Archive of Our Own

INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT 12 August 1972--19:42 hrs

LM: All right. This is Detective Laura McKee, Town of Provo Police Department, conducting an interview with a witness to the incident at the Beale–Whitford campaign rally earlier this evening. Also present is Agent Robert Halprin with the federal protective detail. Sir, for the record, please state your full name and spell your last name.

JC: Jack Daniel Callahan. C-A-L-L-A-H-A-N.

LM: Thank you, Mr. Callahan. What is your current address?

JC: 214 Willow Street, Ogden. Utah.

LM: And your date of birth?

JC: February fifth, nineteen-forty-four.

LM: That makes you… twenty-eight?

JC: Yes, ma’am.

LM: Occupation?

JC: I’m between postings, technically. Former U.S. Army. Right now I’m training National Guard units on a contract in Italy. I’m home on leave.

RH: Just to clarify for the record, when you say “former U.S. Army,” what was your last rank?

JC: Staff Sergeant.

RH: MOS?

JC: Infantry. With some time as a training NCO.

LM: All right. Mr. Callahan, were you in attendance at the Beale–Whitford rally at the Civic Hall this afternoon?

JC: Yes, ma’am, I was.

LM: Why did you come to the rally?

JC: My kid brother wanted to see them. He’s big on Governor Beale and, uh, Senator Whitford. I said I’d go along. Figured I’d see what all the fuss was about.

LM: Are you yourself a supporter of the ticket?

JC: I like what they’re saying about veterans and benefits. I wouldn’t call myself a campaign worker or anything. I’m just… listening.

LM: Understood. For the record, had you consumed any alcohol or drugs prior to or during the rally today?

JC: No, ma’am. Just coffee in the morning. Coke at lunch.

LM: Okay. Let’s talk about your location in the venue. Where were you positioned in the hall immediately before the incident?

JC: Uh… Center of the floor, maybe twenty, twenty-five yards from the stage. Closer to the left aisle if you’re facing the stage. My brother was on my right. There was a woman—later I learned that was Mrs. Rosehain—just ahead of us, toward the front.

LM: About how many feet between you and Mrs. Rosehain?

JC: Five, six feet. Not far. Enough that if she turned around fast she’d bump me.

LM: And what was happening on stage at that time? Do you recall?

JC: They were still introducing people. Local folks. They’d just said Phoebe Whitford was in the building, but she wasn’t on stage yet. Crowd was getting louder, lot of clapping, people craning their necks to see.

RH: Lights up or dimmed?

JC: Up. It’s a civic hall, not a theatre. Overhead fluorescents, a few spotlights on the podium.

LM: All right. I’m going to ask you now to describe, step by step, what you observed when you first became aware that something was wrong. Start from the moment that stands out in your mind and go slowly. We may interrupt you to clarify a detail.

JC: Yes, ma’am.

LM: Go ahead.

JC: The first thing I noticed wasn’t a gun. It was a noise. Kind of a… sharp yelp, I guess. Woman’s voice. I felt the crowd shift in front of me, like two people bumping hard into each other. I looked up from the program I was pretending to read, and I saw this woman—Mrs. Rosehain—sort of pulling her shoulder back like she’d just swung at someone.

LM: When you say “swung,” what do you mean exactly?

JC: She had this big leather handbag. Brown, heavy-looking. She swung it like a… like a small duffel, I guess. Hit the guy in front of her right between the shoulder blades.

LM: You saw the impact?

JC: Yes. I saw the bag hit him. I heard it too. Solid thump.

RH: Approximately how far away were you when the bag made contact?

JC: Six feet. Maybe less. Close enough to see his jacket jump from the force.

LM: Did you hear her say anything?

JC: It was loud in there, but I caught something like, “Watch where you’re going,” or “Hey, watch it.” She was pissed off. Sounded like someone who just had their toes stepped on.

LM: Did you see that happen? Her foot being stepped on?

JC: No, ma’am. I inferred it from how she moved. She was looking down first, then up at him, and then she swung.

RH: Let’s talk about the young man. Before the bag struck him, had you noticed him at all?

JC: No. Not specifically. He was just part of the crowd. Young, maybe early twenties, dark hair. Shorter than me. I’m six-two; he was maybe five-nine.

RH: Clothing?

JC: Dark sport coat, kind of shiny like it had seen better days. Pale shirt, no tie that I remember. Dark pants. Nothing that would make you say, “There’s trouble.”

LM: So the bag hits him. What happens next?

JC: His upper body jerks forward, like he got shoved. The crowd’s tight, so he doesn’t go far, just stumbles a step. His jacket swings open on the right side. And that’s when I see the gun.

LM: Describe what you saw as precisely as you can.

JC: Black handgun. Semi-automatic, not a revolver. It was tucked inside his waistband, right side, under the jacket. Her swing knocked the jacket open and the gun shifted. The grip came up and out. For a second it was just… there, angled up, like it might fall.

LM: How sure are you that it was a real firearm and not, say, a prop or a toy?

JC: [short laugh] Ma’am, I’ve spent most of the last decade teaching men how to shoot. I know the difference between a toy and a nine-millimeter. It was real.

RH: Did you recognize the make or model?

JC: Looked like a Browning or maybe a Hi-Power clone. Short barrel, double-stack grip. I couldn’t see markings, but the profile was familiar.

LM: What did the young man do when the gun became visible?

JC: He grabbed for it. His right hand went straight down toward the grip like he was going to push it back down or pull it out. Either way, his hand went to the weapon.

LM: And what did you do?

JC: Instinct kicked in. You see a man reaching for a gun in a crowded space where a public figure’s about to walk out, you don’t think about it—you move. I shouted “Gun!” as loud as I could and went for him.

LM: Do you remember exactly when you shouted “Gun!”? Before you moved or as you were moving?

JC: As I was moving. It was one motion. See the gun, mouth opens, legs go.

RH: Can you estimate how much time passed between seeing the gun and making physical contact with the suspect?

JC: Couple seconds. Maybe less. It’s hard to say. Everything compresses in your head afterward. But it wasn’t long. I didn’t stand there thinking about it.

LM: Describe how you closed the distance.

JC: Two steps forward, shoulder through a little gap between people. I put my left hand on his shoulder to steady him and my right hand went straight for his right wrist. You want to control the weapon hand, that’s the priority.

LM: Did he have the gun in his hand at that point?

JC: He was in the process of drawing or shoving it down, hard to say. His fingers were on the grip. When I got to him, I caught his wrist and twisted it outward and down—standard disarm technique. My goal was to break his grip and redirect the muzzle.

LM: Was the gun ever fully clear of his clothing?

JC: For a second, yes. When I twisted his wrist, the gun came out of his waistband and pointed down toward the floor. Then his fingers lost their hold and it slipped.

LM: Did it discharge at any point?

JC: No. I didn’t hear any shots. Just the clatter when it hit the floor.

LM: Where did it land?

JC: Between us. On the floor by his right foot. I immediately kicked it away, toward the open space between our row and the next. I wanted it out of his reach and not pointed at anybody’s leg.

RH: What foot did you use?

JC: Left. I was braced on my right, torqueing his wrist with my right hand, so my left foot was free.

LM: You said you used a “standard disarm technique.” Is that something you were trained to do?

JC: Yes, ma’am. We train soldiers on close-quarters weapon retention and disarming. You don’t want the wrong person getting the gun.

LM: How did the suspect respond physically when you grabbed him?

JC: He resisted. Hard. He yelled—kind of a wordless shout at first—and tried to pull his arm back toward his body. He twisted his torso, tried to get his left hand on my wrist to pry me off. When that didn’t work, he tried to drive his shoulder back into my chest.

LM: Were you able to keep your grip the entire time?

JC: Yes. Once you lock that joint and keep your weight on it, you’ve got leverage. I pulled his arm behind him and down, forcing him toward the floor.

RH: At what point did the other two men join in?

JC: Within a second or two of me shouting “Gun!” and making contact. It wasn’t long. Everything kind of happened at once.

LM: Tell us about them.

JC: The first was a guy with glasses—later I heard his name was Len, Leonard Feinstein. He came in on the suspect’s left side, grabbed his other arm, the left one, and pulled it across his chest. That kept the suspect from swinging at me or going for a second weapon.

LM: You believed he might have a second weapon?

JC: You assume the worst until proven otherwise. Jacket like that could hide a lot. I didn’t have time to pat him down.

LM: And the third man?

JC: Stocky guy, maybe mid-thirties, darker complexion—Miguel, I think someone called him Mikey. By the time I had the suspect’s right arm pinned and Len had his left, Mikey came in low and dropped his weight on the suspect’s legs. Sat right across his calves. That stopped the kicking.

LM: Did the suspect attempt to kick before that?

JC: Oh yeah. He was thrashing, trying to twist out from under us. Caught my shin a couple times. Once Mikey sat on his legs, he didn’t have the leverage anymore.

RH: During this struggle, did you hear the suspect say anything intelligible?

JC: Yeah. Once we had him on the ground. He was swearing—“Get off me,” that kind of thing. And he said something like, “You don’t get it. She’s the one ruining everything.” Or “She’s ruined it all.” I can’t swear to the exact words, but it was about “she.” I took that to mean Senator Whitford.

LM: Did he mention her by name?

JC: Not that I heard. Just “she.”

LM: Did you hear him mention anything about religion, race, or specific policies?

JC: No, ma’am. Not in that moment. Just anger.

