November 6, 1967
7:00 AM PST
Marty lands the Delorean in Hill Valley Park, where a festival of some sort is being set up. Marty noticed that the circuits were fried. He hides the Delorean behind some trees and decided to tell the Doc of 1967 about it later. Marty walks through Courthouse Square as "Scarborough Fair" by Simon and Garfunkel is playing. Lou's Aerobics is now Lou's Go-Go Bar and there's go-go dancers in the window. Statler Toyota is still Statler Toyota. The Graduate was playing at the Essex Theater.
Conservatively dressed pedestrians notice Marty and his hippie attire. They give him dirty looks and many steer wide paths around him. Marty quickly realizes that he sticks out like a sore thumb. No one else, not even teenagers were wearing anything remotely similar.
He walks past a recruiting office. A Sergeant in the doorway scowls at Marty. He walks by a barbershop. It has a sign that says "Keep America Beautiful. Get a haircut." A barber in the doorway gestures his scissors invitingly at Marty. Marty shakes his head and walks on. He didn't understand why that barber wanted Marty to get a haircut. He thought his hair was pretty short, particularly for this era.
He walks past the record store that was advertising records, 8-track tapes, and live concert tickets for Janis Joplin, The Doors, and Jimi Hendrix.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turns around to see Officer Reese.
"New in town?" questioned Reese.
"Uh, well, yeah, sort of," answered Marty, nervously.
"What's your name?" asked Reese.
"Marty," replied Marty.
"Marty what?" questioned Reese.
"Uh, did I do something wrong?" questioned Marty.
"It depends," said Reese. "Around here, sneaking into a festival without paying suggests vagrancy. Let's see some ID, Marty. Like your driver's license."
"Uh, well," explained Marty. "I don't have one with me right now."
"How about a school ID?" said Reese. "Or a draft card. You must have a draft card."
"Uh, no..." said Marty.
"You don't have a draft card?" questioned Reese.
"What, is there a law against that or something?" Marty questioned.
Reese gives Marty a dirty look and handcuffs him.
"You can't do this," shouted Marty. "I'm only seventeen years old." That's technically true.
"Sure, you are, kid," sneered Reese.
"You don't believe I'm seventeen," said Marty. "But you call me 'kid.' Which one is it?" Marty never thought of himself as looking older than he was.
"That hippie has a real attitude problem," said a voice. Marty turned around and saw that it was Mr. Strickland, his school principal.
"If it were up to me," said Strickland. "All of these slackers would be shipped off to Vietnam."
"I agree with you, Steve," said Reese. "But unfortunately, the only way they can go is if they're enlisted or given a draft notice."
Later, in Hill Valley Jail, a cell door slams shut on Marty. Reese looks on as the Police Chief lays down the law.
"Violation of the Selective Service Act is a serious federal crime, kid," the police chief explained. "And we don't like dirty hippie draft resisters in our community. Now you're entitled to a phone call, so why don't you call your parents and get 'em down here."
"I think I should talk to a lawyer," said a sober faced Marty.
"You know what I think, Chief?" said Reese. "I think he's one of those outside agitators."
"I have the right to a lawyer," Marty said stubbornly.
"A lawyer, eh?" said the Chief. "Sure, kid. We'll get you a lawyer. When we get around to it." They walk off leaving Marty alone and scared.
Marty sits in his cell with his head in his hands as he hears approaching footsteps. Marty looks up to see Reese and a thirty-four year old black man with a huge afro.
"Alright," said Reese. "Meet your public defender, Goldie Wilson."
"That's Muhammad Wilson to you," retorted Goldie. Goldie didn't look like a lawyer. He was dressed in bellbottomed jeans with an African shirt and a snaggletooth necklace. The cop snickers and exits, leaving Marty to stare at Goldie.
"What you lookin' at?" asked Goldie. "You don't think a black man can do this job as good as a white man? Well, you're wrong, brother. Black is beautiful, and I'm beautiful. I have worked and sweated and persevered, putting myself through law school, to be the best that I can be. And that makes me the best attorney in this community, and the best legal representation that you can possibly have. Is that understood?"
"What it is, Brother," replied Marty. "What it is." That was slang that people in the '60s didn't understand.
"What is what?" asked Goldie.
"Uh, never mind," said Marty. "Look, I got to get out of here." Goldie looks at Marty's rap sheet.
"No ID, no last name, no draft card," said Goldie. "You're not making this very easy. Now, to get out on bail, you need $500, but you can't get a bond yourself without ID. However, if you come clean on this, I can get you off on vagrancy which is a $50 fine. Just go on the record about who you are."
"I can't," said Marty.
"Man, I am trying to fight for your rights," said Goldie. "But you have to level with me and get down with some facts."
"Alright," Marty sighs. "Here's what you can do. Say that a kid named Marty Mc-Marty is in jail because he doesn't have ID. Get it in the newspaper, on the radio, pass it around. When a certain person I know hears about it, he'll get me out. I hope."
"I can be with that," replied Goldie. "But this cat on the outside's gonna know 'Marty' means you?"
"Uh, well," said Marty. "You could take a picture of me. And use my last name, Tuttle." Marty was thinking of both that one episode of MASH and John Candy's character in the 1985 movie, Volunteers, when he came up with the name.
"Alright, Man," said Goldie. "I'll spread it around."