On the run -- this time for Congress
Lumberton, North Carolina, is a not-so-sleepy
Southern town that straddles I-95 like a cowpoke on a rail fence.
The seat of Robeson County, within spitting distance of Fort Bragg
and situated on the East's busiest north-south hard-drug and handgun
artery, Lumberton is the postmodern South at its most conflicted:
prideful, peaceful and provincial at heart, and more than a little
violent around the edges.
This is Eddie Hatcher's home.
A Native American (Tuscaroran), openly gay, politically radical
and much-liked (and, by some, much-hated) community organizer,
Hatcher has long been a Robeson County landmark. He raised his
profile 10 years ago, in February 1988, when, half-crazed by what he
calls the corruption and racism of local law enforcement, he and a
fellow activist staged an armed takeover of the local newspaper,
Their intentions were peaceful, and no hostages were hurt. Their
demands of the paper's editors: Investigate drug-dealing cops and
some 26 unsolved murders of Native Americans and African Americans.
The publicity generated by the trial achieved some of these aims.
Hatcher was one of the first people tried under the 1984
Anti-Terrorist Act (as a Native American he qualified as a
"foreigner"). Prepped by activist lawyers William Kunstler and
Ronald Kuby, he represented himself and was acquitted -- no small
accomplishment for a nonwhite gay rad in a Southern courtroom.
But Hatcher isn't the sort to leave well enough alone. When he
persisted in stirring up trouble, initiating a petition drive to
remove the local sheriff, officials responded by reindicting him for
the takeover, this time on state charges. Hatcher jumped bail,
skipping like a flat stone from reservation to reservation across
the country, until he landed at the Soviet consulate in San
Francisco. His asylum request was denied.
Captured, extradited and convicted of kidnapping, Hatcher drew 20
years' hard time. In North Carolina, that can be hard time indeed,
but Hatcher is a survivor, and he continued the struggle for human
rights behind the walls, publishing two newsletters and winning a
landmark lawsuit for Native American religious rights.
I wasn't until he almost died in 1995 that Hatcher learned he was
At first, the prison doctor said his raging fever and shortness
of breath were all in Hatcher's head -- psychosomatic at best,
malingering at worst -- and sent him back to his cellblock. Eddie's
mother, Thelma Clark, made a few frantic calls and eventually got
through to the governor ("at 8 pm on a Saturday night!" Hatcher
recalls). By this time, his CD4 count was down to four, and his
temperature was up to 106. "I was in such pain, I prayed to die," he
Hatcher was finally properly diagnosed with PCP and put on a
21-day antibiotic IV. The second doc also informed Hatcher that he
had AIDS. The pronosis was blunt: "He said, 'There's nothing we can
do. You're going to die.'"
Hatcher, who rarely does what he is told, quit praying to die.
Nursed back to relative health, he left prison on compassionate
release a few months later. "They didn't want me croaking on their
watch" is how Hatcher puts it. He was out on the street with no
money and no insurance. "I had no idea what to do," he says.
Then a phone call saved his life. It was from a social worker at
Duke University's Infectious Disease Center, offering cocktails and
sympathy. In prison, he had refused AZT, but now he signed on to
d4T, 3TC and ritonavir. "I don't have any bad side effects," he
says. "A little nausea, but I learned how to take care of that years
ago in a beer tavern: Drink the juice from a jar of dill pickles."
That was three years ago, and today Hatcher's as much a
troublemaker as ever. Another takeover? "Worse than that," he tells
me, and his eyes have that familiar wicked gleam. "I'm running for
the state legislature," he says.