Outnumbered? I'll conquer America with an unlimited number of suicide soldiers.

Chapter 33 The San Francisco Riot

Montgomery Street, inside the San Francisco Gazette office.

The printing press roared on the first floor, printing newspapers under the operation of the workers.

"Editor-in-chief, our newspaper sales in San Francisco have reached three thousand copies!"

An editor, unable to hide his excitement, waved a report still smelling of ink. "If you include the newspapers sent to Sacramento, San Jose, and other small towns, that's five thousand copies."

"My God, we might have broken the newspaper circulation record for the entire state of California!"

"good!"

James King, equally delighted, said, "Charlie, send several more telegrams to our friends in New York. We need a complete copy of James Casey's files in the New York Criminal Court—arrest records, witness testimonies, everything! We'll cover all the telegram costs."

"Wood, you're going out on a field mission. I want you to confront James Casey: How did someone convicted of theft in New York become the police chief of San Francisco County?"

Furthermore, I'll find the officials who vetted his candidacy years ago, especially members of the Democratic Party. I'm going to put their embarrassing moments on the newspapers!

"Jack, go to the archives and look up the files from back then, focusing on the Democratic nominee list. See how many people are similar to James Casey!"

James King's speech grew increasingly impassioned as he instructed his editors and reporters, "We must strike while the iron is hot and bring down those Democratic scum as quickly as possible!"

Just then, a commotion broke out on the stairs.

"Sir, you cannot go up."

"Get out of my way, you watchdog!"

Heavy footsteps, accompanied by shoving sounds, rapidly approached. The office door was kicked open, and a burly white man with a menacing air appeared in the doorway. A grotesque scar marked his face, giving him an inherently fierce demeanor.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I ask which of you is Mr. James King?"

"Who are you?"

James King, behind the desk, frowned, immediately becoming wary, and slowly reached for the drawer.

"Sir, according to American law, if you forcibly enter a private workplace, we can use the necessary force to remove you."

The burly man spat and sneered, "Ha, what a load of bullshit the law is, it's nothing but a pile of dog shit!"

"Judging from this, you must be James King?"

My boss asked me to pass on a message to you: In any follow-up reports, include a clarification stating that your previous reports about Chief James Casey were all nonsense, slander by a competitor, or just some made-up excuse. We want to see that on the front page next week.”

James King scoffed. "So the Democrats have stooped to hiring gangsters to deliver messages? Tell Casey, and tell those gentlemen in silk vests behind her: The San Francisco Gazette doesn't publish lies!"

The burly man's face darkened, and he threatened, "Sir, we are reasonable people. Five hundred dollars, as long as you publish that statement, five hundred dollars in cash will be delivered to your hands tonight."

Otherwise, there's no point in you and this newspaper continuing to operate!

"Five hundred dollars? Get lost!"

James King gripped the revolver in the drawer, showing no fear: "Go back and tell James Casey that his political life ended yesterday. Now the only question is whether he'll spend the rest of his life in prison or hanged in the town square."

"It's a pity, sir, that you've chosen the wrong path," the burly man sighed, with a hint of regret.

His hand darted to his waist like lightning, drawing his gun without warning!

Upon hearing this, James King, who had a bad feeling, instantly drew his revolver. Just as he was about to point the gun at the big man, there was a loud "bang".

The gunshot rattled the windowpanes, and James King's body lurched backward, a deep red hole appearing in the center of his forehead. His eyes widened, as if he wanted to say something, but in the end he simply slumped back into his leather seat, blood trickling down the back of the chair.

The burly man pointed his revolver at the others in the office and retreated step by step towards the door: "Gentlemen, you forget thousands of things every day, why not forget this one too?"

"Gentlemen, you forget thousands of things every day, why not forget this one too?"

As he retreated into the corridor, he turned and rushed down the wooden stairs, his footsteps quickly fading into the distance.

A deathly silence enveloped the office.

After a full ten seconds, the editor named Charlie turned pale, as if waking from a dream: "Call the police! Call the police!"

"What's the use of calling the police? Didn't you understand? The gang that killed the editor-in-chief was hired by James Casey and his bunch of Democratic bastards!"

