Courtesy Before Force

Hearst's smile froze. "You can't help?"

"Yes, Mr. Hearst."

"Forgive my bluntness, but you are the person the President trusts most, and his nephew besides. If you wanted to help me, you certainly could—unless you simply do not want to help, or... you think the stakes are not high enough."

"I do not think this has anything to do with stakes."

"Then what does it have to do with?"

Feilan let out a soft sigh. "Your relationship with him used to be good. Very good. As you said, your newspapers waved the flag and beat the drums for him, helped him strike down his opponents, and sent him into the White House. He always regarded you as a friend, as a trusted partner."

"Then, after the inauguration, he read every one of those newspapers of yours that tore into him..."

"Did he say anything?"

Hearst pressed urgently.

Feilan shook his head. "He said nothing. But at the time, he would often sit alone by the window in the Oval Office, staring outside with hollow eyes. I think that being misunderstood by a friend—perhaps even stabbed in the back by one—was agony that pierced him to the bone."

Hearst fell silent.

Feilan lowered his voice further. "Now everyone in the White House knows that whenever someone mentions your name, the President's expression changes. As his nephew, how would I dare touch that sore spot?"

Hearst suddenly lifted his head.

Though Feilan spoke with great sorrow, Hearst was an old fox who had navigated both business and politics for decades. He could hear that Feilan's tone was no longer the absolute refusal it had been before.

That sigh, those descriptions of being "stabbed in the back by a friend," those excuses about not daring to touch a sore spot...

This was not an absolute refusal.

This was telling him that this matter would be difficult.

But "difficult" did not mean "impossible."

"Mr. Feilan, then what must I do to make amends?"

Hearst leaned forward slightly, his tone more earnest than before.

Rather than answer, Feilan changed the subject. "Mr. Hearst, what do you think of the current relationship between the government and the capitalist class?"

Hearst was taken aback.

The question had come too suddenly, too far out of left field. It had nothing to do with what he had just raised.

But he was Hearst, after all—an old fox hardened by decades of experience. He quickly adjusted. "The current problems have already been effectively resolved. The Emergency Banking Act has allowed banks to reopen, restored public confidence, and sent the stock market soaring. I believe that in the future, with the government and the capitalist class working hand in hand, this country will only grow better and better."

He spoke beautifully, conventionally, and officially.

"When Coolidge took office, he thought the same way. When Hoover took office, he thought the same way. They were all very willing to govern the country hand in hand with the capitalist class, because they all believed that as long as both sides cooperated, as long as capital was given enough room to develop, this country would only grow better and better."

Feilan's tone was as flat as if he were commenting on the weather. "And then?"

Hearst did not answer.

"Then came 1929. The stock market crashed, and the Great Depression ruined the livelihoods of tens of thousands. Not one of those people who 'governed hand in hand' could save this country."

"So, Mr. Hearst, those four words—'govern hand in hand'—mean nothing."

"What exactly are you trying to say?"

Hearst's voice sank.

"The times have changed. The White House wants to accomplish something, and the capitalist class wants to safeguard its own interests. In essence, neither is wrong. But as for you, Mr. Hearst, what you wish to gain from now on will depend on the choice you make, my friend."

Hearst's pupils contracted slightly.

He heard two layers of meaning in Feilan's words.

The first was that the Emergency Banking Act might not be the end.

Those remarks about the White House wanting to accomplish something were telling him that perhaps even bigger moves lay ahead.

As for the second, Feilan was asking him to choose a side.

Would he continue standing with the capitalist class, or—

Hearst fell silent.

He remained silent for a long time.

Then he raised his head and gave Carvalho a look.

It was a subtle, nearly imperceptible glance. Unless someone had been watching him closely, they would never have noticed it.

But Feilan noticed.

Carvalho nodded faintly and turned to leave the sitting room.

A few minutes later, he returned carrying a new briefcase. It was smaller than the previous one, but looked more exquisite.

He walked up to Feilan and gently set the briefcase on the coffee table.

Feilan looked down at the case, then up at Hearst. "What is this?"

"You will know once you look."

A trace of confident smile returned to Hearst's face.

Carvalho unlatched the case and lifted its lid.

Inside were not documents, not contracts, not stock subscription papers.

They were photographs.

A stack of black-and-white photographs, developed with perfect clarity.

Carvalho pulled out several and spread them before Feilan.

Feilan's eyes fell on the photographs, and his pupils shrank.

It was the alley behind the Treasury Building's back entrance.

A group of men in dark overcoats were entering through that inconspicuous side door.

Jack Morgan, John Rockefeller Jr., Andrew Mellon...

One after another, every face was clearly recognizable.

Feilan looked up at Hearst. "Are you threatening us?"

Hearst shook his head. "Of course not. These photographs were taken by an independent reporter. He happened to be in that alley that day... taking pictures of something else, and he happened to capture this."

"I used a few methods to suppress the negatives. They were not published, not made public, and no one was allowed to know."

"I merely wanted the White House to understand that, no matter what, I, Hearst, still have my own value."

Feilan looked at him, then smiled.

"What are you laughing at?"

Feilan looked at the photographs, at those Wall Street magnates entering the Treasury Department through the back door, then said softly, "Mr. Hearst, let me ask you a question."

"If those negotiations at the Treasury Department had broken down, if those Wall Street magnates had swept their sleeves and walked away, would these photographs still be lying quietly in this expensive case?"

Hearst's expression changed.

In that instant, he understood what Feilan meant.

If the negotiations had broken down, if Roosevelt and Wall Street had torn off all pretense and fallen completely apart, then these photographs would no longer be "suppressed negatives."

They would be a deadly weapon aimed at Roosevelt.

What would Hearst, having already chosen to stand with the capitalist class at that time, have done?

Would he have made these photographs public?

Would he have told the entire United States: before saving the country, your "President of the People" secretly met those "Wall Street pirates" through the back door?

Would he have used these photographs to deliver a fatal finishing blow to that newly established image of a "President of the People"?

The answer was—he probably would have.