He issued a final rejoinder to Barket, who had said in his remarks earlier in the day that John Brown had been hung for fighting slavery but today was considered a hero, while the judge who sentenced him was nothing more than an historical footnote. “With regard to the comparison to the John Brown case, Mr. Barket, I will take my chances.”
He looked at Kopp. “It is the judgment of this court, Mr. Kopp, that you be sentenced to an indeterminate sentence having a maximum of life imprisonment. The court hereby imposes a minimum period of 25 years.” Kopp turned to Barket and smiled. D’Amico rose, the crowded courtroom followed suit. And James Charles Kopp was taken away.
“Shame on America! Shame on America!”
The voice of protest outside court belonged to a small black woman named Hettie Pasco. She had picketed for years at the clinic where Slepian had worked. “How about legalizing mass murder in America?” she shouted. “Abortion is a weapon of mass destruction!”
Joe Marusak left Courtroom Number One and strode down the corridor and out of the old building. He did about a halfdozen homicide trials a year. Nothing shocked him anymore, but this one had been the most bizarre trial he had ever worked. He had spent a lot of time analyzing Kopp’s actions and building what in essence was a behavioral profile of the sniper to present in court. But in hindsight, Marusak still didn’t quite know what to make of the man. He had been handed evidence to work with to prove that Kopp had intended to kill. But that was it. It wasn’t his job to understand Kopp. He just needed to prove a fact, and he had done so.
Later, Judge Michael D’Amico relaxed in his office, the adjoining courtroom empty and quiet. He reflected on the case. Kopp was clearly a bright guy, educated. Who knows what forces someone like that into activism—and what throws the switch inside that turns him into Atomic Dog or whatever the hell his name was, he mused. There was something at some point that caused Kopp to surrender his life, essentially, to this cause, and ultimately it led to a martyrdom complex. D’Amico shook his head. Would that complex persist in Kopp’s thinking for the rest of his life? He imagined the convicted man in jail. One day, down the road, it hits him: I’m the one sitting in prison and everyone else is out there, free—my lawyers, allies in America and abroad. They’re all back to normal, and I’m sitting here in prison. And maybe, thought D’Amico, at that point he says, Holy cow—what the hell have I done? Maybe then he realizes he wasn’t so smart.
On the other hand, concluded D’Amico, Kopp might carry his belief in the cause to his grave.
Buffalo Federal Detention Facility
Batavia, N.Y.
Spring 2003
Pitcher stands tall. Count is full. Checks the sign. Into his motion now, leg kick, the follow through, ball popping in the catcher’s mitt. Strike! Jim Kopp sets again. Winds up. Zips his hand through the air, the imaginary ball whizzing over the imaginary plate.
Jim wore his red prisoner’s jumpsuit, shoes with no laces, his face peppered with a sparse rust-colored beard, square metalrimmed bifocal glasses. He worked on his pitching motion in a common room at the federal prison in Batavia, a town of 16,000. Pitching? Kopp’s chronically bad back continued to bother him. He had discovered that going through the baseball pitcher’s motions loosened him up. He did it for long periods while other inmates in the common room looked on.
Set. Pitch. Set.
Back in his cell, he stretched some more. And prayed. And worked on his book, the novel he was writing. Last night he crossed a barrier in plot development. It pleased him. He was also working on an essay about his father. He sang to himself. Joni Mitchell, of course. Time was something Kopp had plenty of. The next step in his legal journey was the federal trial, but that was still a long way off. Would they throw away the key on him? Or perhaps put the death penalty back on the table, in violation of the extradition agreement with France? As far as he was concerned, the executioner’s needle would always be on the table for him, agreement or not. Frequently he had more time to write than paper to write on. On occasion he ran out, took to scribbling his letters in pencil on toilet paper. It’s OK, he advised a correspondent. Just place the paper on a light table to make out the writing.
Some days were better than others. The jail was primarily used for immigration matters. He had been originally held there because his case involved extradition. He felt like a bug under a microscope in prison. The FBI was listening to his phone calls. Reading his mail. He wrote Latin acronyms on the envelopes of his outgoing mail so God might look over them, keep them safe from the Edgars. He had time to think about his life, his future. And his success, to the extent that it might be called success, he thought. Success? His campaign of terror had made an impact. There were doctors less willing to offer abortion services for fear of violence. The doctors Kopp had shot, and allegedly shot, no longer practiced medicine.
There was one notable exception, and it held a considerable irony that even Jim Kopp could appreciate on a certain level. In Vancouver, Dr. Romalis, allegedly one of Kopp’s victims, continued to practice medicine, but had to alter his practice somewhat. He had always delivered babies as part of his practice. A major part, in fact. But delivering babies, like other surgeries, is a physically demanding job. After he was shot in the thigh, he no longer had the physical stamina to deliver babies—it can involve being on your feet a long time. Romalis couldn’t stand long enough. The wound, the hole punched in his leg by the assault rifle, had put a stop to that. So Dr. Garson Romalis could only do procedures that required little time standing. He could perform what are called, in obstetrics phraseology, terminations. Abortions.
Starke, Florida
Summer 2003
Paul Hill awaited his appointment with the end. He had been on death row ever since admitting to murdering Dr. John Britton and a security guard in broad daylight outside a clinic in Pensacola in 1994. He had shown no remorse for his act. He was in good spirits. Radical pro-lifers who supported Hill’s actions continued to keep in touch with him. He even corresponded on occasion with journalists. He returned a letter from a Canadian reporter:
I appreciate your interest in the principles for which I stand. I would be glad to meet you and answer any questions you have… I hope it all works out for you. I am currently in the final stages of writing a book. The working title is Mix My Blood With The Blood Of The Unborn. It presents the best case I can muster, I think it is rather convincing and compelling, for upholding the duty to defend the unborn with the means necessary (as required by the moral law, and as we would defend ourselves). At any rate, I look forward to meeting you.
The date was set for September 3. He was scheduled to be the third inmate executed in Florida that year, and the 57th since the state reinstated capital punishment in 1979. Jim Kopp heard the news that a group of pro-lifers planned to gather at the site of the execution in Starke, to protest the death sentence and show their love and support for Hill, and the unborn. Kopp was excited. He wrote a long letter and had a friend post it on a website, urging pro-lifers to “join him” in Florida. It was titled, “I’m Going Back To Florida.” In part the letter read:
Sometime between now and when we die, we will have a different feeling about how we look at the whole, tragic pro-life capitulation which is taking place right now. And, grudgingly or not, just like Schindler, you will realize that there was something more you could have done, in between rescue and sidewalk work, and what Paul Hill did, and you will realize that you could have and should have done it. Be it forceful or not, “legal” or not, practical or not, efficacious or not. I assure you, the reasons we use to excuse ourselves will pale at the moment of our deaths… Come to Starke because you’re a brand new pro-lifer and clueless. Come to Starke because you’re a burnt-out, old curmudgeon (although I certainly have no direct experience in this matter). Come to Starke to look at blue herons. Just come to Starke. The Lord will take care of the rest… I’m looking forward to seeing you there. I’ll be there in spirit. The rest of me will be very, very sad at a remote location, but my spirit will be with you and Paul and his beautiful and God-chosen family.