Outside Looking In by Garry Wills Page A

He and others had fled the draft and were living in a commune with other war protesters (some deserters from the army). They invited me to visit them, and I did. I listened to their stories, ate their frugal meals, played touch football with them.
    When I left, I suggested they call me with any developments in their touchy relationship with the Canadian authorities. They said they could do so only if I left my credit card number with them. That was a mistake. My wife, who pays the bills, soon noticed that a number of calls were going from Canada to other parts of America—apparently the commune members were calling their family and friends on my dollar. But they did not put any other purchases on the card. They were honorable in that respect.
    My wife was also noticing odd sounds on our telephone. She had asked several times that I get any FBI files on me that might exist. She thought the FBI might be tracking the deserters and activists in Canada. I thought it more likely that they would be interested in my ties with the Institute for Policy Studies. When the IPS got its files, they ran to thousands of pages. The FBI had planted an agent in the Institute, posing as a secretary. He rummaged through the refuse of the offices, looking for incriminating papers. He even took used typewriter ribbons to the Bureau, so its lab could reconstitute typed messages. One of the Institute directors, Dick Barnet, liked to get out of the office and walk around Dupont Circle for fresh air. When a visitor wanted to talk, he would suggest they do so while strolling. The FBI plant said that was when crimes were discussed, and the agency should track anyone who went outside with Dick.
    One of the fellows at the Institute with whom I became friendly was Ivanhoe Donaldson, a handsome man from the Caribbean who had been a charismatic firebrand in the civil rights movement. Our relationship got off to a shaky start. He denounced me the first time we met as a collaborator in the extermination of black leaders. What? He said that Esquire had done one of its customary charts on leading figures in any field. This one rated the most influential blacks in America. They were arranged in concentric circles around an inner core. Since this gave the chart the appearance of a bull’s-eye target, Ivanhoe said it was an invitation to shoot at the people being rated.
    I learned that Ivanhoe liked to set people back with challenge on a first meeting. But if you stood up to his bluff, he opened up to you—as he did to me. One night in Washington we went to visit another black leader, who was throwing a party for visiting Africans. One of the guests, a white woman from South Africa, got the Ivanhoe treatment. He denounced her for South Africa’s racial policies. She was foolish enough to say that the policies, though wrong, were understandable. A tense argument followed, which culminated in Ivanhoe’s slapping her. The host went into his bedroom and came out with a pistol, telling Ivanhoe to get out of his apartment. Ivanhoe whispered to me that he could talk the man down, but I should go wait for him in the reception hall of the apartment building. I did so. Shortly after, Ivanhoe came down smiling. I asked if he had smoothed things over. He said, “Of course.” He was a charmer.
    It was late, and I said I had better get my car for a return to Baltimore. He assured me, “No need,” and invited me to stay with him in an apartment he was using. It turned out to be a large and lavish apartment loaned him by a rich backer who was out of town—Ivanhoe had a gift for cultivating wealthy patrons. Later, he became an adviser to Washington mayor Marion Barry, access to whom Ivanhoe used to line his pockets. When the police caught on to what was happening, Ivanhoe was convicted and sent to jail.
    Though I had resisted the idea of requesting FBI files, since others had told me that it is a cumbrous process—you have to prove that you