Sniper_ The True Story Of Anti-Abortion Killer James Kopp Part 3

[image]Dr. Barnett Slepian "He was scaring my kids. It's not going to happen."

"Couldn't you have found a little less dramatic way of dealing with it?"

"It's not like I spent a lot of time thinking about it. It's the only way I know how."

The campaign against him reached bizarre proportions. Early one morning before dawn a white car with its lights off rolled down the Slepians' street. Someone got out of the car, stole their garbage, and sped away. They were looking for billing records, phone numbers of women considering having an abortion. It turned out the trash thief in this case had been arrested four times for anti-abortion activities. He did it another morning. And another. Bart called the police, but he didn't leave it at that. He waited inside the door one morning. At 6:15 a.m., he saw the car pull up. He sprinted towards it and got the licence number as it squealed away.

He talked to the media about it. "It's kind of bizarre," he said. "They must be looking for anything they can use against me. Hopefully they got the bag full of dirty diapers."

In July 1988, the Democratic Party held its convention in Atlanta. Pro-life activists showed up to grab a share of the media attention. There were more than 350 people arrested and many spent several weeks in jail. Pro-lifers dubbed it "the siege of Atlanta." Jim Kopp was among those arrested, for criminal trespa.s.sing at the Atlanta Surgi-Center. When police asked him his name, Jim, like others being arrested, repeatedly replied: "Baby Doe."

While in jail, activists from around the country networked, gave themselves nicknames. Supporters of the Atlanta protests compared them to the civil rights movement in the 1960s, since pro-lifers believed they were spending time in the same jail where Martin Luther King was once held. It was here that the early pages of the Army of G.o.d Manual were drafted. The manual would become a bible for the radical fringe of the movement. It was never clear who auth.o.r.ed the doc.u.ment, which underwent revisions after Atlanta. Some of the pa.s.sages sounded like Jim's voice: "Once an activist is married, and especially after having children, the constraints of parenthood are profound. Compa.s.sion for one's own brood will curtail the level of covert activity-and a lot of other activity, as well!"

The manual offered advice on wreaking violence on clinics, blockading, acid attacks, arson, bomb making. When the siege ended, most protesters returned to their homes, and lives. Jim? The cause was his life, and he had no home. His lists of aliases continued to grow, a tactical move, but also, perhaps, a sign that his ident.i.ty had ceased to rest on firm ground even in his own mind. He was a chameleon. He was John Doe, James Charles Copp, John Kapp, Clyde Swenson, Clyde Swanson, Jack Cotty, Jack Crotty, John Kopp, Jacob Koch, Charles Cooper, John Capp, Jim Cobb, James Cobb, Samuel E. Weinstein, Jacob I. Croninger, Enoch A. Guettler, Jonathan H. Henderson, Samuel E. Blanton, Soloman E. Aranburg, Aaron A. Bernstein, Eli A. Hochenleit, Dwight Hanson, K. Jawes Gavin, P. Anastation, and B. James Milton.

On January 28, 1989, Jim was arrested at a protest in Woodbridge, New Jersey. Later that year, he attempted to realize the destiny he had long pondered, converting to Catholicism. He turned to a priest, who was based at a reputable university, to oversee the process. But first Jim had some views he wanted to air with the priest. He wanted to talk about the notion of unjust laws in the eyes of G.o.d, and what the committed Catholic should do when an unjust law is forced upon the people. The priest listened and was concerned. He already knew that Jim Kopp had been rejected for conversion by another priest, due to his views on fighting abortion. This man, Kopp, was sounding like someone who wanted to be an avenger for the pro-life cause, perhaps use extreme violence towards that end.

"Jim," said the priest, "the Catholic Church does not tolerate, nor does it condone, in any way, shape or form, deadly violence."

Of course not. Jim knew that was the official position. The priest was obligated to tell him that. Jim understood perfectly. There was a concept that he thought about often. He called it "Romanita." To him it meant a way of talking to another person strategically, using ambiguity, even deception, to further a just cause. A way to tell someone what they need to hear, for their own good, and for the good of the unborn. Jim used it himself all the time.