LM: Going back a moment: After you kicked the gun away, do you know who picked it up?

JC: No. I lost sight of it once it slid under the feet of the people around us. I was focused on keeping his arm locked. I did hear someone yell “I’ve got it,” a minute later, but I didn’t see who that was.

RH: For the record, we have that the firearm was recovered by Mr. George Malloy using a handkerchief. You did not see that directly?

JC: No, sir.

LM: Let’s talk about the crowd. When you shouted “Gun!” and moved, how did the people around you react?

JC: Panic. Some screamed and tried to push away, others ducked down. You get this ripple effect in a tight space—people shoving without knowing what they’re shoving away from. For a second I was worried we’d start a stampede, people getting trampled.

LM: Did that happen?

JC: No. I think that older gentleman—Malloy—started yelling for folks to step back, give us room. That helped. And once security converged, it gave people something to focus on.

RH: How quickly did security arrive on scene, in your estimation?

JC: Felt like forever but it was probably under a minute. Maybe thirty seconds from first contact to the first uniform from the detail kneeling next to us.

LM: What did they do when they reached you?

JC: One of them—big guy, crew cut—identified himself, told us to keep holding him down while he got the cuffs out. They cuffed the suspect’s wrists behind his back, then told us to let go. Mikey stayed on his legs until they got a second set of restraints on his ankles.

LM: Did you release him willingly?

JC: Of course. Once professionals with cuffs and sidearms are there, you hand it over.

LM: After you released the suspect, did you remain at the scene?

JC: For a minute or so. My brother was yelling my name from somewhere behind me. I turned around to check he was all right. Then one of the agents—might’ve been you, Agent Halprin, I’m not sure—asked me to step aside and wait against the wall until local police could talk to me.

RH: That aligns with our notes.

LM: During the struggle or immediately afterward, did you see Phoebe Whitford or Governor Beale?

JC: I didn’t see the Governor at all. I caught a glimpse of Senator Whitford’s hair at the side curtain earlier, but by the time this happened, I don’t think she’d come out yet. She definitely wasn’t on the stage when I shouted.

LM: So at no point during the incident did you see her exposed on stage within line of sight of the suspect?

JC: No, ma’am. Thank God.

LM: Mr. Callahan, I want to go back briefly to the moment before the handbag swing. You said you hadn’t noticed the suspect specifically before that. Did he say anything as he moved past you? Did anything about his behavior stand out?

JC: Not that I recall. He moved like someone in a hurry, that’s all. Little elbowing, but in a crowd like that, you expect some jostling. He wasn’t waving a sign or chanting. He was… focused. Eyes straight ahead toward the stage.

LM: Focused how?

JC: Like he was already playing something out in his head. Not looking at the people he was pushing past. That’s probably why he stepped on her foot.

LM: Do you recall which foot he stepped on?

JC: Her right, I think. She grabbed at it after and hissed, then looked up at him. She had that look that says, “You’ve got one chance to say sorry.” He didn’t take it.

LM: And then she swung.

JC: Yes, ma’am.

RH: Mr. Callahan, in your expert opinion as a former Staff Sergeant, do you believe that if Mrs. Rosehain had not struck the suspect with her handbag, the firearm would have remained concealed until he chose to draw it?

JC: Yes. Her swinging at him is what opened that jacket. If she hadn’t, I don’t think I’d have seen the gun until it was already in his hand. And in a room like that, with that many people and a stage not far away… that would’ve been bad.

RH: Bad in what sense?

JC: You’re talking about a potential assassin with a loaded handgun in a packed house, standing maybe twenty yards from a vice-presidential candidate. If the first time anyone noticed was when he started firing, you’d be counting bodies.

LM: Mr. Callahan, do you consider your actions today heroic?

JC: [pause] No, ma’am. I consider them… necessary. I’ve been trained for situations where hesitation gets people killed. I saw a threat, and I did what my training told me to do. The real break was her bag.

LM: You mean Mrs. Rosehain.

JC: Yes. If she’d just swallowed the pain and let him walk on, you and I might be having a very different conversation.

LM: Understood. Is there anything else you remember about the incident that we haven’t asked you about?

JC: [longer pause] Just… the sound after. The crowd. You know when a room full of people tries not to panic? That murmur? I remember thinking, “They have no idea how close that was.” And then I looked up at the stage and thought about her—Senator Whitford—and her mother standing right there in the middle of it.

LM: All right. Agent Halprin, any further questions?

RH: Just one. Mr. Callahan, if we need to reach you for follow-up, you’ll be in Ogden through when?

JC: End of the month. Then I ship back to Italy. But if you need me to stay longer, I can talk to my CO.

RH: We’ll be in touch through the Ogden PD if necessary.

LM: Mr. Callahan, thank you for your cooperation and for your actions earlier today. This concludes our interview at 20:11 hours.

[END OF INTERVIEW – TAPE 1 SIDE B]

INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT 12 August 1972, 20:24 hrs

LM: This is Detective Laura McKee, Town of Provo Police Department, conducting an interview with a second witness to the incident at the Beale–Whitford campaign rally earlier this evening. Also present is Agent Robert Halprin with the federal protective detail. Sir, for the record, please state your full name and spell your last name.

LF: Leonard Martin Feinstein. F-E-I-N-S-T-E-I-N.

LM: Thank you, Mr. Feinstein. Your current address?

LF: 19… sorry—194 Oakview Drive, here in town. Zip eight-four—uh—eight-four-seven, I always mix the last two—

LM: [gently] That’s all right, we have it in your statement. And your date of birth?

LF: June seventeenth, nineteen-thirty-one.

LM: That makes you forty-one, correct?

LF: Yes, ma’am.

LM: Occupation?

LF: I’m an accountant. I, uh, have a small practice. Feinstein & Co., though the “& Co.” is mostly my wife doing the books on the books. [brief laugh]

LM: All right. Were you in attendance at the Beale–Whitford rally at the Civic Hall this afternoon?

LF: Yes. With my daughter.

LM: Your daughter’s name and age?

LF: Ruth. She’s fifteen. She’s… she’s at home now, my wife picked her up?

LM: Yes, sir. She’s been released to your wife. She’s fine. We may speak with her later, but for now this is about what you observed. Why did you come to the rally today?

LF: Ruth wanted to go. They’ve been talking about Senator Whitford at her school, about what it means for a woman to be on the ticket. She’s very… engaged, I guess is the word. I took the afternoon off so we could go together. Civic duty, father–daughter time, that sort of thing.

LM: Would you describe yourself as a supporter of Governor Beale and Senator Whitford?

LF: Yes. I mean, I’m not knocking on doors, but I plan to vote for them.

LM: For the record, had you consumed any alcohol or drugs prior to or during the rally?

LF: No. No, ma’am. I had coffee at the office and a sandwich. That’s all.

LM: All right. Let’s talk about where you were standing. Where were you positioned in the hall immediately before the incident occurred?

LF: We were… um… maybe ten or twelve feet behind Mrs. Rosehain. I didn’t know her name then; I just knew she was shorter than most of the people in front and trying to see. We were toward the center of the floor, not way in the back but not right up at the stage either. I put Ruth a little in front of me and to my left so I could keep a hand on her shoulder.

LM: Closer to the left or right aisle?

LF: The left, if you’re looking at the stage. We came in on that side.

RH: How far were you from the center of the stage, approximately?

LF: I’m not good with yardage, but… maybe seventy, eighty feet? We weren’t right under the podium, but you could read the banners.

LM: What was happening on stage immediately before the incident?

LF: They were introducing local people—teachers, a union guy, the mayor. The emcee had just said, “And in just a moment we’ll be hearing from Senator Whitford,” and everyone yelled. Ruth grabbed my arm and said, “She’s really here, Dad.” [small laugh] I remember that.

LM: All right, Mr. Feinstein. I’m going to ask you now to describe, step by step, what you observed when you first became aware something was wrong. Start with the first thing that stands out in your mind. Go slowly. We may interrupt to clarify details.

LF: Okay.

LM: Go ahead.

LF: The first thing… it wasn’t the gun. It was a— a kind of commotion just ahead of us. I heard a woman hiss, like when someone sucks in their breath from pain, and then there was this—this thump sound. Like someone hitting a cushion. I looked up and saw a handbag swing.

LM: Describe what you saw.

LF: There was this woman, middle-aged, neat hair, nice blouse—later I heard she’s Senator Whitford’s mother, which… [exhales] Anyway. She had a big leather purse, the kind that could hold bricks. She swung it with both hands at the back of a young man in front of her. Hit him square between the shoulders.

LM: Had you noticed that young man before that moment?

LF: Not really. Just another back in front of us. Ruth and I had been kind of squeezed from behind, people pressing in to get closer, so I was more focused on not losing her.

LM: Did you see why she swung the bag?

LF: I saw her look down at her foot like she’d been stepped on. She kind of winced and grabbed at her shoe. Then she looked up at him like she was waiting for him to say “sorry.” He didn’t. He kept pushing ahead. And then she just… clocked him with the purse.

LM: Did you hear her say anything?

LF: I heard “Hey!” and something like “Watch where—” and then the thump. It was loud in there, but that came through.

RH: Where was your daughter at this point?

LF: Right in front of me, maybe… arm’s length to the left. I had my hand on her shoulder. When the bag swung, she flinched and looked back at me. I told her, “It’s fine, somebody just bumped somebody,” because at that moment I still thought it was just… you know, crowd stuff.

