In retrospect, it appears that Millions for Mumia -- the day-long rally in Philadelphia on behalf of Mumia Abu-Jamal, the radio journalist who was convicted and sentenced to death for the 1981 murder of a police officer -- was one of the most hopefully titled mass events since Hands Across America. Turnouts were vastly smaller than organizers expected, and predictions that the protests would bring the city to a standstill were, at the least, inflated.

Still, it wasn't a bust. Nearly 10,000 people showed up in Philly, and more than 15,000 joined a satellite rally in San Francisco. News clips of the event made the national papers and television networks, the biggest burst of publicity for Abu-Jamal's case since a last-minute protest and appeal prevented his execution in 1995. And, if nothing else, the crowds and the passion on Saturday provided ample evidence that the curious phenomenon of Mumia Abu-Jamal continues to grow more, well, curiously phenomenal.

Mumia has long been a cause célèbre, both in the US and overseas. Not all of Abu-Jamal's supporters share the same position on his case, however. His staunchest defenders insist the man is innocent -- framed by police who were angry with his criticism of their department -- and should be freed. But more people, even some who think he is guilty, believe that Abu-Jamal's 1982 trial was flawed and that he deserves a new one. Others support Mumia based on their staunch opposition to capital punishment.

These days, the Mumia movement is a big tent. This is obvious from the moment I arrive in Philadelphia, where I find impeccably dressed Nation of Islam members gathered outside City Hall with socialists, French Communists, Black Panthers, Puerto Rican revolutionaries, gay activists, rappers, Mennonites, college kids, hippies, and anarchists. By traversing a scant few yards, it is possible to purchase a copy of the Nation's The Final Call, a plate of veggie stir-fry, and a Mumia mouse pad. Guilty or innocent, Abu-Jamal -- it is safe to assume -- is the first death-row prisoner to penetrate the lucrative computer-peripherals market.

Mumia's case is a lightning rod for anyone who's got a beef with any part of the government, whether it's the courts, the cops, the tax man, or the military. Other causes are free to piggyback. One of Saturday's most popular signs reads FREE MUMIA/STOP U.S., NATO BOMBING IN YUGOSLAVIA. Says Rage Against the Machine lead singer Zack de la Rocha, one of the rally's many speakers: "A crime is a crime, regardless of whether it's a B-2 bomber over Belgrade or a disgusting sham of a trial."

Vietnam-era speakers only add to the revolutionary feeling. One of the day's MCs is former Black Panther Kathleen Cleaver, who lends an air of authority to the proceedings, like Ted Williams throwing out the first pitch at a Sox game. Not everyone is so well known, though. When the name of Mumia's counsel, Chicago Seven attorney Leonard Weinglass, is announced, I notice that only the graybeards in the crowd yell loudly, as if the Stones were breaking into a chestnut like "2000 Light Years from Home." Weinglass doesn't disappoint the diehards: "Once again, we're being called upon this time to throw our bodies on the machinery of death," he says.

A protest isn't a protest without its battle cries, and Millions for Mumia has plenty. There are a few basic workhorses: "Brick by brick, wall by wall/Free Mumia Abu-Jamal" and "Mumia is fearless/So are we/We won't stop/Until he's free." There's a slightly overblown warning to Pennsylvania's Governor Tom Ridge, who has pledged to sign Mumia's death warrant: "Governor Ridge/You can't hide/We charge you with gen-o-cide." There's also a Mumia-ized version of the rapper DMX's hit song "Ruff Ryders' Anthem": "Stop/Drop/Mumia didn't kill no cop."

The real showstopper, though, is a nice little invitation to riot that goes like this: "If Mumia dies/Then it's fire in the sky." It's a zippy lyric, to be sure, but watching some of those well-scrubbed college students shout it, I wonder what they're going to torch if Abu-Jamal is executed. Abercrombie & Fitch?

The night before the rally, more than 800 people attended a $100-a-plate fundraiser for Justice for Daniel Faulkner, an organization named for the police officer whom Abu-Jamal was convicted of gunning down on the morning of December 9, 1981. At the trial, the prosecution argued that Abu-Jamal shot Faulkner after he came upon the officer in an altercation with his brother, William Cook. Abu-Jamal's supporters claim another shooter killed Faulkner, but the cop's supporters insist that the right man was caught.

The Faulkner event was organized by a local radio talk-show host, and the guest of honor was Maureen Faulkner, the slain officer's widow, who has mounted her own crusade to counter the Mumia movement. Elected Pennsylvania officials in attendance included Governor Ridge, Philadelphia mayor Ed Rendell, and Senator Arlen Specter. None of these folks show for Millions for Mumia.

