Chương 156: United Auto Workers

As soon as the pickup truck left downtown Dayton, Arthur parked it in an open area beside the highway to check the tire pressure of the left front tire.

In the darkness, several blinding headlights shone from behind.

Five dilapidated pickup trucks and Ford trucks pulled up in a row behind Arthur's car, the idling of their engines sounding somewhat noisy on the empty national highway.

The car door opened, and a dozen men in work clothes covered in engine oil got out.

They were carrying iron wrenches, jack handles, and even two old hunting rifles.

The leader was a burly man. He walked up to Arthur using the car headlights as a guide.

Arthur recognized him.

Those were former Dayton GE plant workers who had chatted with Wayne a few times outside the relief station.

On one of his arms was the logo of the AFL (American Federation of Labor).

That is, the AFL-CIO that Arthur met in New York.

In 1930, the United Auto Workers (UAW) had not yet been established, and the auto workers' resistance against factory owners was relatively weak.

Even the man who looks like a foreman is now facing unemployment.

"Mr. Kennedy." The burly man tucked the wrench into his back and extended his calloused right hand.

"My name is Frank. Just now at the gas station, my brothers and I were in the dilapidated factory across the street."

Arthur reached out and shook his hand, then glanced at the weapons in their hands and asked, "What's up?"

"Wayne told us you were investigating the bank."

Frank first offered some explanations.

"Mr. Kennedy, our brothers in the workshop copied the article 'Sixteen Tons' onto the blackboard and read it aloud. We heard that you've obtained some important information and are going to Indianapolis."

Frank pointed to the auto workers behind him.

"These guys were all fired from the factory. The cops won't touch you now, but they might call in the bank's hired detectives to intercept you on the way. It's another sixty miles of night road from Dayton to the Indiana state border."

Frank slapped the hood of his truck hard.

"These five cars are what we put together ourselves from parts. We're twelve brothers, and we'll lead the way for you tonight. Anyone who tries to stop you on the Ohio highways will have to run over our wheels first."

Arthur looked at the unemployed auto workers.

They had no money, no power, and didn't even know if they would have a full meal tomorrow. But when they learned that the person in front of them was writing for them and fighting for them, they did not hesitate to use their only means of strength.

Arthur did not refuse. He thought about it carefully and decided that he could not dampen their enthusiasm.

"Get in the car. Maintain a speed of 35 miles per hour. If you encounter a roadblock, do not fire; leave it to me."

"Understood!" Frank replied loudly.

The workers quickly boarded the vehicles. Arthur's Ford pickup truck led the way, followed by two trucks and three pickup trucks bringing up the rear. This convoy of unemployed workers set off westward in a grand procession.

Midnight.

The convoy safely drove out of Ohio and stopped to rest next to an abandoned barn outside the Indiana border.

The workers lit a campfire in the barn. Frank took out a worn-out aluminum coffee pot and started brewing cheap coffee beans over the fire.

Arthur took a portable Remington typewriter from the car and placed it on an overturned wooden crate. He didn't start writing, but instead looked at Frank, who was pouring coffee.

"Frank, do you know Russell Harrison, the chairman of the Indiana Judiciary Committee?"

Frank stopped what he was doing and sat down by the fire.

"I've heard it from the older generation."

Frank handed Arthur a cup of hot coffee.

"He's different from those East Coast politicians who only wear suits. After the Homestead Act of 1862 was passed, he went to Montana with a pioneering team when he was young. That was land that was fought for in real battles, amidst piles of dead bodies."

This history gave Arthur a more comprehensive understanding of the name on the ledger.

For Wall Street bankers, land is simply a number on their balance sheets that can be readily converted into cash.

But for Russell Harrison, who had personally experienced the westward expansion, the land was the foundation of survival earned through blood, sweat, harsh winters, and rifles. This is why he fought so fiercely against Wall Street's mass foreclosure auctions.

Frank pulled a tattered newspaper clipping from his inner pocket.

"This is last week's Indianapolis Star. It's said that Russell Harrison is on the verge of collapse. The paper says that a team of Wall Street lawyers is lobbying the governor to prepare for impeachment proceedings in the state legislature next week."

Arthur took the clipping and glanced at it. His heart sank. It seemed he had to hurry and deliver a bag of deadly ammunition to Russell Harrison.

Arthur turned around and deftly rolled a sheet of white paper into the typewriter.

He selected the key data from the ledger and the tractor-driving incident he had witnessed that day, and typed a title on his typewriter.

Title: The World's Most Efficient Legal Robbery: Unveiling the Farm Harvesters of Wall Street On the ruins of a 38-year-old farmhouse in the western suburbs of Dayton, a Caterpillar tractor crushed it. No bullets, no trial. Just ten dollars in legal fees.

Through several shell companies posing as agricultural trusts, Wall Street has acquired 12, 000 mortgage IOUs from bankrupt small banks in the Midwest at extremely low prices over the past four months.

They used the bankruptcy law to legally expel all the hardworking families from this land.

The poor's food was used for tax-avoiding charity, and their land was used to issue stocks. This was a bloodless massacre.

Now, the machine has reached the Indiana state border.

Russell Harrison of Indiana is using the last vestiges of legal dignity to fend them off.

If he falls, there will be no law in the Midwest, only pure plunder.

Half an hour later, Arthur tore off the last sheet of paper.

He handed Frank a copy of the two-page article.

"Once you cross the state border, the first big town ahead is Richmond. Take this article to the local Richmond newspaper. Tell them it's a feature article by Arthur Kennedy for the New York Herald. Have them publish it."

Frank solemnly took the manuscript, folded it, and put it in his pocket close to his chest.

"And you, Mr. Kennedy?"

Arthur stood up, put away the typewriter and ledger, and dusted off his trench coat.

He looked west, towards Indianapolis.

"I'm going to the state capital. To see Chairman Harrison. To turn this ledger into a bomb that will hurt Wall Street."