She prosecuted them for criminal conspiracy, loansharking and mail fraud. She also enjoyed mixing with the similarly third-generation Boston Irish and Italian FBI and DEA agents she worked with and then hung out with several nights each week. “No husband material here,” she often joked.
Katz heard about the attorney general’s visit and was shocked that she was excluded. As she was stewing, a colleague stuck his head into her office.
“We’re having lunch today, Judy,” Bob Shaw, head of the Antitrust Division, told her. “You can’t say no. You can’t ask why. Just meet me at the Sultan’s at noon. Bye.”
The Sultan’s Palace was a Turkish restaurant across the footbridge from the courthouse. It was popular but a bit expensive for lunch. Nonetheless, there was always a line.
Shaw was waiting for her.
“So, what’s the occasion for this unexpected lunch?” Katz asked, walking up to him and taking a seat at a corner table.
“Judy, my father is Jewish,” he said slowly and almost at a whisper. “Most people don’t know that. It’s not that I have anything to hide, but, well, he wasn’t around all that long and my mother was pretty serious about raising me as an Episcopalian and all and, well, I guess you’re the first one in the office I’ve ever mentioned that to.”
“So, why the big confession now?” Katz asked.
“I owe it to you. There was a meeting this morning.”
“I know. I wasn’t invited,” she said. “Were you there?”
“I was there. We were all there, all the department heads. And FBI, DEA. ATF. US Marshals. Even ICE. Even Jed. Jed was there.”
Jed Delaney was deputy chief of the Organized Crime Strike Force. Katz was his boss.
“Jed was there?” she whispered. “Why wasn’t I there? Bob, is something going on?”
“Listen, Judy. Nobody can know I’m telling you this. Understand? I’m willing to do the right thing, but I don’t want to pay the price for the rest of my life for this. Okay? Agreed? I need a promise from you. Nobody ever knows. That means not even if you are under oath. Can you agree to that?”
“Should I agree? You’re asking me to promise to lie under oath. I can’t agree to that, Bob. That’s too much to ask. I send people to prison for that, Bob. Bob,” she said slowly, almost in a whisper, leaning forward, close to him. “Bob, are they setting me up for something? Does this have anything to do with why I wasn’t at that meeting this morning? Holy shit, Bob, was I not invited because I’m under investigation? Is that why I wasn’t there, Bob?”
Shaw put both elbows on the table, cupped his hands and spoke slowly.
“You weren’t at the meeting—not because you’re under investigation, Judy. It’s because you’re a Jew… because you’re Jewish. That’s why… I’ve got to go. Judy, I’m sorry. It isn’t right and I couldn’t let it happen and not tell you. Don’t burn me, Judy. Please. I did this to help you. Don’t burn me now.”
Shaw stood and walked away between the crowded tables, not looking back at the frozen woman sitting alone, still leaning forward as if ready for a kiss, unable to move.
CHAPTER 16
The North Shore Jewish Council coordinated housing of the refugees and planning to relocate people around the country. Lists were drawn up—lists of refugees, lists of families housing them, lists of financial contributors. The database was kept in the office of the emergency coordinator at the Jewish Community Center of the North Shore, in Swampscott.
The inevitable next step on the path from secrecy to media blitz took place. A press conference was called. Moishe Cohen, the emergency relief coordinator, was the chief executive officer of Winston Mills, one of Massachusetts’s last remaining textile manufacturers. Cohen stood before a bank of television cameras, reading from a prepared statement. He spoke with the barest trace of his childhood German accent. At his sides stood rabbis, a state senator, business leaders and the inevitable musician, the interim conductor of the Boston Pops, the first Jew to hold that position since the death of Arthur Fiedler.
“First, and most importantly,” Cohen began, “let me fervently emphasize how seriously the entire community regrets the tragic loss of life that was unintentionally inflicted in this act of liberation. Those of us involved in the planning of this action share all Americans’shock and horror at this violence. We did not plan on using physical force and certainly never anticipated that such weapons would be used.”
Cohen looked up at the row of television cameras directed at him.
“We were told by certain professional persons who accompanied the passengers that the Coast Guard boats would be disabled and distracted. We did not anticipate the means they would use. For that, we apologize. We will offer financial compensation to the families of those who were lost, at the same time appreciating with all our hearts that money cannot make up for their tragic losses.”
“You’re damned right that Jewish money can’t pay for murdering Americans.” A man standing at the rear of the hall was grabbed by two uniformed security officers and ushered out the doors.
“I appreciate that there are hard feelings, angry feelings,” Cohen said. “But let there be no mistake. What was done by this community was what had to be done. It was the right thing. What this nation is doing, what this nation is continuing to do, is wrong. We will continue to protest and we will continue to resist when this great nation hides its head in the moral sand and does what all of us, what all of you, know in your heart of hearts is wrong.”
Cohen halted. He appeared confused, confused that his audience was not cheering what to him was obvious.
“Israel was established as a sacred home for the Jewish people. That home has been stolen from us by force. We demand that our government, the United States government, use all means available, all means, to restore the Jewish people’s homeland.
“A million people—” Cohen paused to wipe his eyes with the backs of both hands. He fought for control, overwhelmed by the concept of a million—another million—dead Jews. The room was silent. The audience, the Boston press corps included, held its collective breath. He continued.
“A million Jews have died already, from the bomb, from the armies, from the Arabs. There are concentration camps, Jews in concentration camps, in the Holy Land. We will do everything, everything in our power to convince the United States, President Quaid, to do what is right and just in this horrendous situation.”
His back straightened as the elderly man found his strength.
“In what we have done already and in all future endeavors, one ideal will guide us. One phrase will determine our actions. What words guide us, you may ask. What words?”
He stopped speaking, struggling for control of his emotions. His head rolled back as he gazed at the ceiling, as if by doing so his tears would be hidden. Both hands clenched the podium to support him under a weight of memories.
The room hushed, even the veteran reporters did not know what to expect next but knew, too, they had the lead story on that night’s broadcasts.
The cameras remained locked on the thin, white-haired man at the podium, his head now dropped onto his chest, too heavy for him to hold up. His eyes were closed as he fought for inner strength. Reporters wondered whether his knees would buckle under his invisible burden.
Barely in control of the tears that ran freely from both eyes, Cohen straightened his back, lifted his chin and ever so slowly unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt sleeve. Standing upright now, he shoved the sleeve up toward his left elbow, exposing his forearm. He lifted that arm in the air, fingers spread wide, above his head. The small row of tattooed numbers was visible in the glare of the television lights.