The march began on July 19 on Grand Street in Jersey City, N.J., on the sidewalk near the abandoned, overgrown lot where weeks before Honkala had tried to build a tent city.

Before noon, the heat was already oppressive. Galen Tyler, a lumbering, bearded, formerly homeless man who's now director of the Kensington Welfare Rights Union, dragged a wheeled wooden model of a tent behind him. It was painted to look like an American flag and said "Welcome to Bushville!" Honkala waved an American flag. Cruz pushed her youngest daughter in a stroller and waddled under the weight of her pregnancy. She said she was going to march until she reaches the RNC or goes into labor, whichever comes first. Among the dozen people were a few earnest white college graduates, but most of the marchers were hurled into activism by circumstances, after Honkala gave them a place to sleep and a rudimentary political education.

As marchers gathered on Grand Street, a car pulled up and a girl rolled down the window. "I just want you to know they've been videotaping you," she said, and the car drove away. Sure enough, across the street, partly hidden under a tree in a Dunkin' Donuts parking lot, two plainclothes Jersey City police in a dark Ford Taurus, and two plainclothes New Jersey state police in a Crown Victoria, were videotaping Honkala. When I asked the state police why the marchers were under surveillance, they rolled up their window without answer. The city police confirmed that all four of them were in fact cops, but when I asked what they were looking for, one said, "We're not at liberty to say."

Near the parking lot, two beefy men in jeans walked casually down the street snapping pictures. At first, they claimed to be supporters of Honkala's group, but eventually admitted they're plainclothes detectives. "Our job is to make sure that public safety is ensured," one of them said. The other asked whether the group had been violent.

Across from the cops, the Rev. Osagyefo Sekou, a Crown Heights preacher with dreadlocks, pinstriped pants and a matching vest, began to lead marchers in prayer. He didn't get far before five cops in uniform and a police captain in a polo shirt pulled up. The captain told Honkala, "You have a First Amendment right, but the minute you start blocking people, we're going to have you move on or take further action."

By the time the captain arrived, there were more cops watching the marchers than there were marchers themselves.

Throughout July, people rotate in and out of the march. Some women march while their kids are at camp, but return on the weekends to care for them. New Jerusalem, a Philadelphia rehab program, lets patients join the march for two days at a time. When they return, others take their place. Webber, Honkala's son, joins them between acting jobs and fundraising in Manhattan.

Blond and blue-eyed with an open, disarmingly innocent face, Webber has been in a host of indie films, including "Jesus's Son," "Storytelling" and the upcoming "Dear Wendy," which was written by Lars von Trier. As a child taunted by classmates as "shelter boy," he escaped into dreams of Hollywood stardom, but now, on the cusp of fame, he no longer wants to leave his past behind.

Indeed, almost everything he earns as an actor goes into his mother's movement. "My mother is the best gift I've ever gotten in my life," he says. "She's an amazing woman. She's crazy but I love her so much."

Marching through desolate towns in New Jersey in a line of welfare mothers and formerly homeless men, Webber seems perfectly at home. He rushes up to passersby, no matter how indifferent they seem, and presses fliers for the Aug. 30 march in their hands.

This, he says, is the center of his life. "It's not like I'm taking time out when I'm in the city," he says. "When I'm auditioning and trying to get the next role, it's all for the movement."

Even if the movement succeeds in bringing thousands to Manhattan on Aug. 30, there's no way to know how far the police will let them go. Although Honkala applied for a permit, she says she's going to lead a demonstration whether it is granted or not. New York, meanwhile, has been slow to grant permits, so much so that the City Council held hearings to investigate whether the mayor and the NYPD were deliberately trying to stifle convention protests.

"From the start, we should have never let anybody regulate our voice and take away our First Amendment rights," Honkala says. "Once we let them put up one fence, they put up a million. Poor people, the only thing they have is their voice and it's not going to be taken away."

Once again, there will be mothers with children and disabled people at the head of the march. Honkala will be there with Webber and Guillermo. She's hoping that the presence of TV cameras and human rights observers will dissuade the cops from attacking. But the NYPD has $18 million in new crowd control devices, and they're under enormous pressure to maintain order. It's easy to see how people marching defiantly into a line of cops could get hurt.

Recent Stories