Read Online A Death in Wichita by Stephen Singular - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen Singular
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Tiller and ran his political action committee, “that these people were not reasonable. If you gave the protesters an inch, they took a mile.”
Even though it was closed, demonstrators gathered outside Tiller’s office, a low cement structure just off Kellogg, a major highway through Wichita. An American flag flew above the clinic and floodlights, a locked gate, and chain-link fence stood at the rear, with electronic surveillance cameras recording everyone who came near. The windows had been covered with bricks and no sign out front announced the nature of the business going on inside Women’s Health Care Services, which looked as bland as possible. Even the address numbers on the face of the building had been partially scraped off. The Wichita police brass believed that closing Tiller’s office and the other clinics would defuse the situation, but it only emboldened Operation Rescue. As Terry proclaimed victory for his troops—who’d now turned Wichita into an “abortion-free city”—thousands more protesters heard the news and headed for south central Kansas.
During its first week, the Summer of Mercy remained mostly peaceful, with the WPD closely watching the protesters and waiting for them to leave town. When that didn’t happen, the cops moved in on Tiller’s clinic, determined to reopen it. As the heat gathered and thickened on the streets, the police came in patrol cars and on horseback, nightsticks at the ready, meeting resistance on every inch of the searing pavement. Across the sidewalk outside Tiller’s office and on the small strip of asphalt running alongside it, protesters lay down and refused to move. When the police showed up at WHCS one morning at six a.m., the anti-abortion forces were already standing seven deep in front of them, waiting to get arrested.
As Terry had hoped, Operation Rescue found a few sympathizers among local law enforcement (some of the cops had relatives participating in the Summer of Mercy and protesting at Tiller’s clinic). Mayor Bob Knight had anti-abortion leanings and Police Chief Rick Stone was a moderate. What Terry hadn’t envisioned was encountering the wrath of Wichita’s U.S. District Judge Patrick Kelly, outraged over the Summer of Mercy. He was committed to keeping Tiller’s clinic open and ordered protesters to stop blocking the clinic WHCS or face a $25,000 penalty for the first offense and twice that for the second.
When presented with a copy of Kelly’s order, Terry threw it on the ground.
“We fear God, the supreme judge of the world,” he said, “more than we fear a federal judge.”
Kelly arrested Terry and jailed him for eight days, sending in federal marshals to keep WHCS in operation.
With more and more anti-abortion evangelicals arriving in Wichita and occupying the streets outside his clinic, Tiller returned to work in a specially armored Chevy Suburban. On July 30, two weeks into the Summer of Mercy, scores of protesters pressed into the WHCS driveway and shoved two dozen marshals and police officers into a fence. By sunset that evening, more than 200 people had been arrested. When Tiller came to his office on August 2, another 100 blocked his entry, including Randall Terry. Freed from jail, he strolled up to the physician’s open car window.
“You can laugh now,” Terry told him, “but you’ll pay someday.”
“Too bad,” the doctor shot back, “your mother’s abortion failed.”
By noon, another 124 people had been arrested at the clinic, but returning home at night was no reprieve for Tiller. For six straight weeks that summer, protesters camped on the dirt road outside his country home and constantly yelled at his wife, children, and friends as they came and went. Before the event was finished, it would generate 2,700 arrests.
At the height of the protest, Kansas’s Republican governor, Joan Finney, traveled to Wichita and offered her backing to the anti-abortion movement, as the Reverends Pat Robertson and Jerry
Even though it was closed, demonstrators gathered outside Tiller’s office, a low cement structure just off Kellogg, a major highway through Wichita. An American flag flew above the clinic and floodlights, a locked gate, and chain-link fence stood at the rear, with electronic surveillance cameras recording everyone who came near. The windows had been covered with bricks and no sign out front announced the nature of the business going on inside Women’s Health Care Services, which looked as bland as possible. Even the address numbers on the face of the building had been partially scraped off. The Wichita police brass believed that closing Tiller’s office and the other clinics would defuse the situation, but it only emboldened Operation Rescue. As Terry proclaimed victory for his troops—who’d now turned Wichita into an “abortion-free city”—thousands more protesters heard the news and headed for south central Kansas.
During its first week, the Summer of Mercy remained mostly peaceful, with the WPD closely watching the protesters and waiting for them to leave town. When that didn’t happen, the cops moved in on Tiller’s clinic, determined to reopen it. As the heat gathered and thickened on the streets, the police came in patrol cars and on horseback, nightsticks at the ready, meeting resistance on every inch of the searing pavement. Across the sidewalk outside Tiller’s office and on the small strip of asphalt running alongside it, protesters lay down and refused to move. When the police showed up at WHCS one morning at six a.m., the anti-abortion forces were already standing seven deep in front of them, waiting to get arrested.
As Terry had hoped, Operation Rescue found a few sympathizers among local law enforcement (some of the cops had relatives participating in the Summer of Mercy and protesting at Tiller’s clinic). Mayor Bob Knight had anti-abortion leanings and Police Chief Rick Stone was a moderate. What Terry hadn’t envisioned was encountering the wrath of Wichita’s U.S. District Judge Patrick Kelly, outraged over the Summer of Mercy. He was committed to keeping Tiller’s clinic open and ordered protesters to stop blocking the clinic WHCS or face a $25,000 penalty for the first offense and twice that for the second.
When presented with a copy of Kelly’s order, Terry threw it on the ground.
“We fear God, the supreme judge of the world,” he said, “more than we fear a federal judge.”
Kelly arrested Terry and jailed him for eight days, sending in federal marshals to keep WHCS in operation.
With more and more anti-abortion evangelicals arriving in Wichita and occupying the streets outside his clinic, Tiller returned to work in a specially armored Chevy Suburban. On July 30, two weeks into the Summer of Mercy, scores of protesters pressed into the WHCS driveway and shoved two dozen marshals and police officers into a fence. By sunset that evening, more than 200 people had been arrested. When Tiller came to his office on August 2, another 100 blocked his entry, including Randall Terry. Freed from jail, he strolled up to the physician’s open car window.
“You can laugh now,” Terry told him, “but you’ll pay someday.”
“Too bad,” the doctor shot back, “your mother’s abortion failed.”
By noon, another 124 people had been arrested at the clinic, but returning home at night was no reprieve for Tiller. For six straight weeks that summer, protesters camped on the dirt road outside his country home and constantly yelled at his wife, children, and friends as they came and went. Before the event was finished, it would generate 2,700 arrests.
At the height of the protest, Kansas’s Republican governor, Joan Finney, traveled to Wichita and offered her backing to the anti-abortion movement, as the Reverends Pat Robertson and Jerry
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