But Zangara's litany- "kill the president, kill any president, kill all president"- drowned everything else out. Nobody seemed to notice that Zangara's raving usually was accompanied by a nervous smile, like a child actor who knows the lines but doesn't really have the maturity to give a convincing performance.
I didn't see any of this in person, of course; but it made the newsreels. That sheriff whose shorts Winchell had dropped the fame bug down appeared with Zangara in most of the reels; and Zangara seemed to have been bitten by the bug, too, as he was pictured more than once sitting in his cell surrounded by newspapers with his name in headlines. The judge at Zangara's trial also made the newsreels, giving interviews about the special summation he'd made before pronouncing sentence, in which he'd made an urgent plea for control of handguns: several civic groups took the judge's lead but went another step with it. urging handguns be outright banned.
On hearing of Zangara's eighty-year sentence, Cermak, in the midst of a rally (a political rally, by the time Cermak got through with it), said, "They certainly mete out justice pretty fast in this state." He went on to wistfully wonder why other states didn't learn from Florida's example, and stamp out crime via speedier trials.
And when, after the daily reports of improvement alternating with crisis came to an end, Cermak died in a coma on the morning of March 6, the state of Florida didn't disappoint him. Zangara was retried within three days, and sentenced to die at Raiford Penitentiary on March 20. The papers said the electric chair sat in the midst of a little cubicle at the end of a long corridor; when Zangara sat in it, he must've looked like a kid in a grotesque high chair.
He'd taken that seat of his own accord, shaking free from the grasp of two guards who meant to lead him to it; he sat and said, smiling, "See? I no scared of electric chair." But then he looked about and saw no cameramen among the handful of reporters present in the visitors' gallery. And he said, "No camera? No movie to take a picture of Zangara?"
The warden said, "No. That isn't allowed."
"Lousy capitalists!"
Guards placed a black hood over his head and he said, "Good-bye- adios to all the world, lousy world." And then: "Push the button."
And Zangara got his way.
Of course it came out. within days of the execution, that the real cause of Cermak's death was colitis, despite an autopsy report attributing the primary cause of death to the gunshot wound, enabling Florida to rush Zangara to judgment. The nine physicians who signed the report, with colitis listed only as a contributing factor, later admitted that the wound was at best "indirectly" responsible; that, as earlier reports indicated, the wound had in fact healed; that Cermak had indeed died of ulcerative colitis, that "old problem" of his.
Of course the way I saw it, fair was fair: Zangara's bellyache had killed Cermak, in a way; why shouldn't Cermak's bellyache return Zangara the favor?
The morning the state of Florida was frying Joe Zangara, the state of Illinois was attempting to try Frank Nitti for shooting police Sgt. Harry Lang in the hand while resisting arrest. I hadn't been called to the grand jury indictment hearing in January, due no doubt to Cermak's string-pulling and the general assumption that the case was cut-and-dried; but for the trial I was present, sitting next to Lang with Miller on the other side of him, as we all waited to see if we'd get to speak our pieces today. Lang and Miller had been very friendly to me, so far; just three pals getting their day in court.
Nitti and his counsel approached the bench. Nitti, looking tan and healthy but a trifle thin, was wearing a blue serge suit with a blue tie; he looked like a business executive, except perhaps for the barber-slick hair.
I heard Lang whisper to Miller, "Jesus, look at Nitti. He's brown as a berry. Where'd the wop get the tan?"
I said, in less of a whisper than Lang, "Haven't you guys heard? Nitti's been in Miami vacationing, and looking after his business interests."
They turned and looked at me blankly.
Then Lang whispered, "No kidding?"
"No kidding. He went down the day after Cermak got shot. Probably a show of support for the people who work for him, down Miami way. Sort of a busman's holiday, while he healed up from your police-work."
Lang thought about that and swallowed; behind the Coke-bottle lenses, Miller seemed to be putting two plus two together, too.
Then, forgetting to be nice, Lang sneered and said, "What makes you so well-informed?"
"Ever hear of a guy named Ness?" I said.
They thought about that awhile, too, as up at the bench Nitti's lawyer- a well-dressed Italian shorter than his client- was filing a motion for a continuance.
"I want to question the three officers in the case," the attorney said. "I just got into this case last Friday, and need time to prepare thoroughly."
The judge asked Nitti to step forward and approach the bench, and asked him to plead.
"Not guilty," Nitti said. "And I want a jury trial."
Lang was shifting nervously in his seat.
Nitti's attorney asked for a ruling on the continuance, and, despite the prosecutor's demand for an immediate trial, the case was held over till April 6.
I had the end seat, and got up and started to leave.
Lang stopped me in the aisle, smiled. "I guess I'll be seeing you in April."
Miller was standing behind him like a fat shadow.
"I guess so," I said.
Then, in a stage whisper, Lang said, "A deal's a deal, Heller."
I smiled at him. "That deal's with a dead man. You're on your own, jackass."
Lang sputtered. "Listen, Heller, Cermak"
"Is dead. See you in court."
And I left. Behind me. Lang and Miller huddled like a football team that wondered where the hell their quarterback went to.
I wasn't sure yet whether I was just giving them a bad time, or if I really meant something by all that; but the prosecutor, a feisty little guy who didn't dress as good as Nitti's lawyer, was waiting for me out in the hall.
"Got a minute, Heller?" he asked.
"I got to get back to my office."
"I just want to say one thing: You didn't give testimony at the inquest. And you weren't called at the grand jury hearing."
"That's two things."
"No it isn't." he said. "It's one thing: you haven't perjured yourself yet." Like any good trial lawyer, he knew when to pause dramatically; he paused dramatically, and said, "Now. Got a minute?"
We went to his office.
It was Thursday, April 6, and I was sitting in a speakeasy with Eliot Ness.
"I don't usually have a beer for breakfast," Eliot was saying, raising the mug to his wry smile.
It was Barney's speak, of course, and it was closed. We were the only ones in the joint, except for Barney himself, who was sitting in the booth next to me and across from Eliot, saying, "Might be your last chance to break the law this way, Mr. Ness."
Despite the fact they were both my friends, Barney and Eliot barely knew each other; and on the few occasions I did get them together, they insisted on calling each other "mister." I tried to stop 'em, but it didn't do any good: they respected each other, and I just couldn't seem to talk 'em out of it.
"So it's all over, tonight at midnight," I said.
Eliot shrugged. "It's been over for months. But, technically, just because beer's legal again doesn't mean the dry agents'll dry up, not right away anyway." He gestured over toward Barney's bar, behind which bottles lined the mirror. "That stuffs still a crime, you know."
Barney said, "I just haven't crated that up, yet. We're only serving setups, till Repeal comes in a hundred percent."
"It's only in three point two percent, at the moment," Eliot said. "Can I have another one of these?"
"Sure. HI get it…"
"I can get it. It'll be a change of pace, drawing a beer without using an ax."
Eliot went over behind the bar and got himself a beer.
"No kidding, Barney," I said, "you're really packing the hard stuff up and sticking with beer and setups?"