LM: What happened when the bag hit the young man?

LF: He jerked forward. The crowd was packed, so he didn’t go far, but his upper body pitched ahead and his jacket flew open on the right side. I saw something dark at his waist, and then the light hit it and… it was a gun. The grip. You see things like that on television, but in real life it’s… smaller and more terrible at the same time.

LM: How clearly could you see the weapon?

LF: Clear enough. Black, metal, the shape— I’m not a gun expert, but I knew it wasn’t a toy. The way it sat there, pulling at his belt, the way he grabbed for it—

LM: You saw him reach for it?

LF: Yes. He kind of twisted his right arm back and down, trying to shove it back in or pull it out, I don’t know. His hand closed over the handle. That’s when my stomach just— dropped. Because Ruth was right there, and the stage was right there, and this was not what we came for.

LM: What did you do when you saw that?

LF: I… I wish I could tell you I thought it through. I didn’t. I saw the gun, I saw my kid, and then I was moving. I yelled “Ruth, get down!” and pushed her down in front of me. Then I went forward.

LM: Did you hear anyone else shout?

LF: Yes. Almost at the same time, I heard a man behind me yell, “Gun!” Very loud. Deep voice. It might have been a fraction of a second before I yelled to Ruth, or after. In my head it’s kind of all mashed together. But I remember that “Gun!” like a bell.

RH: For the record, we believe that was Mr. Callahan’s shout. When you say you “went forward,” what exactly did you do?

LF: I let go of Ruth—well, I pushed her down, so she was crouched—and I shoved my way through the people between me and the man with the gun. There were maybe two people between us. I sort of slid past Mrs. Rosehain on her left side. She looked frozen, like she’d just realized what she’d hit.

LM: At that point, where was the gun?

LF: In his hand. Or half in, half out. It was loose. His jacket was completely open, and his hand was on the handle. Then the redheaded man—Mr. Callahan—hit him.

LM: Describe that.

LF: Mr. Callahan came from behind, on the suspect’s right side. He grabbed his arm and twisted it up and back. The gun popped out of the waistband, and I think it hit the floor. I remember hearing a metal-on-concrete clatter.

LM: You’re sure the gun hit the floor at that time?

LF: That’s how I remember it. Gun, clatter, and then bodies moving.

RH: Did you see where it landed?

LF: Between their feet somewhere. I saw it for a second, then people’s legs were in the way. Mr. Callahan’s shoulder blocked part of my view.

LM: You mentioned “bodies moving.” What did the suspect do?

LF: He yelled something—just a sort of “Hey!” at first—and tried to wrench his arm back. Mr. Callahan had him, but the whole row kind of lurched. People were screaming, pushing away. I was suddenly up against his left side, and his other arm was flailing.

LM: What did you do then?

LF: I grabbed his left arm. Both hands. I just… grabbed and held on. I pulled it across his chest and down, like you would with a kid having a tantrum, except this was a grown man with a gun—or who had just had a gun—and I was terrified he was going to break loose.

LM: Had you had any training in restraining someone?

LF: No. None. I sit at a desk. Sometimes I carry ledgers. That’s the extent of my weightlifting. [nervous laugh] It wasn’t… it wasn’t training. It was just… panic with a grip.

LM: How tight was your hold?

LF: As tight as I could make it. My fingers hurt now. I could feel the muscle in his arm jumping. He tried to pull free, but I dug my heels in and leaned back, using my weight. My glasses slid down my nose, and I remember thinking, absurdly, “This is going to be the last thing I see clearly.”

RH: During this time, where was your daughter?

LF: Down on the floor. She told me later she curled up, hands over her head. I didn’t look at her then. I… couldn’t. If I looked away and he got loose—

LM: Understood. Did anyone else join in at that point?

LF: Yes. Another man—shorter than Mr. Callahan but stocky—came in from the front, kind of sideways. He ducked low and threw himself onto the suspect’s legs. I heard him say, “Stay still, amigo.” It was… oddly calm, given everything.

LM: So at that point, Mr. Callahan had the suspect’s right arm, you had the left, and the third man had his legs?

LF: Yes. The suspect was sort of half-standing, half-falling. Then he went down. We all went down, honestly. It was like being in a pile of coats with a wild animal under them.

LM: Did the suspect continue to struggle?

LF: Yes. He twisted, kicked what he could. My knee got hit. He tried to slam his head back into Mr. Callahan, I think. He kept saying, “Get off me, let me go, you don’t understand.” And something about “She’s a traitor” or “She betrayed us.” I’m not sure of the exact words. It was loud and people were screaming.

RH: Did he mention Senator Whitford by name?

LF: Not that I heard. Just “she.” Over and over. “She’s ruined us,” maybe. My heart was pounding; I can’t swear to it.

LM: Did you ever see the gun again after that initial clatter?

LF: Not clearly. At one point someone near us shouted, “Watch the gun, watch the gun!” and then another voice said, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” I saw a handkerchief and metal for a second, like someone was picking it up, but I couldn’t tell you who.

LM: During this, did you hear any gunshots?

LF: No. No shots. Just screaming and the PA squealing when someone yanked the microphone, I guess.

LM: Let’s talk about the crowd reaction. What happened around you when “Gun!” was shouted and the struggle began?

LF: Chaos. People shoved backward, some ducked, someone fell against me from behind. I felt Ruth slip out from under my hand when I pushed her down, and for a second I panicked I’d lost her. Then somebody behind us—an older man with a teacher voice, you know?—started yelling, “Back up! Give them room! Don’t push!” He sounded like he was trying to keep the lid on a pot.

LM: Did it help?

LF: I think so. People stopped surging forward, at least. I was so focused on holding that arm that the rest of the room sort of turned into noise, but the fact that we weren’t all knocked flat… yeah, I think it helped.

RH: Mr. Feinstein, did you get a clear look at the suspect’s face at any point?

LF: Yes. When Mr. Callahan first grabbed him and twisted his arm, the suspect’s head snapped back and to the side. For a second we were face to face, maybe a foot apart.

RH: Can you describe him?

LF: Early twenties, like I said. Dark hair, a little long over the ears. Clean-shaven. Pale, but that might’ve been the shock. His eyes were… wide, but not like someone who’s surprised. More like someone who’s been wound tight for a long time and finally snapped. Focused. Angry. He wasn’t drunk, at least he didn’t look it.

LM: Did you smell alcohol on him?

LF: No. Just sweat. And something like… cheap cologne.

LM: At any point before the handbag swing, did you hear him say anything? Did he look around, check exits, talk to anyone?

LF: I honestly don’t remember him at all before that moment. He was just part of the mass. If he said anything, it didn’t register.

LM: You mentioned you told your daughter to get down. Did anyone else around you duck or drop to the floor?

LF: Yes. Once “Gun!” was shouted, a few people dropped right where they were. The woman beside Ruth screamed and squatted down, pulling the person next to her. It was like a wave—some people went down, some went back, some just froze.

RH: How quickly did security arrive on scene, from your perspective?

LF: It felt like a long time, but I know that’s just my nerves talking. Maybe half a minute? Less? We were on the floor with him, my arms shaking, and then I heard someone bark, “Secret Service! Don’t move!” and felt more bodies around us.

LM: What did they do?

LF: One of them grabbed the suspect’s wrist above where Mr. Callahan was holding, told us to keep pressure while he got handcuffs on. Another agent started patting him down, checking for more weapons. They were calm. Very… deliberate.

LM: Did they give you any instructions?

LF: “Don’t let go yet,” and then, “Okay, we’ve got him, you can ease off.” I remember the words because my muscles were screaming by then. When they said I could let go, I almost fell backward. My hands didn’t want to open.

LM: After you released the suspect, what did you do?

LF: I turned around so fast I nearly fell. I was looking for Ruth. She was still on the floor, knees up, hands over her head. I grabbed her and said, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” She was crying, but she could stand. Someone from the campaign staff—or maybe police, I don’t know—told us to move toward the wall. Then one of the officers asked me to stay, said they’d need my statement.

RH: During or after the incident, did you see Senator Whitford or Governor Beale?

LF: I saw… I think I saw Senator Whitford’s silhouette backstage earlier, before all this. Afterward, no. I heard someone say, “Get her out of here,” and there was movement at the side of the stage, but I didn’t see her face.

LM: Mr. Feinstein, I want to ask a more personal question now. You understand you don’t have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable, but it may help us understand the sequence of events. In that moment when you chose to move toward the suspect, with your daughter so close by—what went through your mind?

LF: [long pause] Honestly? Nothing very noble. Just— “Gun. Ruth.” That’s it. Those two thoughts. “Gun, Ruth.” I didn’t think about politics, or the Senator, or anything else. I saw that black shape and her ponytail, and something in me just… pushed forward. Later, when they sat me down and gave me water, that’s when I thought, “What if I’d been wrong? What if it had gone off? What if she—” [voice breaks slightly, clears throat] Sorry.

LM: Take your time.

LF: [deep breath] I didn’t make a decision in the way you’re asking. I just moved. If I’d had time to think— I don’t know. I hope I would’ve done the same. For her. For everybody.

RH: For the record, your actions contributed significantly to restraining the suspect. You may not see yourself as anything other than a father, but from our standpoint, you helped prevent something much worse.

LF: People keep saying that. I just… I keep thinking about how close she was. If I had frozen— I can’t let my mind finish that sentence.

