American History Tellers - Stonewall | Why Don’t You Do Something? | 3

Episode Date: July 1, 2020

Resistance at restaurants in San Francisco and Philadelphia showcased the building tension as trans activists challenged long-standing policies of discrimination. But leading gay rights groups continued to stress a calm, non-confrontational approach to reform.That all changed in the early morning hours of June 28, 1969, when police raided the Stonewall Inn. For police, it was just another raid, but this time would be different: the Stonewall’s patrons would fight back. The clashes on Christopher Street would become an uprising against police oppression with long-lasting reverberations for the LGBTQ rights movement.Listen ad-free on Wondery+ hereSupport us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's June 28th, 1969. The blurry hours where Friday turns into Saturday. You're a young gay rights activist named Craig Rodwell, who runs a bookstore in Greenwich Village. Tonight, you're walking home down Christopher Street with your boyfriend, Fred. Oh, it's crazy that it's this hot right now. What is it, one in the morning?

We've only gone two blocks and look, I'm drenched. Yes, it's hot. It's June. What's eating you? That whole card game and you barely said a word. Bridge partners are supposed to help each other out, you know. I'm sorry. I'm just not thinking about cards right now. Well, what is it? Say it. Don't stew on it. I just keep thinking about how they let that cop go free. He shot and killed a man down by the waterfront. Kill a gay man and you just get put right back in circulation. Oh, yeah, that. No, it's terrible. Yes, it is terrible. But it's all part of the same thing. Gay men are targeted every single day in the city and there's no one to protect them.

Who's going to police the police? You can't fight back. They throw you in jail. You can't cause a scene. You end up on an FBI list or something. What you're trying to help, your magazine, your bookstore. I just don't know what good any of my help is doing. Even Mattachine. We're all just taking these tiny little baby steps. But towards what? Well, acceptance, equality. Sure, but those are just words right now. If you just keep thinking about words long enough, they lose all their meaning. As you get closer to the stone wall, you can hear faint traces of music coming from inside. There's a dozen or so people on the sidewalk just ahead of you, smoking cigarettes and chatting. Fred stops abruptly, though.

Hey, hold up. There's cops in Christopher Park. See them? Over by the trees? In the darkness, you can just make out their figures, standing in the shadows near a streetlight. They're right across the street from the stone wall, just like a gang hiding in the bushes. And just then, the whole group of police emerge from the shadows and hurry across Christopher Street to the front door of the stone wall. Fred turns to you. I think we should get out of here. No, no, no. Wait, hold on. This is the police. This is a raid. The small crowd of revelers on the sidewalk splits apart as the police force their way through the front door of the stone wall. There must be at least eight cops. You can feel

Fred next to you getting tense with anger. God, look at them, raiding another bar. Yeah, but something feels different about this. Some of the Stonewall patrons outside start to leave, but a lot of them haven't. They're standing around, not going anywhere. And then a police wagon rounds the corner. No siren. It comes to a stop in front of the bar.

You don't know what's about to happen, but this is definitely a planned police operation. You turn to Fred. Okay, come here. Let's get up on this stoop. Five minutes. Let's just stay for five minutes. Fred reluctantly follows you up a few steps, and the two of you take a seat. No one's leaving.

You see that? They just cried out it's a raid, but no one's going anywhere. And it's true. Even with a police wagon pulling up to the, but no one's going anywhere. And it's true. Even with a police wagon pulling up to the curb, no one is going anywhere. There's a tension in the air. An odd feeling as you watch the crowd start to pace and jostle. This is different. This is something new.

This might just be resistance. In a quiet suburb, a community is shattered by the death of a beloved wife and mother. But this tragic loss of life quickly turns into something even darker. Her husband had tried to hire a hitman on the dark web to kill her. And she wasn't the only target. Because buried in the depths of the internet is the Kill List, a cache of chilling documents containing names, photos, addresses and specific instructions for people's murders. This podcast is the true story of how I ended up in a race against time

to warn those whose lives were in danger. And it turns out convincing a total stranger someone wants them dead is not easy follow kill list on the wandery app or wherever you get your podcasts you can listen to kill list and more exhibit c true crime shows like morbid early and ad free right now by joining wandery plus check out exhibit c in theondery app for all your true crime listening. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. By the mid-60s, the civil rights movement, the anti-war movement, and the politics of what was being called the New Left had energized the country. Police and protesters were confronting each other in the streets as news cameras rolled.

But the LGBTQ rights movement still struggled to find its footing. Despite sporadic acts of physical resistance led by transgender activists and people of color, organizations like the Mattachine Society and the Daughters of Bilitis continued to stress a calm, non-confrontational approach. By the summer of 1969, all that would change. Calmness and non-confrontation were failing propositions for many. Amid ongoing discrimination, anger was simmering, and it would take one night at the Stonewall Inn for that anger to reach a boiling point. This is Episode 3, Why Don't You Do Something? By 1966, New York's Greenwich Village, with its rich history of counterculture,

had become one of the nation's biggest hubs of gay life. Tea rooms and coffee houses, nightclubs and bars quietly served gay customers. But gay bars and clubs in particular were not just places to get a drink. They were rare safe spaces for LGBTQ people in the bustle of the city. And by the late 60s, these safe spaces had increasingly come under fire from New York City police. Police raided gay bars at will. Customers were lined up against the wall and asked to produce ID. Anyone without ID or anyone wearing less than three items of clothing corresponding to their legal sex would be booked and taken to the closest precinct station. Owners and managers of bars that were caught serving LGBTQ customers could have their liquor license revoked and their businesses closed. Bars that survived the purge

had to operate under constant fear of being raided or shut down. Anti-cruising practices were also put into effect. Bars and restaurants had to install signs that read, Patrons must face the bar while drinking. The reasoning went that if gay men were facing straight ahead while sitting at the bar, they wouldn't be able to turn around and flirt with other men passing by. As head of the Mattachine Society in New York, Dick Leisch had pushed back against these kind of rules. He and other advocates had campaigned successfully to get Mayor John Lindsay to promise to end

one of the most aggressive and dangerous abuses known as entrapment. Next on Leisch's list were the problems facing owners of gay-friendly bars and their customers. But it wasn't easy for Leisch and Mattachine to figure out how and where to even start their fight against discrimination. New York state liquor laws were complex and daunting.