Yes, yes, certainly, the Catholic Church does not condone violence, ever. Romanita. And the U.S. government has a law forbidding foreign a.s.sa.s.sinations. There is the official position, and the practical necessities that flow beneath it. International law says you don't injure or kill civilians in wartime, either. Right. Jim Kopp's father had seen, firsthand, how that precept was applied when he was based in Hiros.h.i.+ma for the occupation after the atomic bombs were dropped. "Thou shalt not kill?" An official position of G.o.d, if you will, but if you could roll back history, and give a good Christian the opportunity to shoot and kill Hitler, and thus prevent the Holocaust, that Christian would in fact have been honoring the spirit of the Sixth Commandment by pulling the trigger-he would be saving lives, preventing murder. But no, of course, a Christian must never hurt, or kill, another person. Romanita. The priest supervised and oversaw James Charles Kopp's conversion. He was now a Roman Catholic. Today, the priest asks that his name not be made public.

Rome, Italy September 19, 1989 "Hail Mary, full of grace ..." The group of pro-lifers sat outside the hospital singing the rosary as Italian police looked on. Jim Kopp knew the Latin version. "Ave Maria, gratia plena ..." It was a big crowd, activists from 19 countries had made the trip. There was a group from Canada, including two men from British Columbia named Maurice Lewis and Barrie Norman. Barrie was 41 years old, from Vancouver. He noticed that Jimmy Kopp was there. The Dog! The next day the Italian papers ran with the news: "American anti-abortionist commandos invaded San Camillo Hospital with the precision of a military operation." Commandos! Really? It hadn't gone down quite like that, Barrie Norman reflected, n.o.body swung down on ropes and took machine guns to anybody. The Italians had quite a flair for embellishment!

The protesters had arrived at six in the morning. San Camillo was the closest abortion-performing hospital to the Vatican, so why not start there? Jim, Barrie and several others walked into the clinic without incident. A nurse came by. One of the protesters spoke Italian. "Dove effettuate gli aborti?" (Where do you do the abortions?) The nurse pointed down the hall. Wonderful, thought Barrie. The rescuers said thank you very much. They went down the hall. A few of them sat in the killing room, others in the hallway. Not exactly the Green Berets swinging into action, eh?

Four or five hours pa.s.sed. The abortions were put on hold. There were four priests among the rescuers. As everyone waited for the police to be given authority to act, one of the priests went for pizza. Barrie loved telling the tale: Father gets back, everyone grabs a slice, and that included a few of the police officers! Great stuff. The police started making arrests but refused to arrest the priests, simply taking them outside and letting them go, much to the priests' disappointment. The others were taken to the local police station.

Later in the European pro-life tour, there was a big rescue in Manchester, England. Barrie, Jim and the rest ended up in old Strangways Prison, along with Maurice Lewis and others. Barrie was in cell 20, Jim was across the hall. The protests in Europe and the Philippines were a bonding experience, and jail was where some of the most interesting conversations took place. They sat in their cells, chatted back and forth with each other, prayed. Barrie thought Jimmy Kopp had a dry sense of humor.

There were a couple of times the idea came up. Nothing serious, mind you. Someone would start it, playing a bit, a little black humor. "You could always just shoot the b.l.o.o.d.y abortionists," someone would say, maybe even one of the inmates with no allegiance to the rescuers at all. Barrie laughed. So did everyone else. Most everyone. Barrie couldn't really tell, actually. Couldn't see everyone in their cells. "You can't just go around killing people," Barrie said. "G.o.d's not going to like that a whole heck of a lot. It's against the Sixth Commandment. Although there's nothing in there that says you can't wound them." Joking-Barrie was joking. Much later, Barrie Norman wondered if perhaps The Dog had taken the joke somewhat differently than the others.

Chapter 7 ~ Loretta.

Jim Kopp's string of arrests continued into the new year. January 6, 1990, in Charleston, West Virginia. January 19, in Toledo. Two days after that, in Pittsburgh. And then he was on the move again, in New Jersey. The phone rang at the home of James Gannon, in Whiting, New Jersey.

"Jay?"

"Hey, Jim, how are you?" replied James Gannon jovially.

"And where are you?"

"Just a couple hours away. Mind if I come by?" "Of course not."

"Sure?"

"Jim, you know the door is always open, and so is my heart- and for your sake, so is the fridge!"

James Gannon hung up the phone. That was the way he spoke, the kindest, sweetest elderly man you could imagine. If you were nice and polite to Jim Gannon, he would instantly reciprocate, embrace you like a son or daughter. He was in his seventies, white hair, blue eyes, soft hands and a face that was so fair it seemed pink. He enjoyed wearing his University of Michigan ball cap, the navy one with the yellow "M" on the front. "M" for the Virgin Mary, he liked to joke. He was a devout Catholic, lived in the Crestwood Village retirement community.