LM: We understand. Just a few more questions. Did you hear anyone encourage you to move toward the suspect, or did anyone try to pull you back?

LF: No one encouraged me. No one stopped me either. It all happened too fast. Afterward a woman behind me said, “I can’t believe you ran toward it,” and I thought, “I can’t believe it either.”

LM: Is there anything else you remember—any detail, no matter how small—that we haven’t covered? Something the suspect said, someone who seemed to be with him, anything unusual before or after?

LF: [frowns, thinking] There was… this is probably nothing. But a little before all this, maybe five minutes, I noticed a man near the back of the hall looking around a lot. Not at the stage—at the exits, at the balcony. I only noticed because it made me nervous, like he was casing a bank in a movie. But then someone in front of me raised a sign and I lost sight of him. I don’t know if he had anything to do with this. He was too far away for me to connect him to the man with the gun.

RH: Can you describe him?

LF: Thirties, maybe? Dark jacket, tie. Dark hair. He could’ve been anybody. A lot of men looked like that today.

LM: All right. We’ll note it. If we show you a photograph of the suspect later, will you be able to identify him?

LF: Yes. I’ll never forget that face.

LM: Mr. Feinstein, one last question: Do you have any injuries from the incident? Aside from the soreness you mentioned.

LF: My knee’s bruised, my hands feel like I’ve been squeezing a crowbar all day, and my heart… [short laugh] My heart’s still somewhere up in my throat. But nothing serious. Ruth’s okay. That’s what matters.

LM: Thank you. Agent Halprin, anything further?

RH: Nothing further from me. Thank you, Mr. Feinstein.

LM: All right. This concludes our interview with Leonard Feinstein at 20:52 hours.

[END OF INTERVIEW – TAPE 2 SIDE A]

INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT 12 August 1972 21:05 hrs

LM: This is Detective Laura McKee, Town of Provo Police Department, conducting an interview with a third witness to the incident at the Beale–Whitford campaign rally earlier this evening. Also present is Agent Robert Halprin with the federal protective detail. Sir, for the record, please state your full name and spell your last name.

MC: Miguel Ángel Cruz. C-R-U-Z.

LM: Do you go by any nickname?

MC: Most folks call me Mikey.

LM: Thank you, Mr. Cruz. Your current address?

MC: 311 South Birch, apartment three, right here in town.

LM: Date of birth?

MC: October third, nineteen-thirty-eight.

LM: That makes you thirty-three?

MC: Thirty-three, yes, ma’am.

LM: Occupation?

MC: Construction worker. I’m a foreman with Washburn & Sons. We do commercial builds, road work, that kind of thing.

LM: All right. Were you in attendance at the Beale–Whitford rally at the Civic Hall this afternoon?

MC: Yes, ma’am. I was.

LM: Why did you come to the rally?

MC: Couple reasons. The union’s pretty interested in what they’re saying about wages and safety, and some of the guys from my crew wanted to go. And I wanted to see Senator Whitford in person, you know? My girls see her on TV and ask questions. Figured I should hear her with my own ears before I answer.

LM: Would you describe yourself as a supporter of the ticket?

MC: I’m leaning that way, yeah. They talk about working people like we actually exist, so that’s something.

LM: For the record, had you consumed any alcohol or drugs prior to or during the rally?

MC: No, ma’am. I was on the job this morning. Just coffee, and then a hot dog from the vendor out front. No beer, nothing like that.

LM: All right. Let’s establish where you were in the hall. Where were you positioned immediately before the incident?

MC: On the floor, left-hand side if you’re looking at the stage, but a little more toward the back than the other fellas you talked to, I think. Maybe fifteen, twenty feet behind the lady with the big purse—Mrs. Rose… Rose-something?

RH: Rosehain.

MC: Right, Rosehain. I didn’t know her name then, but yeah, her. We were a little off to her left, closer to the aisle. I had a campaign sign, the cardboard kind on a stick.

LM: Approximately how far were you from the stage?

MC: I don’t know exact numbers, but… far enough that the folks in front looked small, close enough I could still read the big “Beale–Whitford ’72” banner without squinting.

LM: You were there with friends, you said?

MC: Yeah. Couple guys from the crew. Julio, Ben. They were behind me jawing about who was gonna win in November. I stepped up a bit when folks shifted, so I ended up closer to the action than they did.

RH: What was happening on stage immediately prior to the incident?

MC: They were bringing out local people, I think. I remember a teacher, ‘cause the crowd cheered when they said “been teaching twenty-five years.” Then they said Senator Whitford was backstage and coming out “in just a moment,” and everybody yelled and whistled. Place got louder. People started kind of bunching up toward the front.

LM: All right, Mr. Cruz. I’m going to ask you to describe, step by step, what you observed when you first became aware something was wrong. Start with the first thing that stands out in your mind and go slowly. We may interrupt to clarify details. Understood?

MC: Understood.

LM: Go ahead.

MC: First thing for me wasn’t the bag, or the gun. It was the shout. “Gun!” That’s what I remember. Big voice, carried over the crowd. I’d heard a little ruckus before that—somebody yelp, like when you get your foot stomped—but the hall was noisy, so I didn’t think much of it. Then this voice just cut through everything. “Gun!”

LM: Did you recognize the voice?

MC: Not then. I know now that was the redheaded soldier guy—Jack. Callahan? But in the moment, it was just a voice you listen to.

LM: So you heard “Gun!” What did you do?

MC: Two things at once. My brain went, “Where are the exits?” because that’s what you do when someone says “gun” in a packed room. And my body went, “Look where everyone’s looking.” People turned their heads toward the middle of the floor, toward Lady With The Purse, and I followed their eyes.

LM: What did you see?

MC: I saw a mess of shoulders and arms moving where it should’ve just been people standing. Kind of a knot in the crowd. I didn’t see the handbag hit the guy; I think that already happened. What I saw was this young man—dark jacket, didn't look like he’d ever carried lumber a day in his life—jerk sideways. There was another man behind him, taller, red hair, grabbing his arm. That was Mr. Callahan.

RH: Could you see a firearm at that point?

MC: Not right away. People in front of me were taller, and I was a little back. But I saw the movement—one man trying to bring his arm down, other man twisting it up. That looked wrong. I’ve broken up enough fights outside bars to know when something’s more serious than a shove.

LM: Did you move closer?

MC: Yeah. Instinct. I shoved my sign into Julio’s hands without looking and pushed forward. Folks were already starting to scatter—a couple of them ducked, others tried to back up and just hit more people. It was like trying to walk upstream in a river.

LM: How close did you get?

MC: Close enough that I could see the suspect’s feet. That’s what I was looking at, actually. When someone’s fighting, the danger isn’t just their hands—it’s where their feet are going. He was kicking, hard. His heels were coming up off the floor, trying to get leverage, maybe catch somebody’s knee.

LM: Before we get to that, did you see the gun at any point?

MC: I got a glimpse. Between legs. There was a black shape on the floor, a pistol, sliding along the concrete toward the little space between rows. Somebody’s shoe almost came down on it, then pivoted. That was when I really believed the “Gun!” shout. Before that, could’ve been a false alarm. After that, no doubt.

RH: Did you see who kicked the gun away?

MC: I saw a boot—dark, maybe Mr. Callahan’s—swing and send it farther out. I didn’t see whose leg it was attached to, but somebody with some training knew not to leave it at the suspect’s feet.

LM: All right. Let’s talk about your actions. You said you focused on the suspect’s feet. Why?

MC: ‘Cause I saw his shoes coming up. Nice shoes, by the way. Not work boots—dress shoes, slick soles. He was kicking like a mule, and the two guys on his arms were busy hanging on up top. I’ve had guys on site lose their footing and take two other people down with them. Same idea. If he got his feet under him, he might plant and throw his weight, maybe break free. Or kick someone in the ribs. I didn’t want that.

LM: What did you do?

MC: I went low. Dropped my center of gravity like I was picking up a sack of cement. I ducked under someone’s elbow, stepped over a fallen pamphlet, and just kind of… slid into home, if you want a picture. I wrapped my arms around his lower legs, right about the calves, and then sat down. Hard. Right across his shins.

LM: You sat on his legs?

MC: Yes, ma’am. I’ve wrestled with my little brother enough times to know: you pin the legs, the rest is easier. I spread my feet out wide for balance, leaned my weight in, and held on. He tried to jerk his knees up but with a couple hundred pounds of me on them, he wasn’t going anywhere.

LM: Did you say anything to him?

MC: Yeah. I said, “Stay still, amigo.” It just came out. I don’t know why. Maybe because if I started yelling, I figured he might panic more. I wanted calm. Or as close to calm as you get with three men on top of you and a gun on the floor.

RH: How did he respond?

MC: He didn’t. Not to me. He just kept straining. He was breathing fast, kind of a high, ragged sound. He was talking, but it wasn’t to us. More like talking at the air. “Let me go, you don’t get it, she’s—” and then curse words I probably shouldn’t say on tape. [brief smile] You want them anyway?

LM: For the record, you can repeat what he said.

MC: All right. He said, “Get the hell off me. You don’t understand. She sold us out.” Then something like, “She’s selling us to them.” Over and over, “You don’t get it.” He was mad. Not drunk-mad. More… righteous, in his head.

LM: Did he mention Senator Whitford by name?

MC: Not that I heard. Just “she.” But we all knew who “she” was supposed to be, with that stage right there.

