Phil Cohen War Stories: The Siege
Grief at Greif: Workers refuse to be moved during Greif plant protest. Photo/Harry Fisher/The Morning Call
WAR STORIES By Phil Cohen
Editor’s Note: This is the second installment of Phil’s three-part story chronicling “the most action-packed six weeks” of his union organizing career. Part 1 is here. Enjoy!
I received a call from Mill Chair Clara Moser the next morning at 8 am. She frantically told me security guards had been stationed at the plant entrance to prevent me from entering. Management claimed to have video showing me kicking a hole in the wall as I exited on Thursday. I told her to pull everyone off their jobs at 9 and station them in the hallway just inside the glass front door, with her in the lead. I’d engage security and if that didn’t work, I’d give a signal to march everyone outside. I called Tony at his Philadelphia home and told him to ignore all speed limits and join us at the appointed hour.
I arrived in the parking lot nicely dressed and approached the two security guards. It was obvious these muscular young men weren’t ordinary plant security but rather bouncers, rented by the pound.
“I’m sorry sir, but you’re not allowed in the plant. Get back in your vehicle and leave now,” one of them said. I handed him a copy of the contract bookmarked at the Plant Access article.
“I suggest you read this first. I have a legal right as the union representative to visit this facility at my discretion.”
He returned the booklet without reading as his partner drew closer. “I don’t care what it says in there. We’re under instructions from the client not to let you in.”
“I understand perfectly,” I said, stepping back and waved at the door. Three hundred workers came pouring out onto the long patio between the steps and building. I briefly retreated to my car, using the phone to call every newspaper, radio and television station in town and then rejoined folks just as Tony showed up. I led the angry members in boisterous union chants as we awaited the press.
Ten minutes later reporters arrived en mass. We continued raising our fists and chanting as cameras clicked and video rolled. Afterwards I stepped forward and held a press conference.
The two beefy men in uniform stood off to side and seemed unperturbed. They’d done their job. I wasn’t inside the plant.
We held our position once the media departed. By noon we were sweltering under the summer sun. I was not only bored but sweating profusely in my sports coat. I turned to Clara. “Let’s go back inside.”
Workers surrounded me and Tony, transporting us through the front door like a human wave. The guards were caught by surprise but followed us in. One of them attempted to dive over the wall of workers like a defensive lineman to tackle me but a feisty middle-aged Irish woman hit him in the face with her heavy purse.
We made our way to the sewing floor, knowing it was only a matter of minutes before being swarmed by law enforcement. I scanned the area for the best tactical location to make our stand. Lines of sewing machines stretched the length of a city block, leaving several feet of empty space by the back wall. “Everybody between the machines and wall, NOW!” I shouted. “Tony, Clara, help make this happen.”
Within a minute, tightly grouped columns of workers were standing behind parallel rows of five machines, with only narrow aisles available for penetration. “Everybody link arms,” I yelled. “Put your weight in your feet and imagine you weigh a thousand pounds. They can’t remove one of us unless they remove us all!”
Several dozen aggressive police officers and state troopers rushed our position but halted before the machines as several hundred people screamed, “UNION! UNION! UNION! The force of the sound waves seemed to rock the mill and push them back. We continued chanting, raising our volume every time they moved an inch closer. The officers finally left empty handed.
Folks started becoming distracted, facing each other to talk while a few quietly exited, either seeing this as an opportunity to have the rest of the afternoon off, or simply not get arrested. “FOCUS!” I hollered. “We don’t know what’s coming next!”
An attractive young Irish woman with flaming red hair named Maggie, part of the negotiating committee, stood beside me and echoed my call. “FOCUS! You heard the man! FOCUS!”
The police suddenly swarmed us again. We tightly locked arms and resumed shouting UNION!
They finally accepted that forty men couldn’t remove three hundred determined people from a semi-barricaded position without serious bloodshed, resulting in terrible media coverage and outcry from liberal politicians. This was the North where wildcat strikes weren’t considered armed insurrection. The lawmen vanished as if never present.
All that remained was to hold our ground for another couple of hours and then hopefully execute a graceful departure. “FOCUS” became the reminder every time our ranks started to lose cohesion.
I scanned our lines continuously. As the end of normal shift hours approached, an increasing number of people headed toward the door. I sensed our leverage slipping toward the tipping point where we would become vulnerable to law enforcement.
A supervisor approached us from the other end of the plant and told Clara the plant manager wanted to speak with her, offering assurances of a cordial visit and return. I looked at the mill chair. “If you’re comfortable, go do it. It can’t hurt to hear what he has to say. Tell him he can have his plant back if the police agree to stay out of our way.”
Fifteen minutes later, Clara returned with a message from the police: All of us could leave without interference, except for two employees who’d scuffled with officers. They would be arrested.
I stared at the floor and considered our options. Only idiots would initiate physical contact with police during a labor protest. It had potentially compromised the demonstration and our credibility. They’d brought this on themselves. The rest of us had miraculously received a pass to leave in peace with a great union victory under our belts. I took a deep breath and looked up at Clara. “Tell Tommy we all stay in or we all go out.”
As she walked toward the room where the plant manager and lawmen were waiting, we all began shouting, “We all stay in or we all go out!” over and over, loud enough to reach them.
“How do you think they’re gonna respond,” asked Tony.