The previous year, in 1989, Gannon had still just been curious about the workings of Operation Rescue and the pro-life movement. A friend told him there was a rescue about to take place nearby. He told Gannon: you'll see a yellow ribbon around the clinic. Stay outside of the line, and you won't be arrested. Go inside, you'll be arrested. Gannon had just retired. He was looking for a new focus in his life and, perhaps, new friends. Raised on Staten Island, he worked in administration for an engineering firm for 40 years, the last few on the 89th floor of the World Trade Center. His beloved wife had been dead more than 20 years.

Gannon showed up at the rescue. Should he take part, or not? He saw that his friends stood inside the ribbon. He figured that's where he belonged, too. He joined them. Got arrested. His new life was under way. Gannon took part in 14 rescues, went to jail each time. They were exciting days. The night before, they'd all gather at an agreed location, plan, pray. Some of them slept on the floor. No food or drink in the morning, so they could stay locked down at a clinic for as long as possible without needing to use a bathroom. Great memories, great people, he reflected.

It was at a rescue later that year, in West Hartford, where he met Jim Kopp. He would never tell Gannon where he had been or where he was going. But Gannon's door was always open. Eventually Jim had his mail forwarded to Gannon's box. When he stayed at the house the two of them went to ma.s.s at St. Elizabeth Church every day at 8 a.m., protested at the abortion center on Wednesdays and Sat.u.r.days. Gannon didn't dress fancy for church, but Jim, he stood out. Just wore whatever was on his back. They could all tell he was a visitor. Gannon joined the Lambs of Christ pro-life group. Jim called his elderly friend "Jay" for short, an old nickname from their time in jail.

They didn't watch TV together, or talk all that much. Jim did his own thing, went for his walks in the nearby wooded area. His quiet time, he called it. Gannon thought the solitude was good for his friend. Gannon did the cooking. Not that Jim put much emphasis on food, or drink. He was always thinking. Food didn't seem to mean much to him. Ate what was put before him. He had other things on his mind. One night, when Jim was out walking, Gannon heard a knock on the door. The local police who patrolled the retirement community had seen a lanky, bearded man walking slowly by himself not far away and had picked him up.

"He says he's with you," the cop told Gannon.

"Oh yes-he's one of us," Gannon said cheerfully. Kopp's bearded face lit up with a grin.

Days later, Jim was gone, again. It was imperative he remain in the field. He lived for longer stretches in St. Albans, Vermont, with a man named Anthony Kenny and his wife, in a dusty wooden farmhouse with a view of the mountains. Vermont was the setting for a story that Jim was telling. It was an abortion mill in Burlington, Vermont. The operators of the mill were using the drained blood from aborted babies in a Black Ma.s.s satanic ritual. Jim had heard the story. Or read about it. Or maybe it surfaced from somewhere else entirely, from a red-black dimension of his mind's eye where abortion lurked as pure evil.

On March 20, 1990, he was arrested outside the Vermont Women's Health Center in Burlington. Jim was now 36. It was a big protest, 95 arrests. It was a pretty diverse crowd, including his old friend Jay Gannon, as well as young activists new to the cause, women like Jennifer Rock and Amy Boissonneault. Amy was 23, from Fairfax, Vermont. Jim had great affection for her, everyone did. But for Jim there was another-a 27-year-old woman with dark hair and pale green eyes: Loretta Claire Marra, daughter of William Marra, the Fordham professor whom Jim greatly admired. Loretta studied graduate philosophy, was intellectually charged, a spirited conversationalist. Jim had connected with few people, if anyone. Loretta was different.

Her father was a prominent Catholic apologist who founded a radio program in the 1970s called "Where Catholics Meet." In 1988, William Marra ran for the U.S. presidency for the Right To Life Party, winning 20,504 votes-in the middle of the pack among several fringe candidates. Loretta's mother, Marcelle Haricot Marra, had served with the French resistance during the Second World War. The story went that in Normandy, when paratroopers landed far afield of their intended target, she helped lead them back to their destination, and saved many lives. Loretta told her friends that her mother had even received the Croix de Guerre medal from General Charles de Gaulle, and that Rue Marcelle Haricot in Paris was named after her mother. Loretta Marra had much to live up to.