LM: At any point did he direct threats specifically toward Senator Whitford or Governor Beale?

MC: I didn’t hear, “I’m gonna kill her,” if that’s what you mean. Just that “she ruined everything,” “she’s a traitor,” that kind of thing. Plenty ugly, but not a clear sentence like that. Then again, I was mostly focused on keeping his legs from breaking my nose.

RH: Did you notice anything about his physical condition? Did he seem under the influence of alcohol or drugs?

MC: His eyes were big. Not glassy, though. I’ve seen men on the job drunk—he didn’t move like that. He wasn’t sluggish or sloppy. He was wired. Like too much coffee and too much anger at the same time. No slur in his words, just speed.

LM: Let’s back up a moment. Before you went low, did you see Mrs. Rosehain strike him with her handbag?

MC: I saw the tail end of it. I saw the bag swinging back. It’s the kind my ma used to carry—big enough to hold a change of clothes and three books. I didn’t see it hit, but I saw the motion and I saw her face right after.

LM: Describe her expression.

MC: Shocked. Not “I did something wrong” shocked, more “What did I just uncover?” She was looking at his side, where the jacket had opened. Her mouth was open but she wasn’t making any sound I could hear. Like somebody just pulled the rug out from under the day she thought she was having.

LM: Did you see her foot being stepped on?

MC: No, ma’am. Floor was too crowded. I heard a yelp that might’ve been her, but feet-wise all I saw was a bunch of shoes, pamphlets, and my own boots.

RH: You mentioned you know what a gun looks like. Have you had any firearms training?

MC: A little. My cousins and I, we hunted some growing up. Went in the service for a bit—nothing like Mr. Callahan, just two years and home—but I know which end of a gun does the talking. And I know the sound a loaded one makes when it hits a hard floor. You don’t forget that.

LM: When you sat on his legs, did you see the gun again?

MC: Not clearly. I knew it was out of his waistband and somewhere down near our feet. I heard someone say, “Watch the gun!” And then another voice—not the suspect—say, “I’ve got it.” I glanced up and saw an older guy with a handkerchief wrapping around something dark. That’s it.

LM: That older man would be Mr. George Malloy.

MC: If that’s his name, sure. Looked like a teacher, the way he was bossing people around to move back without even thinking about it. You can tell.

LM: Let’s talk about the crowd. How did the people around you react once “Gun!” was shouted and the struggle started?

MC: Like you’d expect. Some screamed, some froze, some tried to run and found there was nowhere to go. There were a couple seconds where I thought, “We’re gonna have a pile-up here and folks are gonna get hurt just from falling.” But that older gentleman, Malloy, he started yelling, “Back up, give them space, don’t push!” in that “I’m not asking, I’m telling” voice. And people listened, mostly.

LM: Did anyone try to pull you away from the suspect?

MC: No. Once I was down there, I think folks figured I was part of the pile doing something useful. I did feel a hand on my shoulder at one point, like someone checking I was okay, but they didn’t yank. Might’ve been one of my guys behind me.

RH: How long would you say you were physically restraining the suspect’s legs before security arrived?

MC: Felt like about an hour. [small laugh] Real time? Maybe twenty, thirty seconds. Could’ve been less. Long enough for my thighs to start burning. Then I heard a man shout, “Secret Service!” and there were more hands on him.

LM: What did the security personnel do when they reached you?

MC: One of them knelt down by my shoulder and said, “Keep the legs pinned, we’re going to cuff him.” Another went for his wrists, over Mr. Callahan and the other fella’s hands. They got metal cuffs on, then the one by me said, “Okay, let us have the legs now.” I eased off slow, ready to drop back down if he bucked, but once both ends of him were locked, he stopped fighting so much. Just kind of lay there, breathing like he’d run a mile.

LM: Did he say anything after he was cuffed?

MC: Muttered. “You’ll see,” “This doesn’t change anything,” that kind of thing. I wasn’t right up by his head anymore, so it was half-heard. He didn’t apologize, I can tell you that.

RH: During or after the incident, did you see Senator Whitford or Governor Beale on or near the stage?

MC: I saw movement at the side of the stage. Curtains shifting. Somebody—they were in a skirt suit, so I figure it was Senator Whitford or maybe one of her staff—got pulled back quick by a man in a dark suit. That’s it. I never saw her out at the podium. Thank God.

LM: Mr. Cruz, prior to all of this, did you hear the suspect say anything? Talk to anyone, make any comments about the rally?

MC: Not that I registered. There were a lot of voices. I mostly remember my buddy Ben complaining he couldn’t see over the lady with the beehive in front of him. If the suspect talked, it got lost in the noise. He didn’t chant, didn’t wave a sign where I was looking.

LM: Did you notice anyone who appeared to be with him? Standing close, looking at him, reacting when he moved?

MC: No one obvious. I did see a man farther back, looking around more at the doors than at the stage, but I figured he was security or nervous or both. I can’t tie him to this guy for you. Different clothes, different spot.

LM: Do you recall the suspect’s face clearly?

MC: Yeah. I could pick him out of a line-up easy. You don’t forget a man who’s trying to kick free with a gun on the floor between your boots.

LM: Can you describe him?

MC: Early twenties. Dark hair, parted on the side. Clean-shaven, no beard. Light skin. Cheekbones a bit sharp, like he hadn’t been eating right. Eyes kind of… intense. That’s the polite word. He didn’t look crazy, just… fixed on something in his head that was more real to him than the thousand people around him.

RH: Mr. Cruz, do you have children?

MC: Yeah. Two girls. Seven and five.

RH: Did that cross your mind at all when you decided to move toward the struggle instead of away from it?

MC: [long pause] Not in words, no. There wasn’t time for a “If I die, what happens to my kids” speech in my head. It was more… You hear “Gun,” you see people you don’t know, and you think about all the people you do know who’d be crushed if something happened. You think about some kid in there going home without a dad. So maybe I go instead of him. That sounds bigger than it felt at the time, though. At the time it was just— man with gun, man with training grabbing him, they need another pair of hands. Or in my case, another pair of legs.

LM: Do you consider your actions today heroic?

MC: [snorts softly] No. Heroic is running into a burning building alone. I just sat on a guy. A dangerous guy, sure, but I wasn’t the one staring down the barrel. Mr. Callahan, that accountant fella—Len—they had the hard job up where the teeth are. I had the feet. That’s more my speed.

LM: For the record, restraining his legs prevented him from regaining his footing or injuring others. That’s significant.

MC: Well. Then I’m glad my ma fed me so much as a kid.

LM: [brief chuckle] Mr. Cruz, is there anything else you remember—any detail we haven’t asked about—that you think might be important?

MC: Just one thing. When it was over—when they had him up and were marching him out—there was this quiet that fell for a second. Not long, just a heartbeat. And in that quiet, I heard somebody near the stage start a chant. “No more guns!” A woman’s voice. It didn’t really catch on, folks were too rattled, but I heard it. Thought it was… something. People trying to grab the moment back from whatever he meant to do.

RH: You didn’t recognize the voice?

MC: No. Just that it was high and angry and scared all at once. Like a mom voice.

LM: All right. Agent Halprin, any further questions?

RH: Just one. Mr. Cruz, if we need to contact you again, is the number you gave the officer downstairs the best one to reach you at?

MC: Yes, sir. That’s my apartment. If I’m not there, my neighbor Mrs. Ruiz will yell down to the bar where I play cards and drag me back.

LM: Good to know. Mr. Cruz, thank you for your time and for what you did out there. This concludes our interview at 21:32 hours.

INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT 12 August 1972--21:47 hrs

LM: This is Detective Laura McKee, Town of Provo Police Department, conducting an interview with a fourth witness to the incident at the Beale–Whitford campaign rally earlier this evening. Also present is Agent Robert Halprin with the federal protective detail. Sir, for the record, please state your full name and spell your last name.

GM: George Arthur Malloy. M-A-L-L-O-Y.

LM: Your current address, Mr. Malloy?

GM: 802 Maple Street, here in town.

LM: Date of birth?

GM: October twenty-first, nineteen-ten.

LM: That makes you sixty-one?

GM: Sixty-one going on sixty-two, yes.

LM: Occupation?

GM: Retired schoolteacher. I taught history and civics at the high school for thirty-five years.

LM: All right. Were you in attendance at the Beale–Whitford rally at the Civic Hall this afternoon?

GM: I was. Came early, in fact. I wanted a decent vantage point.

LM: Why did you attend the rally?

GM: Two reasons. One, I’ve been following Governor Beale and Senator Whitford for some time. The idea of a woman on a major party ticket—well, from a civics teacher’s point of view, that’s something you don’t miss. Two, I tell my former students that politics is not a spectator sport you watch on television; you show up. So I try to practice what I preached.

LM: Would you describe yourself as a supporter of the Beale–Whitford ticket?

GM: Yes. Enthusiastic, but not blindly so.

LM: For the record, had you consumed any alcohol or drugs prior to or during the rally?

GM: No. I had coffee at home and a lemonade they were selling at the concession stand. That’s all.

LM: Let’s establish your location. Where were you positioned in the hall immediately before the incident?

GM: I was towards the rear half of the main floor, slightly right of center if you’re facing the stage. I like to be where I can see both the stage and the crowd. Old teacher habit—never sit where you can’t see the whole classroom.

RH: Approximately how far from the stage would you say?