One of the refreshing things about the Mumia movement is that it doesn't disavow its radical membership. Saturday's speakers include Geronimo ji jaga (Pratt), a Black Panther who was freed last year after 27 years in a California prison on what supporters called a bogus murder rap. Draped in denim and wearing an engineer's cap, ji jaga fires up the crowd with a very politically incorrect plug for packing heat. "I'm one of the strongest supporters of armed struggle," he says. Less inflammatory but equally passionate is Robert Meeropol, who was six years old when his parents, Ethel and Julius Rosenberg, were executed for treason in 1953. "I see Mumia's case as my parents' case happening all over again," he says.

No one here is afraid of saying the impolite thing. Pam Africa, the leader of the International Family and Friends of Mumia and one of the original members of MOVE, the radical group that was bombed after a 1985 standoff with Philadelphia police, decries "God-damned government" (one of her favorite phrases) and its conspiracy to kill Mumia. As she talks, a man behind me keeps shouting, "Fire in the sky! Fire in the sky!"

Mumia is for kids, too. I'm standing next to a guy with a six-foot-tall papier-mâché sculpture of Mumia's head strapped to his shoulders (don't ask; he says he didn't make it) when I hear someone on the nearby "youth stage" barking about students from Massachusetts who walked out of school on Abu-Jamal's behalf. I look up and see Jason Rivera, an 18-year-old junior from Quincy High, strutting around the stage and pumping his fist like a hip-hop star.

A skinny kid with dark brown hair and a wispy mustache, Rivera wins the "How I Extended My April Vacation Thanks to Mumia" contest. He tells me that Quincy school administrators have suspended him for 10 days for his role in organizing a small April 16 Mumia walkout. "They wanted to make an example of me," Rivera says. Unless his mother can secure a last-minute commutation, Rivera -- who says he has never gotten into any disciplinary trouble in school in the past -- will be out for two more weeks. "[Mom's] pissed," he says.

The rally features some pretty good signs, too. There's VEGANS FOR MUMIA, TEXAS ANARCHISTS FOR MUMIA, the graceful FREE MUMIA OR GO FUCK YOURSELF, the double-barreled FREE MUMIA/FUCK THE POLICE, the strange DOES THE GHOST OF HITLER RUN THE PENNSYLVANIA COURTS?, and my personal favorite, LET'S GO FREE MUMIA (I GOT TO PEE).

I'm loitering in the press area, leafing through a copy of The Final Call, when I notice a man with bug eyes and a gray ponytail who looks an awful lot like Grandpa Munster. I soon realize it is Grandpa Munster -- more precisely, Grandpa Al Lewis, a long-time lefty activist who managed to score a surprising 50,000 votes in the 1998 New York gubernatorial election as a Green Party candidate, thereby securing the Greens a place on the ballot through 2002 (and coining the term Munster factor among campaign types).

Lewis, who is wearing a crumpled hat advertising the box-office bomb Car 54, Where Are You? and chomping an eight-inch cigar, is covering the rally for an AM radio station. I ask what attracts him to Mumia's case. "I'm a political animal," he says. "For me, it's just a continuation of my life." With minimal prodding, Grandpa Al reveals that his life also includes a movie being made in Toronto, as well as personal appearances at TV nostalgia conventions in California and Chicago.

Many Philadelphians appear to feel about Mumia the same way Bostonians feel about the TV show Cheers -- that is, it's something they got over a long time ago, and if you're still really jazzed about it, then you must be from out of town. It's not a guilt-or-innocence kind of situation; it's more a been-there-done-that kind of situation. One of the few locals I see who isn't so blasé is a middle-aged man in a Cornell sweater who spits a humongous yellow loogie in the direction of the march as it passes down Market Street.

The local media are pretty pissy about Mumia, too. When I watch Saturday night's television coverage of the rally, I notice that the reporters are almost gleeful about saying the protest attendance fell far short of organizers' expectations. Fox News Philadelphia runs a segment making fun of marchers who, put on the spot, couldn't accurately recite all the facts of Abu-Jamal's case. Watching Fox News criticize people for not having their facts straight makes me fear that my television might explode from hypocrisy.

It's unfair to dismiss the Mumia movement on account of its numbers. Though organizers may have gotten ahead of themselves with the "Millions for Mumia" moniker, those who simply counted heads on Saturday and pronounced the event a failure may be guilty of wishful thinking.

Millions or no millions, Abu-Jamal's supporters correctly point out that Saturday's rallies represented the largest mass gatherings on behalf of a death row prisoner in decades. Whether you believe Mumia is guilty or innocent, there's little question that his case strikes a chord among people who feel kicked around by the establishment. And even in these go-go '90s, there are plenty of people like that.

Amid the controversy and politics surrounding this movement, it's easy to forget that it began with two men. Daniel Faulkner, of course, lost his life. Mumia Abu-Jamal stands to lose his, too. And those who know him, like Abu-Jamal's son, Mazi, were staggered with what they found on Saturday. "This," Mazi said, surveying the crowd, "is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."