Pro-lifers were mesmerized when she spoke. Loretta was five-foot-six, 130 pounds, an unremarkable appearance at first glance, but up close she drew people in, a pa.s.sionate light flaring in her eyes, always speaking from a place deep in her soul. James Gannon was transfixed, and Jim Kopp as well. Loretta and Jim had an instant rapport, so much in common. Gannon watched the two of them interact, banter, jumping from politics and history to pop culture. It was as though Loretta could hum the first few notes to a song and Jim could pick it right up and continue, he reflected.

In January 1991, Jim and Loretta were arrested together at a protest outside a clinic in Levittown, Long Island. He had invented a new steel, donut-shaped locking device. They used it to lock their feet together to block the door of the clinic. Saving babies, connecting in body and soul. Police needed power tools to separate them.

Back out west, Chuck Kopp had retired at 69. He had been living with his second wife, Lynn, in San Rafael, not far from where Jim's mother, Nancy, still lived in the family house in Marin County. Mid-life and beyond had been a rocky road for Chuck. He nearly lost his job, had problems with drinking, all of it surely exacerbated by the stress created by his affair with Lynn and the divorce from Nancy. He had a stroke. Friends couldn't believe how much he had changed. Chuck, the ex-Marine, who used to be so sharp, seemed gone. One day Jim returned home to visit his father at the hospital, and sat with Lynn in the cafeteria. Jim had not spoken to her for a couple of years. He never warmed to her.

"That last time we talked you said you weren't going to see him any more," Jim said.

"That's how I felt at the time," Lynn told him. "But it reached the point of no return." Jim put his head in his hands, elbows on the table, staring at her, incredulous, and then glowered at her, saying nothing.

Chuck slowly bounced back from the stroke. He kicked his drinking habit. Things were improving, but there remained the problem with his youngest son, and his antics in the anti-abortion movement. Lynn told the story how one night, she and Chuck were out for dinner with Jim's twin brother, Walt, and Chuck's brother, James, from Los Angeles.

"So did you see Jim on TV last night?" asked Walt. The TV news had carried a story about a violent protest at a clinic in the Bay Area. The footage showed Jim arrested after chaining himself to an examining table.

Chuck's lips narrowed. "d.a.m.n fool," he said.

Was it possible that on some level, while shaking his head at his son's behavior, Chuck appreciated Jim's pa.s.sion? If that sentiment did exist, Chuck did not express it to anyone. Jim believed he knew. He looked into his dad's eyes on the occasions when they were together and was certain he saw pride.

In 1991, Chuck picked up and moved with Lynn to her home state of Texas. In September 1992, Lynn persuaded him to go on an Alaskan cruise. Their first port was Juneau. Chuck had a heart attack on board. Just over a week later, he suffered another heart attack, and died at 2:30 a.m. on September 26.

The funeral was held at Trinity Baptist Church in Sherman, Texas. Walter Kopp gave the eulogy, spoke of his dad's military service and legal career. Jim, who was listed as "James C. Kopp of New York City" in the official obituary, was at the service. Outside, at the burial at West Hill Cemetery, Lynn Kopp arranged for the release of colorful balloons. She thought it was a nice touch, there were grandkids there who had never been at a funeral before. Lynn told the story later that Jim turned away, as though angry, refusing to look at the balloons. Maybe he felt it was sacrilegious, she thought. Despite his longtime antipathy towards her, Jim stayed at Lynn's house for ten days. She urged him to start fresh.

"You should do something with your life," she said.

"But I am. And Dad was proud of me," Jim said.

"No, he was distressed by what you were doing."

Jim did not, ever, put stock in Lynn's words. She had broken up his parents' marriage, hurt his mother, and his father. He also did not care for Lynn's recollection of events years later, when she was sought after by journalists for opinions on Jim and the Kopp family. Lynn told stories of how, among other things, Chuck Kopp hit his kids. Lynn claimed she saw a letter that Marty had written about Chuck, recalling a blow she took to her back when she was a girl, saying she had never forgiven him. Hanging out the family's dirty laundry, true or not, only deepened the anger for Lynn that Jim already felt to his core.

Gyn Womenservices Clinic Buffalo, N.Y.

September 28, 1991 "Slepian! You pig!"