"The police are their people!"

Another editor gritted his teeth, "Let's go to the city hall and find the mayor! At this point, only the mayor can avenge the editor-in-chief!"

The last man's hands were still trembling, but his voice had become firm: "I'm going to stay and write down the story of the editor-in-chief being shot by gangsters at the behest of James Casey."

Tomorrow, I want all the citizens of San Francisco to know their ugly faces!

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

News of James King's assassination spread like wildfire.

Reporters from other newspapers flocked to the scene.

They skillfully took out their sketchbooks and quickly sketched the scene with charcoal pencils: the chaotic scene, the congealed bloodstains, and James King's unseeing face.

Once these sketches are completed, they will be urgently sent back to their respective newspapers, where engravers will carve them in reverse onto wooden boards to create printing plates, which will then be printed in the newspapers.

Among this group, the reporter from the Daily Evening Post stood out. Instead of a sketchbook, he pulled out a small square box with a camera lens embedded in it.

It resembled a camera, but was much smaller. He pressed a few buttons on the box and then put it away.

"What are you doing?" a colleague asked curiously.

"Take a picture," he replied briefly, then packed up his equipment and quietly left.

The following morning, San Francisco felt as if it had experienced an earthquake.

The front page of the San Francisco Gazette contained only one line: "To die for the truth."

The California Chronicle's front page read: "Can the bullets of tyranny kill the voice of freedom?"

The San Francisco Chronicle directly asked, "Who is protecting James Casey?"

But the most impactful was the Daily Evening Post announcement.

The entire front page featured a single image occupying three-quarters of the page—a clear photograph of James King slumped in a chair. The headline, printed in extra-large font, read: "Political Murder? The Democratic Party Declares War on the American Party!"

The emotions of San Francisco residents were completely ignited.

At 10 a.m., more than two thousand people had gathered in Portsmouth Square in front of the City Hall building.

When San Francisco Mayor Stephen Pavli Weber stepped onto the makeshift wooden platform, the crowd erupted in a deafening roar.

"Citizens, yesterday, in this city we built with our own hands, an upright and courageous gentleman was brutally shot dead in his office simply for speaking the truth!"

The crowd roared in anger.

What did James King do wrong? He was simply exercising the rights granted to every American by the First Amendment: freedom of speech and freedom of the press!

He merely revealed a sordid secret: the San Francisco County Sheriff, who should be a guardian of the law, was actually a criminal who had escaped from a New York prison!

He shouted to the crowd, "And now, the Democrats are trying to silence the people of San Francisco with bullets; they are trying to intimidate any citizen who dares to speak the truth with death."

"But we're going to tell them today, don't even think about it!"

"Don't even think about it!" came a deafening response from the audience.

"A democratic nation will not tolerate any tyranny. Citizens, it is time to exercise your constitutionally granted right to self-defense!"

"Today I stand here as the Mayor of San Francisco to announce: the Vigilance Commission will immediately launch an emergency operation. If the justice system won't try James Casey, then we will!"

A massive crowd, chanting "Hang James Casey!", rushed toward the county police station on the other side of the square.

Meanwhile, inside the county police station.

James Casey, his face pale, stared at the newspaper his men had brought him. He roared, "Who did this? Which idiot among you hired someone? Have they all lost their minds?!"

Several trusted sheriffs exchanged bewildered glances and asked, "Boss, didn't you hire someone to do this?"

"Yes, yes, I thought this was an idea you came up with after discussing it with the congressman yesterday."

Casey, enraged, laughed coldly and roared, "Fool! Do you think I'm not already dying fast enough to do this?"

"Besides, if I were to do it, I'd make it an accident—a carriage going out of control, drunks fighting. Who would be stupid enough to send someone into the newspaper office in broad daylight, only to kill someone after failing to reach an agreement?!"

The sheriffs kept their heads down and remained silent, after all, given Casey's past behavior, such a thing was not impossible.

Suddenly, someone rushed in, shouting, "Boss, something terrible has happened! There's been a protest outside! At least two thousand people have gathered in the square, and they're heading towards the police station!"

"What?"

