“What words?” Cohen whispered.
His voice rose to a shout.
“Never again. Never again. Never again. Never again. Never again.”
He walked from the podium, followed by the other men, leaving the room in silence.
That afternoon all six US magistrates—the lowest-level federal judicial officers—spent hours signing search and arrest warrants based on the information already made public, names and addresses collected from newspaper accounts, from local police reports and from simple observation. The first search warrant was for the Jewish Community Center of the North Shore.
The Relief Committee took all the proper safeguards to protect its data from accidents, such as making duplicate backups of the database so the information would not be lost. It did not occur to anybody to set up a system where the database could be quickly and permanently destroyed.
FBI agents entering the Jewish Community Center at ten that night found the lights on and a meeting taking place about relocation efforts with representatives of Jewish communities from across the country. Computers were seized, along with all discs and backup drives. The agents left within a half hour, leaving an ominous silence behind them.
Still, the arrests later that same night were not expected. Also not expected was the visit to Verizon Communication’s North Shore business office by the FBI. The agents displayed a most unusual court order: telephone and Internet service in seven towns north of Boston was to be disconnected from ten at night until six in the morning—no questions asked, no options available. Similar court orders were served at the business offices of cellular telephone providers north of Boston. All cell towers were to be shut down as well. By the time the telephone companies’attorneys could protest the court order the next morning, it was history and phones were back in service.
The seized computers were carried to the Winnebago used by the FBI as its mobile command center. The database of households and refugees was quickly found and sent by secure wireless email to Camp Curtis Guild, a Massachusetts Army Reserve base outside Boston, and to the federal courthouse. The data was merged into more than 5,000 arrest warrants, all quickly signed by the half dozen magistrates.
Attorney General McQueeney had insisted that the raids be polite and low key. No doors were to be knocked down, no weapons were to be displayed, no shouts, no force, no helicopters and, hopefully, no news media.
Teams fanned out through suburban neighborhoods, followed by hastily requisitioned school buses. Agents knocked on doors and displayed arrest warrants. No shouting. No guns. Lots of “sirs” and “ma’ams.” But arrests were made, and arrests meant handcuffs, fingerprints, mug photos and detention, one person per household.
“David, I hear the doorbell. Wake up. There’s somebody at the door.”
Estelle Rosen shook her husband, thankful at least that she could stop his snoring. Twenty-two years of marriage and she never got used to it.
“David, wake up. See who’s at the door,” she said, shaking him, wondering for the thousandth time how he could sleep through his nasal thunder.
Pulling on a bathrobe, Rosen walked quietly down the stairs, trying not to wake his daughter or the Moscowitzes sleeping in the guest room. The pounding got louder, more insistent. He turned on the porch light and opened the door. Two men in dark suits stood there, holding flashlights.
“David Rosen?” one man asked.
“Yes, that’s me. What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“You have people staying here with you, Mr. Rosen? Arnold, Greta and Carol Moscowitz?” the other man asked, consulting a piece of paper.
“Who are you? Why do you want to know this? Why are you here so late? Come back in the morning.” Rosen moved to close the door.
A hand went to the door, holding it open. The paper was displayed. It was hard to read by the porch light. All Rosen saw was the large type at the top, United States District Court for the District of Massachusetts. And one other word in large black letters: WARRANT.
“Can we come in, sir? We have something to discuss with you.”
Rosen nodded numbly. Estelle stood at the top of the stairs, looking down.
“David, who are these men? What is it? My God, David, has something happened? Is it my mother? Please God, not my mother.” Her voice approached hysteria.
“No, Estelle. Mother is fine. Everything is fine. Go back to bed, dear. I have to speak with these men.”
“Actually, Mr. Rosen,” the second man said, consulting his list. “It would be best if Estelle came down here. But first, Estelle, could you ask the Moscowitzes to join us, too.”
In minutes, Estelle, joined by sleepy Arnold, Greta and Carol Moscowitz, came down the stairs.
“What is it David? What do these men want?” Estelle asked.
“These men are from the FBI,” Rosen said, looking at his wife and Arnold Moscowitz, a short, dark man. Moscowitz was born in Milwaukee and emigrated to Israel immediately after college. He owned Israel’s largest chain of photocopy shops. At least, he used to. Now he owned the clothes he wore and little else. He hoped to find a cousin in Milwaukee, the only family member he’d remained in contact with after his parents passed away.
“Let’s get this over with, sir,” the first man said. “Here’s how it is. We have an arrest warrant for you and for an Estelle Rosen. You are charged with aiding and abetting a whole list of crimes, ranging all the way to murder of a federal officer and—”
“Oh my God.” Estelle, all color drained from her face, slumped soundlessly to the floor. Rosen knelt beside her, patting her cheeks.
He looked at Carol Moscowitz.
“Get a wet cloth. Quickly. Help me,” he begged.
Estelle opened her eyes and sat up.
“I’m so sorry. That’s never happened to me, ever,” she said, surprised, then embarrassed. She slowly, carefully got up from the floor and stood eye to eye with the man holding the warrant.
“Do you really think you are going to charge me and David with, my God, with murder? That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. David, call the lawyer. Don’t say a word to these men. Don’t say a word. Get on the phone. Call the lawyer, what’s his name, we used him when we bought the summer house.”
She turned back to the two men.
“This is all a mistake. Get out of my house. Come back in the morning. You can’t take anybody until my lawyer gets here. This is crazy, crazy.”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid there is no mistake,” one of the men said. “We have a warrant and we’re under orders. Here’s how it’s going to work. These folks are coming with us. Their names are on the list and they have to come. You folks”—pointing at David and Estelle—“only one of you has to come; the other gets this notice. One comes. One stays here with your daughter. Makes no difference to us who comes, who stays. Just decide right away. We’ve got a busy night. Who’s it going to be?”
“Can I get dressed first?” Rosen asked, taking Estelle’s hand. “Just let me get some clothes on, okay?”
“Certainly, sir,” the second agent said. “But please hurry. And you people”—looking at the Moscowitzes—“you’d better get dressed and get whatever things you have together. You won’t be returning here. Whatever you want to keep, better take it with you.”
Minutes later the three Moscowitzes, Rosen and the two men stood on the porch. A yellow school bus was parked down the street. Rosen saw other groups of people standing motionless on the sidewalk, waiting for the bus to slowly roll down the street to them.