“I don’t know. Depends how bad Tommy wants his plant back.”
Clara finally returned with an answer: everyone could leave without consequences. We departed in unison and held a short demonstration on the plant steps before heading to our respective vehicles. I remained in the parking lot on my car phone, updating the press about how they’d missed the most interesting part of the event.
The August 21 headline of Allentown’s Morning Call read “GRIEF at GREIF,” adjacent to a huge color photo of protestors chanting with raised fists. Genesco’s executive vice president, Byron Norfleet, responded to reporters by saying, “We’re negotiating in good faith with the union,” claiming “cost cutting” was a legitimate basis for concessions.
I referred to his proposal as “obscene” and coming at a time when the company “is making money hand over fist.” It was game-on in high gear three days after my boots hit the ground. From then on, we were the top news story in Allentown and surrounding counties.
I awoke on Monday morning with the strange realization there was no place for me to go. My entire assignment revolved around being at the plant and I was still locked out. But I was never one to accept inertia. I reached Clara through a company phone and asked her to organize an informational picket in the company’s parking lot for 6 am the next day. Management’s blood would run cold as they feared a second shutdown.
Ernest called to tell me the Joint Board’s litigating attorney had spoken with his counterpart at Greif about the denial of plant access. The parties had agreed to an expedited arbitration followed by summary judgment. In plain English, it meant the issue would be resolved by Wednesday evening. Management must have felt confident that presenting photos of a hole in the wall I’d walked past would be sufficient to label me a saboteur.
On Tuesday morning before dawn, 200 agitated workers accompanied me in the parking lot. As the 7 am reporting hour approached, we were joined by 300 others on their way to work, along with every reporter in a fifty mile radius. Our chants were loud enough to shake the factory’s foundation. I hadn’t envisioned a work stoppage, but allowing late arrivals to fully participate and reporters to complete interviews resulted in production starting an hour late.
The Morning Call again featured a large picket line photo on its front page and we dominated television and radio news. Captain Robert Werts said the state police were investigating trespassing charges against me for Friday’s incursion. “If there’s probable cause for an arrest, then that’s what we’ll do,” he eloquently proclaimed.
The arbitration regarding my right to plant access convened the next morning in the Joint Board’s conference room. I was initially taken aback by the union’s attorney, a frail elderly gentleman who stumbled over his words during opening arguments. But all of his legal theories were on point. Tommy Lacocca took the stand and testified the company had video of me kicking in the wall, as his lawyer distributed photos of the hole. During cross examination, he admitted the video hadn’t been entered into evidence. “I hope the arbitrator recognizes the seriousness of this matter and will take us at our word.”
Byron Norfleet took a different approach, stating I’d been locked out for organizing two work stoppages. He neglected to mention the demonstrations had occurred in response to my access being denied. Adjudicators often have to weigh the credibility of witnesses but calendars don’t lie.
When it was my turn to testify, I explained what actually occurred. “I’m a professional. None of this is personal with me. What possible motive could I have to kick a hole in the wall?”
Following a brief adjournment, the arbitrator rendered his judgment: The employer had violated the contract and my visitation rights should be immediately reinstated. I called the press on my return trip to Allentown and we again made headlines. Tony and I triumphantly toured the plant on Thursday, urging folks to attend the union meeting.
That evening, I entered the Italian Club, used by several unions for meetings. I walked past a long bar, through a smaller room filled with gambling tables and into an enormous auditorium. Within twenty minutes, seats were filled with 400 workers. President John Nush turned on the sound system, opened the meeting and handed me the microphone. After further celebrating our legal victory, using management’s stupidly as comic relief, we formally voted down the employer’s contract proposal. I informed members the union had initiated a boycott against Genesco shoes and that union workers across the country were picketing 91 businesses that sold their footwear. Before adjourning, I instinctively shouted out what was to become my tag line at the end of meetings: HEY GREIF, WE WILL ROCK YOU!!
This assignment was unlike any of my previous campaigns, in that I wasn’t organizing around negotiations and grievance resolutions I was facilitating. I was there for one purpose: hurting Genesco through its subsidiary Greif as ruthlessly and quickly as possible. Bargaining resumed on Friday in the good hands of Bruce, Ernest, John Fox and forty workers from the three plants, but to no avail. Genesco held fast to its concessionary demands as the union berated them for not requesting pay cuts from management and for Greif having sufficient funds to purchase a nonunion plant in Georgia. “They want to put everything on the backs of the worker,” said Ernest in an interview.
I finally got to fly home for a three-day weekend. United had a direct shuttle between Allentown and Raleigh, on a twin engine plane with twelve passenger seats and the pilot visible in his cockpit.
I was behind schedule on my return trip to the airport, exceeding the speed limit by 20 mph and then running toward my departure gate. I observed the unmanned ticket desk and door closing from twenty yards away. I grabbed the announcement phone by the door and publically called out, “Flight 761, please hold your position. A ticketed passenger with health problems has just arrived and needs to board.”
After several minutes, a smiling flight attendant opened the door and led me to my seat.
Read the Next Chapter: The Strike Vote
Phil Cohen spent 30 years in the field as Special Projects Coordinator for Workers United/SEIU, and specialized in defeating professional union busters. He’s the author of Fighting Union Busters in a Carolina Carpet Mill and The Jackson Project: War in the American Workplace.