“’Miguel Jose Zapata Laviada.’” Mike crossed one leg over the other.
“’Edward Lee Johnson.’” He threw his cigar on the floor and sank into a chair.
“’Robert Chester Marrs.’” He lit another cigarette. His face twitched.
“’Benjamin Lionel Bernstein.’” He smiled a twisted smile and closed his eyes.
“ ‘Carl Wilhelm Kessler.’ ” A snarl.
“These men are wanted by the Government of the United States of America, to stand trial on charges ranging from criminal syndicalism, incitement to riot, suspicion of treason—”
I clicked off the radio. “Well?” to no one in particular.
Bernstein opened his eyes. “The rurales are probably on their way. Might as well go back and face the music—” We crossed the border at Juarez. The FBI was waiting.
Every press and radio chain in the world must have had coverage at that trial, every radio system, even the new and imperfect television chain. We were allowed to see no one but our lawyer. Samuels flew from the West Coast and spent a week trying to get past our guards. He told us not to talk to reporters, if we ever saw them.
“You haven’t seen the newspapers? Just as well—How did you ever get yourselves into this mess, anyway? You ought to know better.”