“I’m doing the nation’s business, that’s what!” Hoover snapped. He waved a piece of paper that might have been a warrant or might have been his laundry list. “Get out of our way, pop, or you’ll be sorry.”
The flummoxed cop retreated. Hoover and his men advanced: north into the Supreme Court Rotunda and then, with no ceremony whatever, into the maroon-draped, semicircular Supreme Court Chamber. Charlie heard the lawyer arguing his case before the nine justices let out an undignified squawk and then fall silent. In that lawyer’s shoes, Charlie figured he would have shut up, too.
Chief Justice Charles Evans Hughes glowered down from the bench at Hoover and his gun-toting followers. “What is the meaning of this?” Hughes demanded, a normally meaningless question more serious than usual because it was plain he had no idea what the meaning of this was.
Hoover waved that paper again. “I have warrants here for the arrest of four Associate Justices,” he answered, not without pride.
Hughes stared at him. The Chief Justice’s reading glasses made his eyes look even bigger than they would have anyway. “You’re out of your mind!” he exclaimed.
“The Devil, I am,” Hoover said cheerfully. “Associate Justice Willis Van Devanter. Associate Justice James Clark McReynolds. Associate Justice George Sutherland. And Associate Justice Pierce Butler.” He read out the names and titles with somber relish.
All four men named yelled abuse at him till Charles Evans Hughes raised a hand and calmed the tumult. “This is ridiculous. Absurd,” Hughes said. “What possible charge could you bring against these men?”
Was that the tiniest smirk on Hoover’s face? “Treason, your Honor,” he said, and turned back to his pistoleers and Tommy gunners. “Grab them, boys, and take them away.”
* * *
Supreme Court justices-almost half the court-handcuffed while still in their judicial robes and shoved into motorcars by Justice Department soldiers carrying trench brooms? Now that was a sensation! Louie Pappas snapped away. The newsreel guy slapped in a fresh roll of film so he could get all the juicy action.
And Charlie interviewed Hoover. Hoover turned out to be John Edgar, and went by J. Edgar. “Yes, treason,” J. Edgar Hoover said in his high-pitched rasp. “They have given aid and comfort to the enemies of the United States. That’s how the Constitution defines treason.”
“But. . who are the enemies of the United States?” Charlie asked. “Last I looked, we weren’t at war with anybody.”
“Not in the declared sense of the word. Not in the shooting sense of the word,” Hoover. . admitted? No, he denied it, because he went on, “We have enemies anyway, Mr. Sullivan. There are plenty of countries in Europe that hate the American way of life and want to do everything they know how to do to tear it down. That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” He stuck his chin out even farther than usual, as if defying Charlie to disagree with him.
Charlie didn’t, or not exactly. He was too busy wondering how this Hoover-J. Edgar Hoover-knew his name, and why. He also wondered some other things. “These Supreme Court justices, they’re in cahoots with countries on the far side of the Atlantic?”
“That’s what the warrant says, Mr. Sullivan.” Oh, yes, Hoover knew his name, all right. That did worry him.
“Are they in cahoots with the Reds in Russia, or the Nazis in Germany, or maybe with Mussolini?”
“It will all come out in the proceedings against them, Mr. Sullivan. I promise you, it will all come out in the proceedings against them.” Hoover sounded very sure of himself. He turned to holler to his men: “Take them away! Take them to prison!”
Off went the cars with the justices-the prisoners-in them. “How happy do you think the American people will be when they learn you’ve arrested close to half the Supreme Court?” Charlie asked.
“I don’t think they’ll be happy at all,” J. Edgar Hoover said. “I think they’ll be angry that such important people could betray the country this way. I think that’s how anybody with even one drop of loyal American blood in his veins will feel.”
Charlie hadn’t meant the question like that. Politicians made a living by answering questions in ways that worked to their advantage. Charlie hadn’t thought a Justice Department investigator would have learned how to be slippery like that.
“Can you tell me how you found out that the justices did-or were supposed to have done-the things you’re accusing them of?” Charlie asked.
“Information was developed. Leads were pursued. Evidence was accumulated-painstakingly accumulated. I can absolutely assure you that the investigation was one of the most thorough in the history of the Department of Justice. I can’t go into all the details, because I don’t want to prejudice the proceedings. When things start, you’ll be impressed. All of America will be impressed. I guarantee you it will.”
He could assure and guarantee as much as he wanted, especially when he didn’t talk about the evidence to back his assurances and guarantees. Charlie tried again: “Who tipped you off? How did the Department of Justice find out about what you say the Supreme Court justices were up to?”
“For obvious reasons, Mr. Sullivan, I can’t discuss our sources without compromising them,” Hoover said primly.
“Okay. Fine,” Charlie said. “Let me give you a different question, then. Is it a coincidence that the justices you just arrested are the justices who voted against the President’s bills the most often and called them unconstitutional?”
“No, it’s not a coincidence,” J. Edgar Hoover said. Charlie’s jaw fell; he’d looked for anything but that blunt agreement. A battering ram in pinstripes, Hoover thumped Charlie’s chest with a blunt forefinger and plowed ahead: “Those crooks have been working to tear down the country any way they can. Blocking legislation that helps us dig our way out of our hole is an important way to keep us weak and poor and divided.”
“I. . see.” Charlie scribbled in his notebook. This was explosive stuff-if they could prove it. “Is that the line of reasoning you’re going to present when the justices go to trial?”
Hoover shrugged football-player shoulders. “I’m only an investigator, Mr. Sullivan. I’m not the prosecutor who will try the case. So I’m afraid I’m the wrong fella to ask about that.”
Tell me another one, Charlie thought. If anything about J. Edgar Hoover was crystal clear, it was how much he admired J. Edgar Hoover. If he was po’-mouthing himself, he had to be doing it so he could duck the question.
But Charlie didn’t see how he could push Hoover without putting his back up and making him pull his head into his shell. Sometimes the best thing you could do was quit while you were even if not ahead. “Thanks for your time, then,” he said. “Can we get a few more pictures, please?”
Using please and thank you was more important than keeping your car well greased. Charlie waved Louie forward. Hoover grinned and smirked for the camera. He was much more alarming when he did that than when the usual scowl stayed on his blunt mug. The scowl, you felt, belonged there. The more cheerful expressions seemed as phony, and as nourishing, as a plaster-of-Paris ham.
Hoover got back into the Packard. The driver whisked him away. “Holy crap, Charlie,” Louie said.
“You said a mouthful,” Charlie answered. “You get some good shots?”
“Oh, you bet I did,” the photographer said. “Only thing I’m worried about is if what’s-his-name-J. Edgar-busted my lens there at the end. Talk about homely!”
“He won’t win Miss America any time soon,” Charlie agreed. “Don’t let him hear you say so, that’s all. Otherwise, you’ll wind up in the cell across the hall from the Supreme Court.”
“Listen, Charlie, I done a bunch o’ stupid things in my time, but I ain’t never been dumb enough to give a flatfoot an excuse to work out on me. Too many times, them sonsabitches don’t even need one,” Louie said. “And that Hoover character, he’s a heap big chief flatfoot, him and his chrome-plated roscoe.” The photographer spat on the sidewalk to show what he thought of that.