GM: I’d estimate sixty, seventy yards. I could see people’s faces, but I wouldn’t have wanted to read small print from there.

LM: From your position, could you see Mrs. Whitney Rosehain?

GM: I didn’t know her name then, but yes, I could see her. Not clearly enough to pick her out of a yearbook, but there was a smaller woman with a large brown handbag nearer the front center. I noticed her because she kept rising on her toes to see over the people in front of her.

LM: And the suspect?

GM: I only became aware of him when the disturbance began. Before that, he was just one more back in the crowd.

LM: What was happening on stage immediately before the incident?

GM: They were working through the local introductions. A schoolteacher, the union fellow from the plant, the mayor. The emcee had just finished saying—more or less—“And in a moment we’ll hear from Senator Whitford,” and the crowd responded very enthusiastically. The sound level went up a notch, and the area around the stage took on that… anticipatory energy.

LM: All right, Mr. Malloy. I’m going to ask you to describe, step by step, what you observed when you first became aware something was wrong. Start with the first thing that stands out in your mind. Take your time. We may interrupt to clarify details.

GM: Very well.

LM: Go ahead.

GM: The first thing I registered as “wrong” was not the gun; it was the shape of the crowd. You learn, standing in front of classrooms and assemblies, that a group of people has a body language of its own. Up front, a little left of center, the line of heads stopped behaving like a line and started behaving like a knot.

LM: A knot?

GM: People converging, leaning in where they should have been facing forward. Shoulders twisting, arms going up—not to clap, but in that defensive way you do when something startles you. Almost simultaneously, I heard two sounds: a woman’s sharp exclamation, like someone whose foot has just been crushed, and then a man’s voice cutting across the din: “Gun!”

LM: Did you see the handbag strike the suspect?

GM: I saw the tail end of it. From my vantage, the swing registered as a blur of brown leather rising and falling, and the man just ahead of the bag jerked forward. I didn’t see the contact itself, but I saw the effect. It was a solid blow.

RH: Did you recognize the voice that shouted “Gun!”?

GM: I didn’t know the man, no, but the voice was unmistakable. Deep, trained. The sort of voice that has issued commands before and expects to be obeyed. I now understand that to have been Mr. Callahan.

LM: What did you do when you heard that shout?

GM: I stopped moving forward—that’s important—and I looked for the source. You have a thousand people in a room, someone yells “fire” or “gun,” you don’t run blindly in any direction. That’s how stampedes start. I looked where his voice and the tightening knot of the crowd intersected—front center. I saw arms grappling, bodies surging in two directions at once.

LM: Could you see the firearm at that point?

GM: Not immediately. There were too many people between me and the floor. But I saw the behavior that promised a firearm—two men pinning a third, one going low. That doesn’t happen because someone cut in line.

LM: What did the people immediately around you do?

GM: They did what frightened people do. Some screamed. Some started to push backward, away from the stage, which meant into the people behind them. Some ducked, which is sensible, except that if everyone ducks at random, you have a tangle of limbs and a broken ankle waiting to happen. I felt the crowd begin to ripple toward me like a wave.

LM: And your response?

GM: Years of fire drills and pep rallies kicked in. I did what I’ve always done when two hundred teenagers start to panic: I raised my voice.

LM: What did you say?

GM: To the people nearest me, I said, “Stop pushing. Back up, but slowly. Look where you’re going.” Then louder, projecting toward the knot: “Give them room! Step back! Let them handle it!” I repeated that several times.

RH: “Let them handle it,” referring to?

GM: The three men who were clearly on the suspect. Even from where I stood, I could see their intent—they weren’t participating in a brawl, they were restraining someone. I did not want twenty more well-meaning citizens piling on top and crushing someone’s ribs.

LM: Did people listen?

GM: Enough of them did that we avoided the worst. I saw a woman stop herself from pushing backward into a man with a cane because I barked her name—well, the wrong name, but the teacher voice still works even if you misremember people. People started turning sideways to slip past one another instead of shoving straight back. It wasn’t orderly, but it was less disastrous than it might have been.

LM: At what point did you see the gun?

GM: After the initial surge, the bodies shifted just enough that I had a narrow corridor of floor visible between legs. I saw a black object skittering along the concrete—short, heavy, unmistakably a pistol—land near the foot of one of the restraining men. A boot came down, nudged it further out of reach. A moment later, no one had a hand on it. That concerned me.

LM: What did you do?

GM: I began moving forward, carefully, along the line of least resistance. I kept telling people, “Move aside, don’t crowd, let the officers in.” When you say “officers,” people assume you are one. It’s a flaw in human wiring I’ve taken advantage of on more than one field trip.

RH: For the record, you are not a law enforcement officer?

GM: No, sir. Just a man with a loud voice and a whistle in his pocket. Retired teacher, as I said.

LM: How close did you get to the gun?

GM: Close enough to see it clearly at my feet. The three men—Mr. Callahan, Mr. Feinstein, and Mr. Cruz, as I’ve since learned—had the suspect pinned. Security personnel were pushing their way toward them from the aisle. The gun, meanwhile, lay unattended on the floor, perhaps three feet from the suspect’s hand.

LM: Was the suspect reaching for it?

GM: He tried. His fingers scrabbled once in that direction, but the men on his arms had good leverage. Still, a firearm loose in a panicking crowd is its own kind of disaster. Someone could kick it, someone could pick it up who has no business doing so. I decided it could not remain there.

LM: Describe exactly what you did.

GM: I took out my handkerchief—clean, fortunately—and wrapped it around my right hand. I stepped into the little pocket of space near the weapon and said, loudly, “I’m picking up the gun.” I wanted both the men restraining the suspect and the approaching officers to know my intention. Then I bent, keeping my body as much between the suspect and the gun as my aging knees allowed, and picked it up by the grip.

RH: Why the handkerchief?

GM: I assumed you gentlemen would want the fingerprints undisturbed. And I had no desire to leave mine on a weapon that might become Exhibit A in some future proceeding.

LM: Once you picked it up, what did you do?

GM: I stood, kept it pointed at the floor, and immediately looked for someone with a badge. One of the local officers—a young man with a mustache I’ve seen directing traffic outside the high school—was forcing his way in. I caught his eye and said, “Officer, I have the gun. Handkerchief, grip only.” He nodded and reached for it.

LM: Did you hand it directly to him?

GM: Yes. I kept my hand wrapped and placed the butt into his palm. I told him again, “My prints are on the cloth only.” Old habits—say things twice to make sure they stick.

RH: Did you check whether the firearm was loaded?

GM: No. I have handled guns in my life, but I judged that fiddling with the magazine release or the slide in that moment would be more likely to cause trouble than prevent it. My priority was putting it into official hands as quickly and cleanly as possible.

LM: During all this, were you able to see the suspect’s face?

GM: Briefly. Once the gun was secured and I stepped back a pace, there was a window between shoulders where I could see him lying on his side. Young, early twenties, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, jaw clenched. His eyes were—if you’ll forgive a literary word—feverish. Not in the medical sense; in the sense of someone who has convinced himself the world is ending and only he sees it.

LM: Did you hear him say anything?

GM: Yes. He was panting, but he managed fairly coherent sentences. He said things like, “You don’t understand,” “She sold us out,” “She’s giving them our country.” A great deal of “she.” I did not hear him mention Senator Whitford by name, but given the context, I doubt he was referring to his mother.

RH: Any mention of specific groups? Foreign nations, religious or ethnic terms?

GM: I heard “Them,” once, said with the capital T an old man like me assigns in his head. “She’s giving it to them.” But no specific labels that I could make out over the noise. The acoustics of the hall are not kind to consonants.

LM: Let’s talk about the crowd again. How did they react once it was clear the suspect was restrained and the gun had been removed?

GM: The volume changed. Panic has a jagged sound; this shifted to something lower and more uncertain. People stopped trying to move en masse and started looking around, asking each other, “What happened? Is it over?” Some cried. Some swore. A few, as people will, tried to edge back toward the front to see. I continued to tell them, “Give the officers room. There will be time for stories later.”

LM: Did you see Senator Whitford or Governor Beale at any point during or immediately after the incident?

GM: I did not see Governor Beale at all. Senator Whitford, I glimpsed earlier, a flash of her hair at the side of the curtain when they announced she was in the building. Once things went sideways, I saw movement at that same curtain—someone being pulled back by a man in a dark suit—but I could not say whether it was the Senator or a staffer. Whoever it was disappeared from view quickly. If your detail did its job, she was nowhere near the line of fire when any of this happened.

RH: For the record, we removed the Senator from the immediate area as soon as the alert came through. Your description matches our timeline.

GM: Then well done.

LM: Mr. Malloy, before the “knot” formed in the crowd, did you notice anything unusual? Anyone behaving in a way that drew your attention?

GM: I make a habit of scanning a room. It comes from years of watching students whisper just as you turn to the chalkboard. There was, some minutes before the incident, a man near the back, left side, who did not seem to be there for the speeches. While most people were facing the stage—some talking, some just standing—he was looking at the doors, the balcony, the aisles. Not with the practiced calm of one of your men, Agent, but with a sort of jumpy inventory-taking.

RH: Can you describe him?

GM: Thirties, I’d say. Dark hair, short. Dark suit, tie. The sort of generic white-collar appearance that blends into any crowd. I remember him because his gaze kept sliding over the exit signs instead of the banners. But then a cluster of college kids with signs stepped in front of him, and I lost sight. I can’t say he had anything to do with the young man at the center. It may have been nothing more than nerves.