Pro-life protesters blocked the clinic's driveway off Main Street as Bart Slepian tried to come to work. A man named Paul Schenck stepped in front of the car, lay down on the pavement. Bart and others at the clinic filed charges. Six of the protesters were ordered to pay more than $100,000 in legal fees incurred by Bart and other doctors and clinic workers. The protesters had been, wrote a federal judge, in contempt of a previous court ruling governing the nature of the protests. U.S. District judge Richard J. Arcara ordered that key Buffalo-area pro-life leaders stay at least 100 yards away from any health clinic.

Bart Slepian did not shrink into the background, he did not have it in him. He gave a speech to health care officials called "It's Not Over Yet: The Rising Tide of Anti-Choice Violence and What You Can Do About It." Bart was a physician, he had no intention of becoming a pro-choice activist. But, intentionally or not, he had become a visible personality in the pro-choice camp.

At the end of the year, in December, for the first time a doctor who provided abortions was shot. Dr. Douglas Karpen was wounded in a parking garage in Houston. Two weeks before that attack, two clinic staffers in Springfield, Missouri, had been wounded by a man wearing a ski mask and wielding a sawed-off shotgun. The shooter in both incidents was never caught.

Fifteen months later marked the first time a physician who provided abortion services was murdered. It happened on March 10, 1993, outside a Pensacola, Florida, clinic. Dr. David Gunn was shot three times in the back and killed by a man named Michael Griffin. Most pro-lifers decried the violence. One man, a Presbyterian minister named Paul Hill, went on the Donahue talk show and defended the shooting, comparing it to killing a n.a.z.i concentration camp doctor. Two weeks after the shooting, Ma.s.sachusetts senator Ted Kennedy introduced a bill to enforce protection of abortion clinics.

On August 19, in Wichita, Kansas, a 38-year-old woman named Rach.e.l.le "Sh.e.l.ley" Shannon walked up to Dr. George Tiller-a physician reviled by pro-lifers as "killer Tiller"-and shot him outside his office. The .25-caliber handgun she fired was never recovered. Shannon was arrested when returning her rental car. Investigators found The Army of G.o.d handbook buried in her backyard. Federal agents hooked her up to a lie detector and asked her about the manual.

"Who is The Mad Gluer?"

"I don't know."

"Who is The Mad Gluer?"

"I don't know."

"Who is Atomic Dog?"

"I don't know. His first name is Steve."

"Is Reverend Michael Bray teaching people how to blow up clinics?"

"I don't know."

Shannon failed the polygraph test and was later convicted of attempted murder and sentenced to 11 years in prison.

The day before the Tiller shooting, meanwhile, Jim Kopp was arrested in San Jose for trespa.s.sing and damaging property, then went north to be with old friends, spent some time in Delaware with his sister, Anne. He would sometimes drop in like that, usually in desperate need of a shower, with just the clothes on his back. On occasion he took Anne's son, Jeff, to a local shooting range for target practice. "I'm thinking about writing a book about my experiences in pro-life," Jim told Anne.

On February 22, 1994, Nancy Kopp, at 72, died from cancer, the same disease that had claimed Jim's sisters Mary and Marty at a young age. Jim had always revered his mother. He compared her capacity for love and healing others to that of Mother Teresa. Her death severed whatever emotional ties that remained for Jim with his boyhood home in the Bay Area. He helped clean out the family home in Marin, but kept little for himself. One of the others (probably Walt, he figured) took the photo of Chuck Kopp with Governor Ronald Reagan. Nancy was buried in Marin Memorial Gardens, in Novato, north of San Francisco, where one of the churches she attended was located. A beautiful spot, the flat stone that covered Nancy's grave lay not far from the markers for Mary and Nancy's mother.

[image]The grave stone for Jim Kopp's mother, Nancy.

The day before Nancy Kopp died, the trial of doctor-killer Michael Griffin began in Pensacola. Pro-lifers demonstrated on a street corner near the courthouse. Among them was Paul Hill, an apologist for Griffin, struggling to keep aloft his sign which read: "Execute Abortionists." Beside him stood Michael Bray, whose profile in the radical pro-life fringe continued to grow. An activist walked up to Hill and chastised him for the violent message on the sign. Hill was "spewing false teaching."

Bray chided Hill's detractor. "So why aren't you out blocking doors?" he said.

