The Symbionese Liberation Army first gained attention with the murder of Foster, the Negro superintendent of Oakland schools, in November 1973. Some three months later they burst into the national consciousness when they forced their way into the Berkeley apartment of 20-year-old Alice Galton and her fi — ancé, Eric Stump. The heavily armed group beat Stump to the ground and carried a screaming, half — naked Miss Galton from the apartment.
The Mocks refused to divulge where they had spent the last few weeks and vigorously disputed that they had been in hiding. “We were visiting friends,” Mock claimed.
GALTON PRAISES SLA ALLY, URGES GOV’T RESTRAINT
by Dorsey Nebarez EXAMINER STAFF WRITER
(April 11) Examiner Publisher Henry Galton today lent his personal support to a man the F.B.I. says may have aided the radical left-wing Symbionese Liberation Army in its efforts to remain in hiding. The same radical left-wing group on February 4 last year burst into the quiet apartment of Galton’s 20-year-old daughter, Alice, carrying away the struggling co-ed.
Speaking today of Guy Mock and his wife, Randi, who have been sought by the F.B.I. in connection with their activities on behalf of the revolutionary sect, Galton said, “While I do not necessarily agree with Mr. and Mrs. Mock’s political philosophy, I have no reason to believe them to be other than non-violent sincere people. I believe that if they have offered their assistance to members of the S.L.A., it has been for humanitarian reasons.” Referring to a deadly confrontation with law enforcement officials last May 17 in which six of the group’s members were killed in a Southern California ghetto following a botched holdup attempt, Galton added, “After what happened in Los Angeles last year, I think the Mocks were following through on an impulse that many people felt, ourselves included; that it was necessary to safeguard these young people from overzealous police action.” Mock, who holds a Ph.D. from UC-Berkeley, is suspected with his wife of subsequently having aided the surviving members of the S.L.A. by obtaining a “safe house” for the group’s use last year. Sources close to the investigation say that the group may have spent most of the summer at this hideout, located in rural Pennsylvania.
The Mocks, who are not alleged to have participated in any of the S.L.A.’s criminal activities, went into seclusion in February following the issuance of a subpoena seeking their testimony before a federal grand jury, re-emerging on Wednesday to refute news reports that they had fled the country and to justify their involvement with the S.L.A., which Mock described as “completely defensible.” The Mocks and their lawyer, well-known San Francisco attorney Frank Cahalan, have not denied aiding the group but have publicly distanced themselves from the S.L.A.’s violent activities.
Galton also said today that he had urged the government to take under consideration what he called the “special circumstances” of the Mocks when deciding whether to bring charges against the couple. “As one deeply affected by this case, I have contacted both Thomas Polhaus and Taggart Wilde and made a personal appeal to each of them to approach the Mocks with sensitivity to their unique position.” He did not elaborate. Polhaus, the F.B.I. agent in charge of the investigation, has said that the Mocks presently face no criminal charges. Wilde, U.S. Attorney for the Northern District of California, declined to comment.
“YOU DID WHAT?” SAID Lydia.
Hank sat with his feet in a plastic tub filled with fizzy blue liquid that he’d created by dissolving powder from a packet into hot water. He was sitting in the easy chair in his study, with newspapers spread on the floor under and around the tub to protect the carpet.
“I said that I got in touch with Guy Mock through Frank Cahalan.”
“Is that the reason for that ridiculous endorsement you gave him on the front page? I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“The man can tell us something about our daughter.”
“The man is looking for a soft touch, and he’s found one. Just like your good friend. Popeye.”
This actually startled Hank. De mortuis nil nisi bonum. He remained silent for a moment, watching his wife. She stood angled forward on her pelvis, her shoulders hunched and her arms folded and pressed into her abdomen as if she were fighting off stomach cramps. Which perhaps she was. “Popeye died for having helped us out,” he said, finally.
“He died the way those people always have. Ever since I was a child. The papers never even bothered with printing stories about shootings on the colored side of town, there were so many.”
“We won’t argue.”
“Oh, the great friend of the Negro people.”
“Please, you had something you wanted to say about Guy Mock?” Hank lifted his left foot from the tub and examined it. It was glistening with a light blue film, an anklet of blue froth encircling it. The foot itself was wrinkled from its immersion in the hot water. He dropped it back into the tub.
“So convenient that you could just plant something like that on the front page, masquerading as news. And those references to Alice’s being carried off into the night! That’s not how the Chronicle talks about it. The Chronicle calls a spade a spade. They refer to her as what she is: a criminal. I want to know, did you actually utter that execrable nonsense or did you write it down and give it to the reporter?”
“As a matter of fact, Guy Mock wrote it.” Hank lifted his right foot. The water in the tub was begining to grow cold.
“Oh, did he?”
“Yes, he did. He typed out a statement and had it delivered to me and said that if I were sincere about wanting to deal with him then I’d print it on the front page as my own. And I did.”
“Now we let them tell us what to put on the front page.”
“I’ll tell you. I would let Drew and Diane Shepard edit the whole damned paper if it meant I could talk to her myself, see her, make sure she’s all right.”
“I’m sure that’s what they’re counting on. They see you coming. They all see you coming a mile away. Who better to tell them all about what a pushover you are than Daddy’s little girl?”
Hank took the towel he’d draped over one arm of the easy chair and lifted his feet one at a time from the tub and dried them.
“And why are you soaking your feet, you old woman? It makes me sick. You’ve become like an invalid. You’re ridiculous, driving around in a station wagon and soaking your feet like a bartender or a policeman. What happened to the man I married? He lets himself be taken in by little nobodies, and then he comes home and soaks his feet. What’s next, Hank? Dry toast for dinner? You used to be a steak man. I married a steak man, god damn it.”
“I had Chinese food for supper,” said Hank, extending his hands, palms up.
“Well, that, that is not food, Hank. That is exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stood, put on his slippers, and then bent to lift the plastic tub to carry it out to the kitchen.
“This is what I’m talking about,” said Lydia, suddenly animated, her limbs unspooling from the taut center of her body. “This. What are you doing carrying this? Who do you think we are?” Her arm shot out, and she slapped the tub out of Hank’s hands. A cataract of blue liquid arced from the falling vessel, splashing the carpet, the easy chair, and a coffee table covered with books and magazines.