LM: During the incident itself, did you see that man again?

GM: No. My attention was on the knot, the gun, and the people around me I didn’t want trampled. If he remained, he was swallowed by the mass like the rest of us.

LM: All right. I’d like to ask about your decision to move toward, rather than away from, the disturbance. You’ve mentioned your teaching background. Can you explain what was going through your mind in that moment?

GM: [long pause] I’ve spent my life telling young people that democracy is fragile and requires, forgive the phrase, grown-ups in the room. When something like this happens—a man with a gun at a political rally—you either contribute to the chaos or you try to contain it. I am too old to tackle anyone, and I don’t have military training. What I do have is a voice that can cut through noise and enough sense to pick up a gun with a handkerchief. It felt… almost preordained. “This is the thing you can do, George. Do it.”

RH: Did you think about your own safety?

GM: Not in any articulate way. At sixty-one, I’m well aware I don’t bounce as well as I used to. But I also know that if a bullet starts flying in a crowded hall, whether I’m five yards closer or farther doesn’t make much difference. What does make a difference is whether that bullet is ever fired.

LM: Do you consider your actions today heroic?

GM: No. Prudential, perhaps. I would reserve “heroic” for the men who put their bodies directly between the gun and the rest of us, and for the woman whose sore foot led her to swing her handbag instead of swallowing an insult. I did what any competent hall monitor should do.

LM: You refer to Mrs. Rosehain. From your vantage point, how important was her role in what happened?

GM: Pivotal. If she had not swung that bag, the man’s jacket would likely have remained closed. The gun would have stayed concealed until he himself chose to produce it, likely when Senator Whitford was in view. Instead, his discourtesy exposed his intent, and her refusal to let that discourtesy slide exposed his weapon. That gave everyone else—the soldier, the accountant, the construction worker, the police—a chance to act before shots were fired. I suspect future historians will say that a woman’s sensible handbag altered the course of that afternoon.

LM: Do you know Mrs. Rosehain personally?

GM: No. I knew of her daughter, of course. You don’t live in this country and not know who Phoebe Whitford is by now. But I had never met Mrs. Rosehain.

RH: Mr. Malloy, after the suspect was removed and the firearm secured, did you remain in the hall?

GM: For a few minutes. People were crying, sitting on the floor, gathering themselves. Some wanted to know whether the rally was canceled, whether Senator Whitford was safe. I answered what I could without overstepping, mostly variations on, “The officers are handling it; your job now is to go home safely and tell your children what you saw.” Then an officer asked me to come here and give a statement, so I did.

LM: Did you overhear any conversations that seemed relevant? Anyone expressing regret, fear, or approval of what the suspect tried to do?

GM: Fear and horror in abundance. Regret from those who had dragged their children along. Approval—no, not in the sense you mean. I did hear one shaken man say, “I knew something like this would happen one day,” but that’s more fatalism than endorsement. If someone silently approved, they kept it to themselves. Cowards generally do.

LM: Is there anything else—any detail, however small—that we haven’t covered and that you think might be important?

GM: [thinks] Two things, perhaps minor. First, when the suspect was being led away in cuffs, he lifted his head and looked out over the crowd—not at the stage, but at us. For just a second, his face went from fury to something like… satisfaction. As if, in his mind, he had already accomplished what he set out to do by proving a point, even if he hadn’t fired a shot. I found that chilling.

LM: And the second?

GM: As they were taking him, someone near the front—woman’s voice, mid-thirties perhaps—shouted, “We vote, you don’t shoot!” It didn’t start a chant; people were too shaken. But I heard it. As a civics teacher, I thought, “There’s your lesson plan for Monday.”

RH: That phrase may end up on signs by morning.

GM: If it does, I hope it spreads further than whatever pamphlets that young man was reading.

LM: Mr. Malloy, thank you. Your perspective has been very helpful. Agent Halprin, any further questions?

RH: None from me. Mr. Malloy, on behalf of the detail, thank you for your actions in the hall.

GM: Let’s just say I’ve waited a long time for my hall-monitor skills to be truly useful.

LM: This concludes our interview with George Malloy at 22:10 hours.

[END OF INTERVIEW – TAPE 5 SIDE A]

INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT 12 August 1972---22:29 hrs

LM: This is Detective Laura McKee, Town of Provo Police Department, conducting an interview with a fifth witness to the incident at the Beale–Whitford campaign rally earlier this evening. Also present is Agent Robert Halprin with the federal protective detail. Ma’am, for the record, please state your full name and spell your last name.

WR: Whitney Miriam Rosehain. R-O-S-E-H-A-I-N.

LM: Thank you, Mrs. Rosehain. Normally I would ask for your full address on tape, but—

RH: Detective, if I may—given Mrs. Rosehain’s relationship to the candidate, we’ll provide her residence information in a separate, sealed document. I’d prefer it not be on the general audio.

LM: Understood. Mrs. Rosehain, your date of birth, please?

WR: May twelfth, nineteen-ten.

LM: Occupation?

WR: I’m a seamstress. I make custom dresses and do alterations for private clients—mostly by commission. No storefront, just my sewing room and whoever’s willing to bid-

LM: All right. For the record, can you state your relationship to Senator Phoebe Whitford?

WR: I’m her mother.

LM: Thank you. Were you in attendance at the Beale–Whitford rally at the Civic Hall this afternoon?

WR: I was. I was supposed to be there a little earlier than I was, but… yes.

LM: Why did you attend the rally?

WR: Because my daughter was speaking. She had been on the road for weeks. This was one of the stops I could make. We don’t get as many chances to be in the same room as we’d like these days.

LM: Would you describe yourself as a supporter of the Beale–Whitford ticket?

WR: [a beat] I would describe myself as deeply biased in favor of my child’s success, yes. Politically, I agree with most of what they’re saying. But I am here as her mother first.

LM: For the record, had you consumed any alcohol or drugs prior to or during the rally?

WR: No. I don’t drink before events like this. Too many people to keep track of.

LM: All right. Let’s talk about your arrival at the venue. You mentioned you were late?

WR: Yes. My flight into Salt Lake was delayed, and then there was construction on the highway. By the time the car got me into town, the hall was already filling up. The plan, originally, had been for me to slip in with some of the family and sit off to the side, but that window passed.

RH: For the record, Mrs. Rosehain was offered a place in the protected family seating near the stage and declined, choosing the general floor instead.

WR: I can see my daughter from the floor. I’ve been doing that since school plays in elementary gymnasiums. I don’t need a box.

LM: Where did you enter the hall?

WR: Through the left-side doors, facing the stage. The sound was already… loud. They were introducing local people. I could hear my daughter’s name in the distance, not the words around it.

LM: From there, where did you go?

WR: I moved in as far as I could. The floor was crowded, people holding signs, craning their necks. I took my bag closer to my chest so it wouldn’t bump people. There wasn’t any clear aisle all the way to the front, just small spaces where people shifted. I made my way toward the center, because from there, when she came out, I knew I’d be able to see her head and shoulders at least.

LM: Approximately where did you end up in relation to the stage?

WR: Somewhere in the thick of the main floor. I couldn’t touch the stage, but I wasn’t at the back wall either. I could read the big banner, not the small print on it. There were people in front of me, taller than I am. I kept rising on my toes to see between them.

LM: Were you aware of the young man who was later found to be carrying a firearm before the incident?

WR: Not as a distinct person, no. He was one of many backs in front of me. I didn’t register his face until much later.

LM: All right, Mrs. Rosehain. I’m going to ask you now to describe, step by step, what you observed when you first became aware something was wrong. Start with the first thing that stands out in your mind, and go slowly. We may interrupt to clarify details. Do you understand?

WR: Yes. I understand.

LM: Go ahead.

WR: The first thing that stands out is not the gun. It’s my foot. My right foot, specifically. Someone came in from my left, cutting diagonally toward the front, and brought his weight down on it. Hard.

LM: Your right foot?

WR: Yes. I’d worn sensible shoes—I always do at these things—but it felt like someone had dropped a brick on my toes. I gasped. I grabbed at the back of the nearest chair that wasn’t really a chair, just someone’s hip, to steady myself.

LM: Did you see who stepped on your foot?

WR: Yes. I looked up. It was the young man you’re asking about. Dark jacket, dark hair, jaw set like he had someplace to be and everyone in front of him was an obstacle.

LM: Did he acknowledge stepping on you?

WR: No. That’s what made me angry. People jostle in crowds; I’m not precious about it. You apologize, you nod, you keep going. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t look back. He just kept pushing forward, eyes locked on the stage like the rest of us were furniture.

LM: Did you say anything to him?

WR: I said, “Hey.” Loud enough that he should have heard. When he didn’t turn, I said, “Watch where you’re going.” He still didn’t turn. He only accelerated.

LM: And then?

WR: And then I swung my bag at him.

LM: Describe the bag, please.

WR: It’s a large leather handbag. Brown. I’ve had it for years. It holds my wallet, a small book, a notepad, three pens, a compact, a comb, my keys, some campaign literature, and, today, a thermos I never got around to using. It’s not dainty. It has weight.

LM: How did you swing it?

WR: I had it on my right shoulder. I slid the strap down into my hand and swung it with both hands, like I was swatting a rug on a line. I aimed for the middle of his back. I wanted him to feel it. I didn’t intend to knock him over, just to make a point.

