1Chapter Two
"You're way outta line, Welsh!"
The air in the lieutenant's office was thick with the smell of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. Lt. Molloy was standing so close that Harding could see the thin edge of his toupee where the glue was starting to come loose, and smell garlic and salami on his breath. He stood smart at attention and held his ground while the lieutenant made his point.
"This department is responsible for the safety of thousands of delegates from all fifty states, as well as the President and Vice President of the United States and every other bigshot Democrat in the country." Molloy paused long enough to light an unfiltered Camel, then continued his lecture while exhaling smoke in Harding's face. "This department is also responsible for the safety of the citizens of the great city of Chicago. This department is not responsible for helping a crowd of anarchists, communists and pot-heads trash the good name of the United States of America! Do you understand me?
"Yes sir, but. . . . "
"But, what?"
Harding wondered what streak of foolish courage wouldn't let him keep his peace. The lieutenant was right; he was way out of line. The smart thing to do right now would be to shut up, turn around, and head on down to roll-call while he still had some shred of dignity left. He swallowed, then cleared his throat, trying to remember that eighteen years earlier this man had been his father's first partner. "With all due respect, sir, the strategy stinks."
"What did you just say?" the lieutenant demanded, his voice rising in both pitch and volume, as his round face took on a distinctive brick red hue.
"I said," Harding heard himself say, "the strategy stinks. Sir."
"Does it?" Harding spun around at the new voice. In the doorway stood Capt. Harrison, tall and distinguished with his aquiline nose, jutting chin, and shock of white hair. He was in his full dress uniform, white gloves tucked into his belt; Harding realized that he must have just come back from reporting to Mayor Daley at the convention hall. The captain walked around the scarred wooden desk, and took his seat in the lieutenant's leather chair. "Molloy, who is this officer?"
"Harding Welsh, sir." Molloy flashed Welsh a look that told him that there was going to hell to pay.
"He's Art Welsh's son."
"Is he? All right then, Officer Harding Welsh, you say the strategy stinks. Would you care to elucidate?"
"Lincoln Park." Harding tried to organize his thoughts, hoping he could talk his way out of this mess. "You got upwards of ten thousand protesters in there. You got hippies, Yippies, communists, anarchists, agitators, spectators. . . hell, some of those kids only showed up 'cause they wanted to hear Peter, Paul and Mary sing. They're all hanging out in Lincoln Park, which is miles away from the convention hall. Yeah, they're making a hell of mess, but they are making that mess inside the park, a park which is surrounded by residential neighborhoods and Lake Michigan."
As three days of exhaustion and stress crystallized into a moment of frightening clarity, Harding realized with absolute certainty what should have been done. His voice faltered for a moment, but then the words began to flow faster. "The sun goes down, and we move in with tear gas and mace and nightsticks. Why? We gotta get the protesters outta the park. Tell me something." He watched the captain's face for any sign of comprehension, but Harrison stared back at him blankly, his fingertips steepled in front of his face.
"Tell me something," he repeated. "Where are ten thousand protesters supposed to go? Did we think they would just disappear? No, they're going to head out into the streets around the park. Ten thousand kids! They block traffic, they make noise, they're a nuisance! Only now they're a now they're a disorganized, resentful, spread-out nuisance milling around in the residential side streets of Old Town. And we're right behind them. Gotta get them to shut up, gotta get them off the streets, gotta get them gone. Cops are wandering through the neighborhood streets, looking for enemies. They're clubbing anybody who's not wearing a uniform!"
Lt. Molloy interrupted. "Hardy, you know as well as anybody that the protesters brought this on themselves."
Harding winced at the lieutenant's use of his childhood nickname, but didn't let it faze him. "You know something? It's hard to distinguish between a protester and an ordinary citizen who just happened to be walking home. Never mind that it's impossible to distinguish between the protesters who were throwing bricks and the ones who were peaceful!"
Molloy exploded. "Don't give me that 'peaceful protesters' bullshit. You don't think they wanted this? They came here with detailed plans, with every intention of provoking violence, so they could play up to the press."
"And that makes it okay? It's okay to go around bashing demonstrators, because their leaders planned it to happen that way? We're playing right into their hands!" Welsh couldn't believe that the lieutenant could be so blind. "We look like the goddamn Soviets invading Prague, and they come across like Martin Luther King!"
Harrison cleared his throat. Harding broke off and looked warily at the captain, who had leaned back in the lieutenant's chair and placed his spit-shined-black size twelve shoes on the center of the desk. Observant by nature and by training, Harding noted with detachment that the captain's shoes were quite new, the leather soles barely scuffed. At the same time, Harrison was coolly observing the earnest Harding Welsh, who had suddenly lost all his eloquence and momentum.
"How old are you, Welsh?" he asked.
"Twenty-two." That wasn't the question he had expected.
"And how long have you been on the force?"
"Nineteen months."
Harrison nodded slowly. "The enthusiasm of youth is a valuable thing. Harding, I've known your father for almost fifteen years. He's a good man, and I'm cutting you some slack because you're his son. But we are not paying you to second-guess your orders."
"No sir."
"Nor do I approve of my men bypassing the chain-of-command."
Harding stood even straighter, realizing with dread that he was about to have his ass handed to him. "No sir."
"So this is what's going to happen." The captain removed his feet from the desk and stood. "And I mean right now. You're going to go home, and you're going to give some heavy thought to your place in this department."
Molloy spoke quietly to the captain. "Sir, his shift's about to start."
"No it's not. He's suspended, forty-eight hours. No pay." Harrison looked back at Harding with disdain. "I can't trust an officer on the street tonight who doesn't trust his orders."
Harding saw his opportunity slipping away. "Sir, the men on the streets aren't wearing their stars. Neither are the sergeants. If they really believed that they were doing the right thing, why would they be taking off their identification?"
Molloy sputtered, "That is not true. That is a malicious rumor being spr. . . ."
"It's true! The word came around from man to man. Without the number on the star, or the name-plate, nobody can prove who does what to who. Nobody can. . . ."
"No member of the Chicago Police Department would be ashamed to wear his shield! Are you?" Harrison punched Harding's silver star-shaped badge with one finger. "Do you want to continue to wear this shield?"
"Yes sir."
"Then get the hell out of this building while you still have it."
Lt. Molloy opened the office door for him; Harding knew he had been beat. He turned on one heel and walked out into the squad room with dignity and gravity. The door slammed behind him.
The squad room fell silent. Harding crossed the silent room without a word, under the stares of his friends, his colleagues, his partner. As he reached the door, a single voice called out.
"Hey, Welsh! How's your belly where the pig bit ya?"
Their raucous laughter rang in his ears as he left the building.