For nearly fifty years I have cherished a set of photographs taken on the day the jury returned its verdict on the “Doctor Spock Trial,” the federal case against Ben Spock, Bill Coffin, Mitch Goodman, Marc Raskin, and me for conspiracy to help others to violate the draft law. Four of us were found guilty, but Marc was acquitted. Several photos show the four guilty ones grinning from ear to ear, while several other photos show Marc, the innocent one, downcast and close to tears. The four of us felt sorry for him, and tried to cheer him up. “It’s not your fault, Marc, it was a mistake on the part of the jury; you’re as guilty as the rest of us.”
He was, too. He had helped write a draft of “The Call to Resist Authority” and signed it, and he took part in the gathering at the Justice Department building in October 1967 where a couple hundred prominent older men and women publically “aided and abetted” the turning in of draft cards. He knew what he was getting into, and he had strong motives to get into it, for he knew more than nearly everyone else about the war in Vietnam and the real reasons the Kennedy and Johnson administrations were waging it.
We’ll never know just why the jury decided to acquit him. There was some confusion on the prosecution’s part between Marc and his friend Art Waskow, who had taken part in the same events. Some jurymen later told us that they would have liked to acquit us all but the judge gave them so narrow a charge they felt boxed in, but found an excuse to acquit at least one. I’m sure they had no idea they were punishing Marc the most.
When I first met Marc, a few days after I was indicted for being in a conspiracy with him, he struck me as needlessly grim. When we all gathered with our lawyers, he told us he thought the indictment was the opening round of “the decimation of the intelligentsia.” Good heavens, I thought, could this be true? Are we all headed for the concentration camps? Marc must know. (I was also secretly thrilled, as a 23-year-old grad student, to be included among the intelligentsia.) He turned out to be mistaken. Ramsey Clark, the Attorney General, wanted a test case; he was uncomfortable authorizing the prosecution of idealistic draft-refusers and unhappy over the war. No decimation was planned.
Within a couple of weeks, the Tet offensive in Vietnam shook the establishment and exposed its lies. The anti-war movement stiffened and spread. Thousands of people signed statements in solidarity with us, including Martin Luther King, days before he was killed. Lyndon Johnson turned down General Westmorland’s request for two hundred thousand more combat troops, in large part because draft resistance would have made it politically impossible. Then Johnson announced he was through. All this before our trial began in the spring.
So Marc was in a better mood when we showed up in Boston federal court, and I remember him as always good company, friendly, nudgy, funny, sometimes surprisingly sure of himself but more often ready to admit he didn’t know quite what was going on but with no shortage of ideas to try this or try that to see what would come of it. His mind was bubbly with ideas, and he was always telling me to get in touch with this person or that, like a good yenta, or reading this book or that review.
Years later, when I was on leave from teaching, I stayed with him for a few weeks in Washington, weeks I will always remember for his gracious and warm hospitality during a difficult time for him personally. He made sure I met everyone, went everywhere, and got up to speed with his latest brainstorms. He even gave me piano lessons, which I certainly needed, and brought me with him to the Steinway shop where he chose a big concert grand for George McGovern, whose apartment had just been ruined in a fire. The whole staff came out to see who was playing the Barber concerto in their display room. There was always something.
I could see then how large a part he played in the progressive community in Washington. His door was always open, and people were always walking in, just in time to eat something if they didn’t mind eating the usually unhealthy food he was getting ready. (Marc at that time was witheringly sarcastic about fitness freaks. He once overtook me in a car while I was jogging along Connecticut Avenue. “What’s wrong?” he shouted. “Is someone chasing you? Do you need a ride?”) He was glad to see everyone, and everyone was glad to see him. I still remember some of his offhand pearls of wisdom, and I still have a nice pocketful of Jewish jokes from that time, which has enhanced my reputation as a fountain of wit. Though he was at heart a serious man, sometimes speechless with rage or grief at the crimes of the world, when I think of Marc I usually smile. He made it seem right and human and even fun to be an activist in the little community of the left.