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How the National Park Service Taught Hallwatch a Lesson in Democratic Values
By Ed Goppelt
Thursday, 07/10/03
(1057607821877)
Like many Philadelphians I watched most of this year's Liberty Medal on TV. Ever since 9-11, tickets have been hard to come by. Of the approximately 2,000 seats at this year's ceremony, just 620 were for the public. Governor Ed Rendell and Mayor John Street have both expressed their regret that limited space and security concerns unfortunately made it impossible to accommodate all those who wanted to attend.
I hadn't planned on watching the event on TV. As a member of the press, I had applied for and been given permission by the National Constitution Center to cover the event. But by 8:30 am the National Park Service had expelled me from the event and I was on my way home.
I had led a letter writing campaign asking Mayor Street and other officials to open the event to the public. In recent years, the event has become a de facto private celebration at public expense: the majority of tickets were given to reward those who had given money--to pay for the the Center and the Liberty Medal itself. Advance publicity for the event hadn't told the public how or where to get tickets.
Yet for all its faults, I am still moved by the Liberty Medal ceremony. As I sat watching the event on my girlfriend's TV, I was struck by the fact that this year's recipient, Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, and ABC TV Anchorman Peter Jennings had chosen the same selection from Judge Learned Hand:
What do we mean when we say that first of all we seek liberty? I often wonder whether we do not rest our hopes too much upon constitutions, upon laws, and upon courts. These are false hopes; believe me, these are false hopes. Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women; when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can save it; no constitution, no law, no court can even do much to help it. Read more of Hand's writings.
Hand never made it to the Supreme Court, yet he is probably one of the greatest judges this Country ever produced. For years he toiled in our nation's judicial bureauacracy, first as a federal district judge, later as an appeals judge. Yet Hand's thoughts on free speech and what citizens should expect from their government and vice-versa continue to be enormously influential.
What would Hand have made of this year's ceremony?
This year's Liberty Medal helped kick off a massive publicity campaign to make the new National Constitution Center known to the nation. But the ceremony ended on a frightening note when a 650 lb piece of scenery fell, narrowly missing Justice O'Connor, and sending Mayor Street, NCC CEO Joe Torsella and other dignitaries to the hospital. In retrospect, it appears that Torsella may have been the most seriously injured, having sustained a potentially life altering head injury.
And what would Hand have said to a reporter being thrown out of a dedication ceremony for counting seats?
I had wanted to see for myself how many seats had been provided for the public. For the first hour and a half I was allowed to count seats undisturbed. I had counted everything but two large bleachers on Arch Street, when a National Park Service Ranger struck up a conversation. He was quickly joined by another Ranger and an NCC staffer. "Hi. May I see your credential? What are you doing?"
I explained.
He couldn't understand the need to count seats. "Weren't you told how many people would be coming?"
Well, yes, I replied, but as a journalist I need to verify the accuracy of what I am told.
I asked if I could continue counting. "Are you here alone or with an organization?" he replied. It began to dawn on me that perhaps this wasn't a routine stop. I had identified myself, told him what I was doing and why I was doing it. Surely, that was enough.
So I stopped answering questions. The Courts have held that the right to remain silent is guaranteed under the Fifth Amendment to our Constitution. What more could he ask of me?
A lot more, it turned out.
"Ok," he said, "Since you refuse to answer questions, I'm revoking your press credential."
"Can I get my bag?" I had left my bag next to Inquirer reporter Sue Snyder and The Philadelphia Independent's Editor and Publisher Mattathias Schwartz.
"Sure," was the Ranger's cheery response: "let's get your bag. That way I can search it. Then we'll go to a tent and I'll ask you some questions."
So I uttered the magic words, the words I have heard on so many times on TV: "I want a lawyer."
It's an odd feeling being shown the door by Park Rangers. For me Rangers always bring back memories of trips to National Parks and Smokey Bear advising us kids how to prevent forest fires.
"Am I free to go?" I asked the National Park Rangers who held my elbows as they hustled me toward the exit.
Unfortunately, these Park Rangers were not like the friendly Smokey I remember from the 1960s. These Rangers were different, angrier. In fact they were loaded for bear.
At least here in Philly, Smokey has been throwing his weight around, telling park visitors that their free speech rights don't apply inside Independence Hall.
Indeed, the National Park Service in Philadelphia has found itself increasingly at odds with the community of which it is supposed to be a part. For example, local Park Service officials fought hard to keep the 500 block of Chestnut Street closed, even in the face of the clear wishes of the Chestnut Street community and ultimately the Mayor of Philadelphia that it reopen.
"Yeah, you're free to go." said the Ranger. "Do you want me to say it again?"
"AM I FREE TO GO?" I asked in a loud voice. People were starting to stare.
The Ranger's decision to eject me was perfectly legal. My press credential from the National Constitution Center clearly stated that it could be revoked at any time for any reason. I can't say I didn't know what the score was when I accepted the credential. But why a museum about our Constitution would seek to restrict the freedom of the press remains an open and troubling question.
Ultimately the Rangers deposited me at the corner of 6th and Arch Streets facing south. No other members of the public were visible--anywhere. Just a few men with sub-machine guns patrolled the street. Thankful that I still live in a free country, I made my way home.
After I got home, I called the Inquirer's city desk and asked them to contact Snyder for me about my bag. About a half hour later, word came back from the city desk:
"Bad news: it's gone. Sue says two men in suits came by and picked it up."
To be continued...
