America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 97 Attempted First-Degree Murder Warrant (Available 2/10)

10:00 AM. Outside the New York City Police Department.

At first, only a few students who had read the newspaper stood there. They clutched their copies of the New York Herald and stared silently at the heavy wooden door.

Then a few passing workers, who had just finished their night shift and whose work clothes were still stained with machine oil, stopped to look at it and didn't leave. Then, a crowd began to gather.

This is unlike any protest before. In the past, there would be union leaders shouting slogans through megaphones, radicals throwing stones at police, and young people running around waving flags.

But it's unusually quiet today.

No one spoke, no one moved. They just stood there, hands in their pockets or arms crossed, their eyes fixed on the door.

A bank clerk in a smart suit squeezed through the crowd. His tie was perfectly tied, and he was carrying a briefcase; he looked like he was on his way to work.

But instead of continuing forward, he stopped in the crowd, placed his briefcase at his feet, and looked up at the police station window.

A housewife carrying a shopping basket stood next to him. The basket contained freshly bought potatoes and onions.

Several retired police officers with gray hair stood at the front. They were wearing old uniforms with their hats pulled low, but the badges pinned to their chests were polished to a high shine.

One of the veteran police officers had worked in this building for thirty years; he knew every room and many of the officers currently on duty.

He simply stood silently, his hands behind his back, just as he had done every morning for the past thirty years when he stood on duty in the street.

The crowd was still growing. Broadway was blocked, and vehicles could not move. The drivers honked their horns a few times, but when no one moved, they simply turned off their engines, got out of their cars, and went inside to find out what was going on.

A few minutes later, they became part of the crowd.

This silence terrified the police officers inside more than any roar.

The police chief stood behind the blinds on the second floor, his shirt collar soaked with cold sweat.

He parted the blinds a crack and saw that the crowd had blocked the entire block. Stretching from 39th Street to 42nd Street, it was a dense, dark mass; no one moved, no one uttered a sound.

He saw the old policeman in his worn uniform. He recognized him; it was Mike, his first partner, who had taught him how to write reports, how to deal with drunks, and how to stay alert on patrol.

No one was laughing, no one was chatting. Thousands of eyes shared only one emotion: scrutiny.

They were examining what this institution, which was supposed to protect them, had become. They were examining everyone in the building, including him.

The director turned around and found three deputies standing in the office, sometime during the day. They were all looking out the window, and no one spoke.

The bureau chief said, "Can anyone tell me what to do?"

One of the lieutenants said, "How about we send out mounted police to disperse them?"

Another deputy said, "Are you crazy? Look at those people! There are bank clerks, housewives, retired old guys. You want the mounted police to trample them? We'll all be in the newspapers tomorrow."

"Are you afraid of the newspapers? We're already in the newspapers today anyway."

The bureau chief walked to his desk, picked up the newspaper, and the headline "This is a Murder" was so glaring that he felt his cap badge was melting.

Just then, the phone on the table rang, and Jimmy Walker's voice came through.

Walker's voice was no longer as frivolous and arrogant as usual; it was actually somewhat tense, or rather, fearful.

"What's going on outside? I heard someone is organizing a riot? Why aren't you doing anything about it?"

The bureau chief, holding the microphone, said, "No, Mr. Mayor. It's not a riot."

Walker said, "What was that? Hundreds of people blocking the police station entrance, what is that if not a riot?"

"They just stood there. They didn't shout slogans, they didn't throw stones, they didn't do anything. They just stood there and watched us. Strictly speaking, this can't be considered a riot."

The police chief knew very well that if it were classified as a riot, he would be the one to take the blame.

Walker was silent for a moment, then roared, "Then make them disperse! Send a few men out and tell them this is law enforcement; gatherings are not allowed!"

The chief said, "Just now, two patrol captains put their badges on my desk and said they didn't want to stand guard for a murderer. My men are wavering. If I send someone out now, I don't know which side they'll be on."

Walker took a deep breath on the other end of the phone.

The chief said, "Mayor, we need the support of the Tammany Association. We need them to issue a statement saying this has nothing to do with the city government, that it was just Dira's personal behavior. We need—"

Walker interrupted him: "Listen, this has nothing to do with me. It's a mess that Dilla made herself. I'm getting ready to go to Albany now, and I can't let this get me involved."

The bureau chief said, "Mayor, you can't just leave it like this—"

The phone hangs up.

The bureau chief listened to the busy tone on the receiver, then slowly put it back on the landline. He slumped into his chair, looking out at the sky.

The seemingly unbreakable alliance of power within the Tammany Association crumbled in fear before that photograph. Dira, one of their own, who had been calling them brothers yesterday, was thrown out as a scapegoat today.

What about himself?

He glanced at the police badge on the corner of the table.

Tammany Association Headquarters.

Charles Dilla stood at the window, looking down at the crowd gathering below. It was a dozen blocks from the police station, but people were starting to appear downstairs. Not many, just a few dozen, but they stood there, looking up at the building—

building.

The phone behind him kept ringing.

He didn't answer.

He knew who was calling; they were probably trying to persuade him to sacrifice himself for the association.

The newspaper was spread out on the table, and the photograph seemed to have eyes; no matter where he stood in the room, he felt it was staring at him.

The door was pushed open. His secretary stood in the doorway, pale-faced.

The secretary said, "Mr. Dillah, downstairs—someone downstairs said the state attorney general has signed an arrest warrant."

Dila turned around: "What arrest warrant?"

The secretary said, "Attempted first-degree murder. Against you."

Dila paused for a few seconds, then suddenly burst out laughing.

Dilla said, "Attempted murder? Who did I murder? Did I kill anyone with my own hands? I just made a phone call and paid some money. Those things were done by other people. They should arrest the ones who did it!"

The secretary remained silent.

Dilla said, "That Roosevelt guy, he's been wanting to get us for a long time. He's been waiting for this opportunity. Now I've delivered myself right to his doorstep. Did you see the newspapers? Every word in them is handing him a knife."

He walked to the coat rack and picked up the coat.

The secretary asked, "Where are you going?"

Dila said, "The back door. Before those people downstairs realize what's happening."

He had just opened his office door when a commotion erupted at the end of the corridor. Several men in state police uniforms were walking quickly down the stairs.

The person in the lead held up a piece of paper.

The man said, "Charles Dilla? This is an arrest warrant. Come with us."

Dila nodded silently, put the coat back on the hanger, and extended her hand, accepting the shackles without a word.