence towards that end.
“Jim,” said the priest, “the Catholic Church does not tolerate, nor does it condone, in any way, shape or form, deadly violence.”
Of course not. Jim knew that was the official position. The priest was obligated to tell him that. Jim understood perfectly. There was a concept that he thought about often. He called it “Romanita.” To him it meant a way of talking to another person strategically, using ambiguity, even deception, to further a just cause. A way to tell someone what they need to hear, for their own good, and for the good of the unborn. Jim used it himself all the time.
Yes, yes, certainly, the Catholic Church does not condone violence, ever. Romanita. And the U.S. government has a law forbidding foreign assassinations. There is the official position, and the practical necessities that flow beneath it. International law says you don’t injure or kill civilians in wartime, either. Right. Jim Kopp’s father had seen, firsthand, how that precept was applied when he was based in Hiroshima for the occupation after the atomic bombs were dropped. “Thou shalt not kill?” An official position of God, if you will, but if you could roll back history, and give a good Christian the opportunity to shoot and kill Hitler, and thus prevent the Holocaust, that Christian would in fact have been honoring the spirit of the Sixth Commandment by pulling the trigger—he would be saving lives, preventing murder. But no, of course, a Christian must never hurt, or kill, another person. Romanita. The priest supervised and oversaw James Charles Kopp’s conversion. He was now a Roman Catholic. Today, the priest asks that his name not be made public.
Rome, Italy
September 19, 1989
“Hail Mary, full of grace…” The group of pro-lifers sat outside the hospital singing the rosary as Italian police looked on. Jim Kopp knew the Latin version. “Ave Maria, gratia plena…” It was a big crowd, activists from 19 countries had made the trip. There was a group from Canada, including two men from British Columbia named Maurice Lewis and Barrie Norman. Barrie was 41 years old, from Vancouver. He noticed that Jimmy Kopp was there. The Dog! The next day the Italian papers ran with the news: “American anti-abortionist commandos invaded San Camillo Hospital with the precision of a military operation.” Commandos! Really? It hadn’t gone down quite like that, Barrie Norman reflected, nobody swung down on ropes and took machine guns to anybody. The Italians had quite a flair for embellishment!
The protesters had arrived at six in the morning. San Camillo was the closest abortion-performing hospital to the Vatican, so why not start there? Jim, Barrie and several others walked into the clinic without incident. A nurse came by. One of the protesters spoke Italian. “Dove effettuate gli aborti?” (Where do you do the abortions?) The nurse pointed down the hall. Wonderful, thought Barrie. The rescuers said thank you very much. They went down the hall. A few of them sat in the killing room, others in the hallway. Not exactly the Green Berets swinging into action, eh?
Four or five hours passed. The abortions were put on hold. There were four priests among the rescuers. As everyone waited for the police to be given authority to act, one of the priests went for pizza. Barrie loved telling the tale: Father gets back, everyone grabs a slice, and that included a few of the police officers! Great stuff. The police started making arrests but refused to arrest the priests, simply taking them outside and letting them go, much to the priests’ disappointment. The others were taken to the local police station.
Later in the European pro-life tour, there was a big rescue in Manchester, England. Barrie, Jim and the rest ended up in old Strangways Prison, along with Maurice Lewis and others. Barrie was in cell 20, Jim was across the hall. The protests in Europe and the Philippines were a bonding experience, and jail was where some of the most interesting conversations took place. They sat in their cells, chatted back and forth with each other, prayed. Barrie thought Jimmy Kopp had a dry sense of humor.
There were a couple of times the idea came up. Nothing serious, mind you. Someone would start it, playing a bit, a little black humor. “You could always just shoot the bloody abortionists,” someone would say, maybe even one of the inmates with no allegiance to the rescuers at all. Barrie laughed. So did everyone else. Most everyone. Barrie couldn’t really tell, actually. Couldn’t see everyone in their cells. “You can’t just go around killing people,” Barrie said. “God’s not going to like that a whole heck of a lot. It’s against the Sixth Commandment. Although there’s nothing in there that says you can’t wound them.” Joking—Barrie was joking. Much later, Barrie Norman wondered if perhaps The Dog had taken the joke somewhat differently than the others.
Chapter 7 ~ Loretta
Jim Kopp’s string of arrests continued into the new year. January 6, 1990, in Charleston, West Virginia. January 19, in Toledo. Two days after that, in Pittsburgh. And then he was on the move again, in New Jersey. The phone rang at the home of James Gannon, in Whiting, New Jersey.
“Jay?”
“Hey, Jim, how are you?” replied James Gannon jovially.
“And where are you?”
“Just a couple hours away. Mind if I come by?” “Of course not.”
“Sure?”
“Jim, you know the door is always open, and so is my heart—and for your sake, so is the fridge!”
James Gannon hung up the phone. That was the way he spoke, the kindest, sweetest elderly man you could imagine. If you were nice and polite to Jim Gannon, he would instantly reciprocate, embrace you like a son or daughter. He was in his seventies, white hair, blue eyes, soft hands and a face that was so fair it seemed pink. He enjoyed wearing his University of Michigan ball cap, the navy one with the yellow “M” on the front. “M” for the Virgin Mary, he liked to joke. He was a devout Catholic, lived in the Crestwood Village retirement community.