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Authors: Stephen Singular
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Falwell had done earlier in Atlanta.
“I am pro-life,” Governor Finney told an adoring crowd. “My hope and prayer is that Wichita’s expression of support for the right to life for unborn babies will be peaceful, prayerful, and united in purpose. I commend you for the orderly manner in which you have conducted the demonstration.”
VII
On August 5, sixty-three more protesters were arrested at Tiller’s clinic and Judge Kelly reached his breaking point. When he ordered Operation Rescue to post a $100,000 “peace bond” for any damages caused, a thousand more abortion foes gathered outside WHCS to chant slogans and block the entrance. Federal marshals moved them aside so that patients could come in for medical care. Terry didn’t want to go back to jail, so he decided to go over Judge Kelly’s head and appeal to a higher authority. He traveled to Kennebunkport, Maine, President George H. W. Bush’s summer home, thinking that Bush would back him. The president refused to see him, but Terry was about to get a boost from U.S. Attorney General Richard Thornburgh. The U.S. Department of Justice, without consulting the White House or the president, filed an amicus brief on behalf of the protesters, calling for Judge Kelly’s most recent order to be overturned.
“I am disgusted with this move by the U.S.,” Judge Kelly told a federal lawyer, “and that it would put its imprimatur on this conduct. I will ask you to please report that to the attorney general personally.”
Kelly then did something sitting judges almost never do, appearing on national television on ABC’s Nightline to vent his feelings. The Department of Justice, he said, had given protesters a “license to mayhem” in Wichita. Without his injunctions, there would be “blood in the streets.”
The Tenth U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals overturned Kelly’s injunction and chided him for speaking out on TV. He soon received three hundred hate calls and had to be protected by U.S. marshals after a protester jumped him during an evening walk near his home. The situation had become too hot for Terry in Wichita, so he skipped the rest of the Summer of Mercy, fearful of getting arrested again. He looked on from afar as a fifteen-year-old girl, along with her five brothers and sisters (one age ten), sat down in front of cars trying to enter Tiller’s clinic. Fortunately, none was hurt. On August 20, thirty protesters charged WHCS and tried to scale the six-foot-high fence. They were arrested, sending Judge Kelly into another outburst.
“It is war,” he thundered from the bench, ordering $10,000 fines for Operation Rescue leaders and $500 fines a day for the next ten days.
In late August, pro-choice activists, who’d been caught off guard by the size and strength of the Summer of Mercy, held their own rally downtown. Five thousand people came out to hear speeches by Eleanor Smeal, head of the Feminist Majority Foundation, Patricia Ireland of the National Organization for Women, and Kate Michelman of the National Abortion Rights Action League.
“Randall Terry, go to jail!” the crowd shouted. “We’re pro-choice and we’ll prevail!”
Wichita was now the base to two angry, committed constituencies at odds in the city streets. Their outrage had culminated in front of Dr. Tiller’s clinic, the first act of a drama that would shape Kansas politics for the next two decades.
On August 25, 1991, as the Summer of Mercy came to a close, 25,000 people joined prayers and voices at the football stadium at Wichita State University.
“We submit today that we will not rest,” Reverend Pat Robertson told the cheering audience, “until every baby in the United States of America is safe in his mother’s womb. We will not rest until the land we love so much is truly, once again, one nation under God.”
A plane flew over the stadium, with a trailing banner that read, “Go home! Wichita is pro-choice!”
The crowd looked up at the sky, rose together as
“I am pro-life,” Governor Finney told an adoring crowd. “My hope and prayer is that Wichita’s expression of support for the right to life for unborn babies will be peaceful, prayerful, and united in purpose. I commend you for the orderly manner in which you have conducted the demonstration.”
VII
On August 5, sixty-three more protesters were arrested at Tiller’s clinic and Judge Kelly reached his breaking point. When he ordered Operation Rescue to post a $100,000 “peace bond” for any damages caused, a thousand more abortion foes gathered outside WHCS to chant slogans and block the entrance. Federal marshals moved them aside so that patients could come in for medical care. Terry didn’t want to go back to jail, so he decided to go over Judge Kelly’s head and appeal to a higher authority. He traveled to Kennebunkport, Maine, President George H. W. Bush’s summer home, thinking that Bush would back him. The president refused to see him, but Terry was about to get a boost from U.S. Attorney General Richard Thornburgh. The U.S. Department of Justice, without consulting the White House or the president, filed an amicus brief on behalf of the protesters, calling for Judge Kelly’s most recent order to be overturned.
“I am disgusted with this move by the U.S.,” Judge Kelly told a federal lawyer, “and that it would put its imprimatur on this conduct. I will ask you to please report that to the attorney general personally.”
Kelly then did something sitting judges almost never do, appearing on national television on ABC’s Nightline to vent his feelings. The Department of Justice, he said, had given protesters a “license to mayhem” in Wichita. Without his injunctions, there would be “blood in the streets.”
The Tenth U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals overturned Kelly’s injunction and chided him for speaking out on TV. He soon received three hundred hate calls and had to be protected by U.S. marshals after a protester jumped him during an evening walk near his home. The situation had become too hot for Terry in Wichita, so he skipped the rest of the Summer of Mercy, fearful of getting arrested again. He looked on from afar as a fifteen-year-old girl, along with her five brothers and sisters (one age ten), sat down in front of cars trying to enter Tiller’s clinic. Fortunately, none was hurt. On August 20, thirty protesters charged WHCS and tried to scale the six-foot-high fence. They were arrested, sending Judge Kelly into another outburst.
“It is war,” he thundered from the bench, ordering $10,000 fines for Operation Rescue leaders and $500 fines a day for the next ten days.
In late August, pro-choice activists, who’d been caught off guard by the size and strength of the Summer of Mercy, held their own rally downtown. Five thousand people came out to hear speeches by Eleanor Smeal, head of the Feminist Majority Foundation, Patricia Ireland of the National Organization for Women, and Kate Michelman of the National Abortion Rights Action League.
“Randall Terry, go to jail!” the crowd shouted. “We’re pro-choice and we’ll prevail!”
Wichita was now the base to two angry, committed constituencies at odds in the city streets. Their outrage had culminated in front of Dr. Tiller’s clinic, the first act of a drama that would shape Kansas politics for the next two decades.
On August 25, 1991, as the Summer of Mercy came to a close, 25,000 people joined prayers and voices at the football stadium at Wichita State University.
“We submit today that we will not rest,” Reverend Pat Robertson told the cheering audience, “until every baby in the United States of America is safe in his mother’s womb. We will not rest until the land we love so much is truly, once again, one nation under God.”
A plane flew over the stadium, with a trailing banner that read, “Go home! Wichita is pro-choice!”
The crowd looked up at the sky, rose together as
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