Casey's expression changed, and he stood up from behind the table. He lifted a corner of the blinds and saw a dark mass of people in the direction of Portsmouth Square. Even across the street, he could faintly hear shouts of "Hang James Casey!"

He paced back and forth a few times, then gritted his teeth and said, "Warren, take a few men and close the door first, then go and ask the party's members of parliament and judges for help."

"Finch, lock me in a solitary confinement cell in the county jail right now. When the protesters arrive, stand at the door and announce: 'James Casey, the suspect in the murder of James King, has been lawfully taken into custody to await judicial investigation.'"

"Huh? Why put him in jail? Since it wasn't you, boss, who did it, why not just explain it to the public?" Finch asked, puzzled.

"Go tell that to those idiots outside!"

Casey strode toward the prison, saying, "They've already decided I'm the murderer and are just waiting to use vigilante justice to kill me. The prison walls are thick and the gates are sturdy; it's easy to defend and hard to attack. At least that way, they can save my life for now."

"If I just drag this out for a year or two, until the storm passes and the legal process is over, I will naturally be able to walk away cleanly and unscathed."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The San Francisco County Jail is located next to the police station's main building and is connected by an internal passageway.

The prison walls were 18 inches thick, capable of withstanding even light field artillery fire. From the entrance to the cell block, one had to pass through three heavy wrought-iron doors, each requiring two keys to open.

It can be described as impregnable.

Casey found herself a slightly cleaner single cell and moved in.

He had just sat down with his back against the wall when he heard the sound of chains dragging on the floor coming from the next cell, followed by a hoarse, mocking voice: "God help me, look who I see!"

"James Casey, our dear county sheriff. So, you son of a bitch, you've finally been caught and are heading for the gallows?"

Casey turned his head and looked through the gap in the fence at the next room. He sneered, "Charles Cora, I don't know if I'll die, but you bastard are definitely going to die."

Next Thursday, Portsmouth Square. Enjoy your last moments, and remember to repent to God, though I doubt even Satan would accept scum like you.

A string of filthy curses came from the cell next door.

Casey ignored him, closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, and didn't understand who was framing her.

Those politicians within the party? He sends them their monthly dividends on time; they have no reason to cut off their own source of income. Could it be that some police sergeant wanted a promotion and did this?

Before he could figure it out, a flurry of footsteps and noise suddenly filled the prison.

Casey rushed to the cell door, grabbed the cold iron bars, and looked out.

Finch unlocked the last iron door in the corridor with his key, and after it opened, he stepped aside and gestured for them to proceed.

"Gentlemen, this way."

As he spoke, a crowd led by Mayor Stephen Pavli Weber surged into the prison corridor.

Weber was dressed in a dark black suit, followed by at least twenty men. There were well-dressed businessmen, burly bodyguards, and even a pastor carrying a Bible.

Everyone stared coldly at Casey in the cell.

Casey's eyes widened in disbelief as she stared at her most trusted confidant: "Finch, you son of a bitch, you betrayed me! Why?!"

Finch shrugged and said, "A wise man submits to circumstances, Mr. Casey."

Regardless of whether the boss was behind it or not, his time as county police chief is over. In that case, he might as well switch sides and maybe he can become police chief someday.

Weber declared: "James Casey, a former New York convict, illegally obtained public office in 1851 through false statements."

"An investigation by the San Francisco Board of Police has confirmed that you hired a gunman yesterday to murder James King, editor of the San Francisco Gazette, in an attempt to cover up the crime and undermine press freedom."

"According to the U.S. Constitution and the San Francisco Ordinance, you are guilty and sentenced to death by hanging, to be carried out tomorrow!"

"Weber, you're fucking insane!"

Casey staggered backward: "You're the mayor, the mayor of San Francisco! This is a county jail, you have no jurisdiction, no right to try! This is fucking unconstitutional!"

"Unconstitutional? When you became police chief through illegal means and engaged in corruption, why didn't you think about this?"

Weber gave a mocking smile: "Besides, it's not me who will be judging you, but a vigilance committee spontaneously formed by the citizens."

"Even if Chief Justice Thompson were here, he couldn't rule that I was unconstitutional."