Five Months Lost

Jailed: Kokayai Baruti Ali-Bey (right) did five months on charges that were unceremoniously dropped.

Photo By: Michael T. Regan

Anti-drug warrior Kokayai Baruti Ali-Bey beats bank-robbery charges.

by Alexa James

Shortly after 8 a.m. on Oct. 15, a police transport van pulled up in front of the District Court in Norristown, Montgomery County. Less than a dozen prisoners, wrists cuffed and ankles shackled, shuffled single file out of the van and into a holding area.

One of the men was 40-year-old Kokayai Baruti Ali-Bey, who, for five months, had been incarcerated in lieu of $100,000 bail on robbery, kidnapping, criminal conspiracy and other charges because police say he attempted to rob a PNC Bank branch in Norristown on May 5.

According to their report, a bank supervisor was leaving her home when an armed, masked black man approached her, pulled her out of the doorway and instructed her to keep the door open since someone was watching to make sure her sister remained inside.

From there, police say, the victim drove herself, the assailant and another masked black man to the bank. The men then allegedly instructed her to open the door, unlock the vault and deactivate the alarm. When she told them other employees were inside, they took her keys and cell phone and fled without stealing anything from the bank.

Today, however, the arrest of Ali-Bey -- a onetime antidrug activist in Philadelphia formerly known as Gene Goodwin -- has attracted some attention from the local American Civil Liberties Union, as the suspect claims he was wrongfully arrested and subject to inhumane treatment, including druggings, while incarcerated.

While waiting for last month's hearing to start, Ali-Bey was visible through a crack in the holding-room door. From there, he saw his wife, who waved, and his 2-year-old son, who was too busy chomping on apple slices to notice.

Facing 10 to 20 years in prison if convicted, Ali-Bey was scheduled to appear before a district justice at 9:30 a.m., but the hearing would never happen because of "uncooperative witnesses," according to Norristown Police Lt. Kevin McKeon.

Since the hearing had already been postponed once, the charging detectives opted not to continue. And just like that, Ali-Bey emerged from the Montgomery County Prison. When he woke up that morning, he was an alleged bank robber and kidnapper. By 1 p.m., he was a free man.

Still, the change of events leaves him wondering how he ended up in jail in the first place.

Ali-Bey first made headlines as a community activist in 1988 when he took on Philadelphia's drug trade. When a 5-year-old boy was shot in the head and killed by a dealer's stray bullet, Ali-Bey organized an antidrug march that then-Mayor Wilson Goode participated in. (Through that event, the seeds for Safe Streets were planted.)

Then, 15 years later, he was involved in the development of a state-of-the-art memorial for young murder victims. The $30 million proposal was well received by both the business community and Mayor Street's office, which offered moral support, but nothing has since materialized.

Founder of the Young Citizens for Social Justice organization, Ali-Bey had been preparing to release two albums before his arrest: one, an assembly of poets and lyricists addressing the industrialized-prison complex and the HIV/AIDS epidemic, and the second, a recorded lecture that he delivered on WURD 900 AM.

But before dawn on May 21, Ali-Bey and his son were sleeping at a friend's home when police arrived to arrest him. According to an affidavit of probable cause issued 15 days earlier, the bank manager's sister, Syreeta West, told Norristown detectives that Ali-Bey asked her several times whether her sister still worked at the bank, and if she had access to the vault. (Ali-Bey says those conversations never occurred.)

He was taken to Curran-Fromhold Correctional Facility (CFCF) under the name of Eugene Goodwin, where he remained until Sept. 15, at which point he was transferred to the Montgomery County Prison in Norristown.

In a series of notarized letters mailed to friends, family and the Police Advisory Commission oversight group from behind bars, Ali-Bey claimed he was denied phone calls and given unwanted medication. Bob Eskind, spokesperson for Philadelphia's prison system, says new inmates are generally given a phone call during their first 24 hours in custody. (He adds that they can have five numbers on their phone list and get 10 free minutes each day, along with 16 collect-call minutes.) Eskind also notes Ali-Bey would have had the right to be informed about all medications he received while incarcerated.

"The question is, did he understand the process?" asks Eskind, adding that the prison staff is equipped to address inmates' concerns and that he was not aware of any malice or neglect. "My expectation is that my staff acted appropriately to take care of this fellow."

This was not Ali-Bey's first run-in with the law.

In March 2002, he was pulled over for running a stop sign in West Philadelphia. Initially refusing to hand over his license and registration, Ali-Bey asked why he'd been stopped.

He said his wallet was tucked into his sock, so he kept his hands up while questioning the officers because he didn't want to look like he was reaching for a weapon.

The officers claimed Ali-Bey was verbally abusive and, according to the police report, when they removed him from his car, Ali-Bey kicked them before he was handcuffed. Ali-Bey countered that he was kicked repeatedly in the head by the officers.

Because those charges were still lingering, Ali-Bey initially went to CFCF after his most recent arrest. There, he struck a deal that knocked aggravated assault charges down to simple assault. With those legal problems now behind him, the former drug-march organizer now must decide whether he'll pursue his allegations against the criminal justice system.

Since his release last month, he has tried to live a paranoia-free life but fears future arrest warrants and more jail time. He's also concerned that anyone could make a statement and pin a crime on him. (He suspects he was framed in the bank-robbery case.) Subsequently, he took his story to the ACLU of Philadelphia, where Legal Director Stefan Presser says the organization is currently reviewing the information.

"It's a complex case," Presser says.

In the meantime, Ali-Bey is constantly switching locations, using different phone numbers to check on his family and attempting to document his experiences in notarized letters.

"I don't know what to do," he says. "What recourse do I have?"