Patterson on a mission - Aaron Patterson

Television cameramen and photographers crouched in the Sanctuary's corners, reminding Adalberto United Methodist Church's mainly Latino parishioners that the man who sat in the fourth pew from the front was a celebrity.

Centro Sin Fronteras, an immigrant rights organization that includes many members of the Humboldt Park church, held rallies and defended him for years, and now Aaron Patterson, distanced from Death Row by only nine days, was free.

Last month, former Coy. George H. Ryan pardoned four Death Row inmates, including Patterson, an African American, the day before commuting the sentences of all 167 Death Row inmates in Illinois. The media blitz that followed has made Patterson famous.

Media-savvy and intent on activism, Patterson, a former gang leader who was sentenced to die for a 1989 murder conviction, is now wielding the weapon of publicity to help the people who helped him.

Under the proud gaze of the parishioners, Patterson--tall, suited and confident--approached the front of the small church in response to an invitation from the Rev. Walter Coleman.

"I just got a phone call from [the] Rev. [James T.] Meeks' [church], asking me to come over there because [Gov. Rod] Blagojevich has stopped by," Patterson said, referring to the newly elected African American state senator from the South Side.

"But I'm staying here, because you were the ones that supported me," he said, leaning comfortably on the podium. A monitoring bracelet, tucked under his sock and restricting him to his home at night, couldn't be seen. Patterson wears it as a condition of parole for another conviction.

"And I just heard that you folks were picketing out at Target tomorrow. And I'll be there. I'll bring as much of the press as possible," he said.

The church's packed house cheered, aided by a few drums and tambourines.

Patterson came out of jail swinging. He said he is working with black and Latino activists, preachers and politicians to get rid of crack houses, exonerate inmates and gain rights for immigrant workers.

Name an issue, and Patterson will respond with a list of 10 people he could call to get even more people to protest the issue--right now. He seems to talk with everyone, follow up with everyone and remember everyone.

He especially seems to remember everyone who helped him and everyone who looked the other way. And now that he's out, Patterson wants to reward those who had faith in him, like the many Latino organizations that supported him even though he was accused of murdering an elderly Hispanic couple.

"We're all in the struggle," Patterson said in a later interview. "African Americans and Latinos have to get together because they want to lock us up, eliminate us."

"They," Patterson said, is the criminal justice system that tortured and sentenced him to die in 1989 for murders Ryan said he did not commit. Patterson was one of many who claimed they were tortured by Chicago Police Cmdr. Jon Burge.

In prison, Patterson spent all the money he received from supporters on postage. He estimates that he wrote hundreds of letters for help each week to people he read about or saw on television.

Members of Centro Sin Fronteras [Center Without Borders) learned of Patterson's case in 1996 when Patterson's mother, Joann, who lives on Chicago's Southeast Side, approached them for help. Chris Bergin, the center's lawyer, soon began legal proceedings on Patterson's behalf. Patterson would call Bergin, collect, once a week to talk about his case.

The center mainly assists Mexicans looking for legal help with immigration or employment. So Patterson's case was rare for Centro Sin Fronteras, but Bergin said his organization never questioned its role in his defense.

Ruth Pena, co-founder of Comite Exigimos Justicia (We Demand Justice Committee), attended a few meetings and rallies for the Aaron Patterson Defense Committee, but didn't have a large role in his defense and had never met him. Still, she was at Northwestern University's School of Law when Ryan announced commutations for all death sentences.

"I saw Aaron across the room, and I went over to congratulate him and introduce myself. But he knew who I was. He said, 'Ruth from Comite!' and he gave me a hug," Pena said. "Then he said, 'Let's make plans. Let's get to work.'"

Four days later, Patterson called Pena and told her that if she wanted more coverage of wrongful convictions, she and family members of inmates could show up at the WGN-TV studios the following morning when he had a one-on-one interview scheduled with the station.

When Patterson got out of his car outside the studios in the next morning's darkness, he heard car doors slam all over the parking lot. Patterson was impressed when he saw that Pena and about 50 others had shown up.

They marched into the building, and Patterson said he demanded that the station also interview Pena and show footage of family members holding photos of their imprisoned loved ones.

"I told them it was me and them or nobody," Patterson said. The station put the whole group on the air.

Pena became involved in the fight against wrongful convictions after her brother, Angel Rodriguez, was jailed for a 1998 murder conviction that was later overturned for lack of evidence. The Chicago Reporter investigated Rodriguez's story in its June 2000 issue and reported his release in October 2000.

Pena, Rodriguez and others in the Latino community believe they should continue working with the black community to gain a voice in the system, which they believe doesn't represent them.

"I'm so much angrier now. I'm volatile, suspicious," Rodriguez said. "[Patterson's] case brought up a lot of emotions for me. It made me sad, angry; that these things happen to us all."

Now that his case is "popular and safe," Patterson said he knows people are trying to use him as a political tool.

"They have an agenda. That's okay--I have an agenda, too," Patterson said. "I have to champion certain causes. 'Help me, and I'll help you.' That's my motto. We'll support those who support us. My whole motive is that [blacks and Latinos] don't go to these prisons to fatten someone's pockets."

During the services at Adalberto Church, Patterson promised to bring the press to the Target in northwest suburban Vernon Hills, where immigrant rights activists and workers planned to protest the firings of Latino workers who had provided social security numbers that didn't match those on file with the federal government.

The next day, he made good on his promise.

Patterson talked to the press while a few members of Centro Sin Fronteras clogged checkout lines by abandoning carts full of merchandise just before they were going to buy them. The rest of the group picketed outside.

Based on the results, he believes the protest was a success. Target executives flew to Chicago the next morning to meet with Centro Sin Fronteras leaders and Latino politicians. And the company has since reinstated some of the employees who were found to have valid social security numbers, Bergin said.

"We're happy to bring anyone back who can show the correct paperwork, and that has happened," said Roger Fox, manager of the Vernon Hills store.

When Patterson recalls the results of that protest, he grins with pride and satisfaction.

"If you need me to be there to draw a little bit more attention to the issue, I'll be there," Patterson said, adding, "I've got an obligation to these people whenever they call."

COPYRIGHT 2003 Community Renewal Society
COPYRIGHT 2003 Gale Group