Paul Hill drafted and circulated a doc.u.ment pledging support for Griffin and the philosophy of justifiable homicide against abortion providers. It was called the Defensive Action Statement: "We, the undersigned, declare the justice of taking all G.o.dly action necessary to defend innocent human life including the use of force. We proclaim that whatever force is legitimate to defend the life of a born child is legitimate to defend the life of an unborn child."

The list of 31 signatures included Bray and his wife, several other clergy and evangelists, a lawyer, a priest who was at the time in prison. The name of James Charles Kopp did not appear on the pet.i.tion. Romanita.

The White House Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C. May 26, 1994 President Bill Clinton took his seat at the long table in the Roosevelt Room. Media and politicians gathered for the announcement that he had signed a bill into law.

"I'd like to acknowledge the presence here today of David and Wendy Gunn, the children of Dr. David Gunn, from Florida."

He had taken office 16 months earlier, the first pro-choice president since Jimmy Carter, although, as with many things, Bill Clinton took a "nuanced" position on the issue. Abortion, he said, should be "safe, legal and rare."

The new bill was called the Freedom of Access to Clinic Entrances Act, and was intended to bring federal law enforcement into play to stop the "rescues" and intimidation at clinics where women obtained abortion services.

Two months later, on Friday morning, July 22, Paul Hill joined protesters in front of the Pensacola Ladies Center, as he usually did. No rescuing anymore, Clinton had made the stakes too high for most pro-lifers, effectively killing the tactic.

Hill had a lot on his mind. Michael Griffin had apologized for shooting and killing the abortionist. Hill found that morally inconsistent. If given the opportunity, he would not make the same error. There was a new doctor named John Britton replacing Gunn at the clinic.

The next day, Sat.u.r.day afternoon, Paul Hill, his wife Karen, and their three young children went to the beach. He played in the surf with the kids, his thoughts swirling, heart pounding, his eyes nearly tearing up. He prayed for strength. He held each child in the deep water, over their heads, briefly, as they clung to him. "Here, Lord," he thought. "I offer you my children, as Abraham offered you his son."

His inaction to date gnawed at him. Here he had defended use of force on TV, but never taken action himself. On Wednesday he bought a 12-gauge Mosberg pump-action shotgun from Mike's Gun Shop. The firearm was called The Defender, used for close-range shooting. At another gun shop, Hill bought 12-gauge, 2 -inch sh.e.l.ls containing buckshot. Later that day he signed in at a shooting range and practiced, and returned the next day as well.

On Friday, Hill planted white crosses in the gra.s.s just outside the Ladies Center clinic. He was ordered by police to pull them out. He obeyed. At 7:20 a.m. a Nissan pickup carrying Dr. Britton and a security guard pulled up. Paul Hill pulled out The Defender, which had been hidden in a rolled-up pro-life sign he was carrying. Aim, fire. Reload. Aim, fire. In seconds he pumped out seven sh.e.l.ls, spraying the truck with 90 buckshot pellets, shattering windows, killing the doctor and security guard. Then he set the shotgun down on the ground, walked over to the policemen at the scene who were running toward him.

"One thing's for sure," Hill said aloud as he was cuffed. "No babies will be killed here today."

Radical pro-lifers who supported any means to stop abortion admired Hill for taking action. But Paul-Lord keep and nurture his soul-got caught, didn't he? Just like Griffin. The shootings had sent a chill through the abortion industry, but were clumsy, executed in broad daylight. No chance the pro-lifer could get away. Neither Hill nor Griffin had been a soldier. The soldier trains and plans in order to fight, escape, and engage the enemy another day. It would take someone with a razor-sharp mind, a tactician, someone smarter than the police and the FBI, with a military mind-set and a secret agent's discretion, to operate ruthlessly yet in the shadows, to take the battle to a new level.

Chapter 8 ~ Remembrance Day.

The most visible and violent fronts in the abortion war were in the United States. Across the border in Canada, doctors were not being shot. The most serious act of anti-abortion violence in the country had been the 1992 firebombing of the Morgentaler clinic in Toronto. To the extent the pro-life fringe existed in Canada, Vancouver, British Columbia, was the most fertile ground for it. The roots of that lay in peculiarities of the "Left Coast" political culture. It was a province where politics was a contact sport, pa.s.sions running high, as though those arriving from back east took one whiff of the cedar in the air and suddenly became high on it. This extreme political climate gave the province a hardcore religious right that was a Canadian anomaly.