LM: Did you make contact?

WR: Yes. Solidly. I felt it and I heard it. A dull thump. He lurched forward.

LM: Before you swung, had you seen any indication he was armed?

WR: No. If I had seen a gun, I wouldn’t have been hitting him with a purse. I would have been shouting. Or dropping to the floor. Or both.

RH: Mrs. Rosehain, for the record: no one on the detail had advised you of a specific threat at this event prior to your arrival?

WR: No. There are always letters, Agent Halprin. Ugly ones. That’s been true for a while now. But no one told me, “There is a man in a dark jacket you need to watch for.” If they had, I wouldn’t have been in the middle of the crowd alone.

LM: After you struck him, what did you see?

WR: His upper body pitched forward, as I said. Because of the angle, his jacket swung open on the right side. That’s when I saw it.

LM: The firearm?

WR: Yes. The butt of it. Black. Heavy. It was tucked into his waistband, under the jacket. My bag pulled the jacket back, and the gun… shifted. Tilted up, a little, like it might fall out. For a moment it just… sat there, exposed.

LM: How clearly could you see it?

WR: Clear enough that my stomach dropped. I was close. Close enough that if he’d turned around with it, I would have been the first thing in front of the barrel.

LM: What did you do?

WR: For a second, nothing. My body froze. I felt my mouth open but nothing came out. It was like time slowed down and narrowed to that one black shape at his waist. My brain had to catch up to my eyes. I thought, “Gun. He has a gun.” Then I thought, “Phoebe is about to walk out on that stage.”

LM: Did you attempt to grab the gun?

WR: No. I am fifty-two years old and five-foot-four on a good day. He was younger, stronger, and moving. I know my limitations. If I’d lunged for it, I might have knocked it loose in the wrong direction, or given him something to shove me away with. What I did was open my mouth again to shout.

LM: Did you shout?

WR: I tried. In that same moment, someone behind me—Mr. Callahan, I’ve been told—shouted “Gun!” Much louder than I could have. His voice carried. Mine didn’t have to.

LM: Do you recall who shouted first, you or Mr. Callahan?

WR: In my memory, his shout meets mine halfway. I don’t know which left our throats first. I know his reached the room.

LM: What did the suspect do when his gun became visible?

WR: His right hand went straight to it. He didn’t hesitate. That’s how I knew I wasn’t imagining things. He didn’t pat his jacket like “Oh no, how did that get there.” He grabbed for the grip like a man reaching for something he’d been thinking about all day.

LM: Did you see the gun fully come out of his waistband?

WR: I saw his fingers close around it. Then Mr. Callahan hit him.

LM: Describe what you saw of that.

WR: I felt, more than saw, someone push past me from behind on my right. Big shoulder, red hair in the corner of my eye. He went straight for the young man’s arm. There was no hesitation. His hand clamped on the wrist and twisted. The gun came free— I heard it hit the floor. I didn’t see where it went; I was still staring at where it had been.

LM: After Mr. Callahan made contact, what happened?

WR: The young man shouted. A wordless noise at first, then something like, “Get off me.” The crowd around us exploded—people screaming, pulling back, ducking. My shoulder was knocked sideways. I stumbled. I saw another man—glasses, thinning hair, the accountant, I think—grab the suspect’s other arm. Then a third man went low. And then we were all going down.

LM: Did you fall?

WR: I dropped to my knees. Someone’s elbow caught me in the ribs on the way. I held onto my bag with both hands and tried not to get trampled. I’ve chaperoned enough school assemblies to know that when panic starts, feet become weapons.

LM: From that position, did you see the gun again?

WR: No. I heard someone say, “Watch the gun!” and another voice say, “I’ve got it.” I looked up then and saw a handkerchief and metal in an older man’s hand—Mr. Malloy, I’ve learned his name is. That’s all.

RH: Mrs. Rosehain, during the struggle or immediately after, did you hear the suspect say anything specific?

WR: Bits and pieces. “Let me go.” “You don’t understand.” “She sold us out.” A lot of “she.” I didn’t hear my daughter’s name out loud, but I know an antecedent when I hear one.

LM: Did he use any specific terms? References to religion, race, particular groups?

WR: Not that reached me. Just “them.” “She’s giving it to them.” I’ve read enough of the mail that comes to my daughter’s office to fill in the blanks on what “them” can mean in certain mouths, but I won’t put words on the record he didn’t actually say in front of me.

LM: Prior to this, have you or your daughter received threats?

WR: Yes. Anonymous letters, phone calls, things shouted from the sidewalk. Some of it the usual political ugliness—people don’t like change, they say nasty things. Some of it uglier. The campaign has a filing system for them. I don’t recommend reading it if you want to sleep well.

RH: For the record, the detail screens and logs all threats. Mrs. Rosehain is aware of the general volume but is not briefed on every specific.

LM: After the suspect was taken to the ground, what did you do?

WR: I stayed where I was for a moment. On my knees, holding my bag against my chest like a shield. I remember thinking, absurdly, “Of all the days to put the thermos in there.” Then my better sense came back. I looked for the nearest clear space and crawled toward it until I could stand. A security man—one of yours, I think—told me to move toward the wall. I did.

LM: Were you aware of your daughter’s position at that time?

WR: I knew she was backstage. I had seen the edge of her hair at the curtain earlier. When I heard “Gun!” and saw the movement, I thought: “If he fires, he’ll fire toward the stage.” When they started hauling him away, I did not see her. Which means your people did what they were supposed to do and got her out of the line of fire quickly.

RH: For the record, Senator Whitford was moved to a secure location as soon as the alert went out. She was not exposed on stage at any point during the incident.

WR: Good. I’d like that to remain true.

LM: Mrs. Rosehain, several other witnesses have stated that your action—striking the suspect with your handbag—was what exposed the firearm and allowed them to intervene. How do you feel about that?

WR: [long pause] I didn’t swing that bag because I thought, “There is an assassin in front of me and I must foil him.” I swung it because a rude young man crushed my foot and couldn’t be bothered to say “excuse me.” That’s the truth. If you’re looking for a noble motive, you won’t find it there.

LM: Nevertheless, the effect—

WR: The effect is that my bad temper and a heavy purse did something useful for once. I’m grateful for that. But I’m not going to sit here and pretend it was some calculated act of bravery. I saw a jerk. Then I saw a gun. By the time the second piece of information caught up, the bag was already moving.

RH: Do you regret swinging it?

WR: No. If I hadn’t, that gun would have stayed tucked under his jacket until he chose to show it. I keep replaying that part in my head. If I had done what women are conditioned to do—smile, swallow the pain, shrink out of the way— we might be having a very different conversation. With more bodies and fewer people left to give you statements.

LM: Did you at any point consider leaving the hall before your daughter’s speech because of the general tension, the crowd?

WR: No. Crowds I can handle. I’ve supervised pep rallies with worse acoustics. We’ve lived with tension since the day she announced. If I ran every time I felt it, I’d never see her speak in person again.

LM: Before the incident, did you notice the suspect behaving in any unusual way? Looking around, speaking to anyone?

WR: Not that I registered. He was moving quickly and not looking at people he was shoving past. That annoyed me, but it didn’t set off alarms beyond basic manners. There are always a few like that in any crowd.

LM: Did you see anyone who appeared to be with him?

WR: No. No hand on his shoulder, no one making eye contact before or after. He moved like a single point, not part of a cluster. If there was someone else, they weren’t obvious to me.

RH: Mrs. Rosehain, I need to ask this explicitly for the record. At any time did you encourage anyone to move toward the suspect or away from him?

WR: No. I barely had time to keep my own balance. Other people did the yelling and the tackling. I did the whacking and the freezing.

LM: How are you feeling now?

WR: Sore. My foot throbs, my ribs will be colorful tomorrow, and I am… [searches for the word] angry. Less at him than at the fact that this is now part of the story. That my daughter can’t stand on a stage and talk about schools and wages without someone deciding a gun is an answer.

LM: Do you consider what you did today heroic?

WR: No. I consider it consistent. I have never been good at letting bullies pass unremarked. Today the bully happened to have a gun. If you want to pin medals on anyone, pin them on your soldier, your accountant, your construction worker, and that retired teacher who grabbed the gun with his handkerchief. They knew what they were doing. I just brought a handbag.

LM: For the record, your “handbag” may have prevented an assassination attempt.

WR: Then I’m glad I packed light and swung hard.

LM: Mrs. Rosehain, is there anything else you remember—any detail we haven’t covered—that you think might be important?

WR: [thinks] Two things. One small, one… less small. The small one: when the suspect looked back, just once, before they hauled him out, his eyes passed over me. Not the stage, not the ceiling—me. Just for a second. And what I saw there wasn’t confusion. It was… resentment. Like I had spoiled something he thought was his.

LM: And the other?

WR: When they led him away and the room started to breathe again, someone near the front shouted, “We vote, you don’t shoot.” I heard that. As a mother and as someone who’s spent her life in classrooms, I’d like that to be the line people remember from today. Not the name of the boy with the gun.

RH: Mrs. Rosehain, if we need to speak with you again, we’ll coordinate through the campaign. Is that acceptable?

WR: Yes. I’ll be where I usually am these days—somewhere behind my daughter, trying to catch up.

LM: Thank you, Mrs. Rosehain. This concludes our interview at 22:58 hours.

[END OF INTERVIEW – TAPE 6 SIDE A]