Here Comes Trouble - Michael Moore [115]
“I was once asked this question, when I was seventeen, to come down to D.C. and testify,” I told him, which sounded too weird to explain, so I didn’t. “I just don’t think I’m good for that sort of thing. Plus, the Republicans are coming here in a few weeks for the Republican National Convention. I need to be on top of that. Reagan’s going to ask Jerry Ford to be his vice president.” (Just hours before the convention vote, the former president from Michigan started insisting that Reagan also promise to bring back Henry Kissinger. Reagan then changed his mind at the last minute and went with the surprise pick of George Bush. The future of America’s descent unfolded from that one decision. I don’t have time to get into what happened over the next thirty years. There are other books in libraries where you can read about it.)
On June 20, 1980, the Senate committee voted in favor of the Privacy Protection Act, otherwise known as the “Newsroom Shield Law,” a bill that would prohibit police from ever entering a newsroom unless an actual crime like a robbery or a murder was taking place on the premises. But then the bill was stalled and was not scheduled for a vote of the full Congress. First Amendment groups wondered if it would ever be passed.
One month later, the local police in Boise, Idaho, raided the newsroom of the CBS affiliate in Boise and seized videotapes of a protest so they could find out the identities of those who had participated. The TV station sued and got their own injunction against the Idaho cops. The media around the country covered the story, and politicians in D.C. demanded again that action be taken on the proposed bill. I wrote letters to members of Congress and I did interviews.
And then one day I answered the phone.
“Hello,” the voice with the British (or Irish?) accent said. “I’m looking for Michael Moore.”
“This is Michael Moore,” I said.
“This is John Lennon.”
As I was known by now as a skilled prankster, I was also repeatedly the victim of others’ pranks who were seeking revenge.
“OK, Gary, really funny,” I said. And then I hung up.
Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. It was the Flint City ombudsman, Joe Dupcza.
“You just hung up on John Lennon!” he said sternly. “Why the fuck did you do that?”
“C’mon, Joe,” I said, “are you in on this, too?”
“I’m not in on anything,” he said, getting pissed. “Lennon called me a couple hours ago. I didn’t believe it at first, either. So I don’t blame you. We’re all a little jumpy after this shit.”
“Uh—yeah,” I said. “Thanks for stating the obvious. But how do you know for sure that this was John Lennon?”
“I took his number and told him I’d call him back. Then I ran it.”
“Ran it” is police-speak for taking a phone number or license plate number and running it through a central law enforcement computer to check it out. Joe Dupcza was a Flint cop before he was the ombudsman. John Lennon’s phone number was no doubt well known at the FBI and in their computer. The agency had spent the better part of a decade building a file on him and trying to have him deported.
“I ran it—and it checked out! I mean, holy shit—it was the real fucking John Lennon!”
I felt instantly sick that I had hung up the phone on a Beatle. Jesus, I thought, I’m so discombobulated by what’s been going on, I don’t trust anyone now. Not good.
“We talked for some time,” Dupcza continued. “He read about our case in the paper and has followed it and thought it was awful and wanted to know what he could do to help. Then he asked me for your number.”
Dupcza gave me Lennon’s number so I could call him back in New York, but as soon as I hung up, the phone rang again. This time I could identify the accent. Liverpool.
“Hi, this is John Lennon again,” he said, trying to reassure me.
“I know, I know!” I said apologetically. “I just spoke to the ombudsman. I am soooooo sorry. Please forgive me. It’s just been a little hairy here.”
“No, no, I understand,” he said, still trying to calm me. “I know a little bit about police surveillance making your life a bloody