After hiring a lawyer to dig through the legal code, Mattachine discovered that it wasn't technically illegal for LGBTQ people to gather in bars. There was no law that flatly denied them service. But a bar could be shut down if its clientele became disorderly. That one word, disorderly, used in a broad and vague context, held up the entirety of the state's ability to discriminate. And for Leisch and his allies, it finally provided a focus for their strategy. Imagine it's April 20th, 1966, around three o'clock in the afternoon inside a Greenwich

Village bar called Julius's. It's no longer lunch, not yet happy hour. You're a member of the New York Mattachine Society. Dressed in a blazer and tie, you and your colleagues could be any other trio of businessmen walking in for a drink. But you're actually embarking on an unusual kind of protest to draw attention to discrimination against the gay community by the New York State Liquor Authority. Behind you are a small group of reporters with cameras. You flag down the bartender. He walks up with a quizzical look in his eyes. Can I help you? Yes. We are homosexuals, and we would like a drink, please.

It all started a week ago, when another bar in the neighborhood put up a sign reading, If you're gay, please go away. Because of a vague provision in the law banning disorderly conduct, the New York State Liquor Authority can shut down any bar in the city if it serves gay people. So your idea was to go to a bar in the village, announce that you were gay, and ask for service. Then, when you were denied, you could file a complaint against the state liquor authority. A lawsuit would force the city to defend its discriminatory practice out in the open. Okay, well, what will you gentlemen have? And there goes your plan. A city full of bars who won't serve gay people, and you get the one with an enlightened bartender. You lean forward,

lowering your voice. Are you aware that this bar could get shut down just for serving us? Yeah, well, I mean, sure, but you know, your money's good here. Just say no. I'll explain later. The manager looks at you and the gathering reporters. Are they homosexuals too? They're from the newspaper. A worried look crosses the manager's face. Listen, I don't want any trouble. We're already facing a license suspension. Mattachine can help you with that. We can get you a pro bono lawyer, and the press on this will be great PR for you regardless. The manager thinks it over, while you continue to press your point.

All you have to do is say no. The rest is on us. After all, you're just following the law. And after a long pause, the manager shakes his head. I'm sorry, gentlemen. I'm not going to serve you this afternoon. I think it's the law. You take a step back as the reporters move in to get a quote.

One of them raises his camera and tells the bartender to cover the glass with his hand. Satisfied, you turn around to one of your companions, Craig. You weren't expecting to see him today He quit Manichin a while back when he got frustrated with how you do things But when one of your fellow activists insist on bringing him along You couldn't say no And hoped he'd see how you and Manichin are trying to move the needle I think that photo's a good touch, right?

I mean, a picture's worth a thousand words It'll tell an obvious story But Craig doesn't look convinced That might But do you really think all this is going to change anything? I do worth a thousand words. It'll tell an obvious story. But Craig doesn't look convinced. That might. But do you really think all this is going to change anything? I do. People need to know that New York is discriminating against gay people. A lawsuit against the city will make that public. What would make it public is getting people in the streets. Oh, so you'd just like to start a riot? Craig throws up his hands in exasperation. No, you're not listening to me. People read a

newspaper and they toss it away. People marching in the streets sends a direct message. You can't look away from that. Well, right up until the police show up, then people's lives are at risk. Yeah, well, at least we'd be taking risk. What we're doing here, Craig gestures at the bar, what we're doing here is academic. You know, Craig, you didn't have to come. I do know. You didn't invite me. You turn away in frustration. There's no use arguing with Craig when he gets like this. For now, you'll continue with Manachin to protest in a safe, constructive, legal way. The newspaper coverage generated by Dick Leisch and Manachin's creative demonstration at Julius's, a tactic borrowed directly from the Black Civil Rights Movement,

forced the State Liquor Authority into a corner. In 1967, the year following the sip-in at Julius's, a New York court decided that the State Liquor authority could not revoke a bar's license on the basis of serving LGBTQ customers. It was a win for activists. But it was another bar entirely that would become a flashpoint between the city and the LGBTQ community in Greenwich Village. Since 1930, the Stonewall Inn, located at 53 Christopher Street, had been an Italian restaurant. It was never an actual inn, just two doors and a pair of windows set into a brick facade that looked out into the street. Begun as a speakeasy and called the Stone Wall, the name itself was a coded literary reference to lesbian love. As the decades passed, the two words were compressed into one, and the Stone Wall Inn became a restaurant

and bar with a hunting lodge decor. It was a popular venue for weddings, banquets, and other civic and social events. But after a fire, the restaurant was sold, and in 1966, four businessmen took over the property. $3,500 was all it took for the Stonewall's new owners to make slight renovations on the inside and clear out the space for dancing. To get around state liquor authority restrictions and to help legally protect themselves from raids, the new owners declared the Stonewall a private bottle service club. Being a private club meant that, without a proper search warrant, even a police officer could be denied admission or thrown out. Still, the Stonewall's proprietors

covered up and reinforced the front windows with plywood and two-by-fours. They also installed a set of steel doors behind the existing heavy wooden front doors in a safeguard against police if ever they decided to rush the place. And when the Stonewall opened its doors for business in March 1967, it became very popular very fast. Unlike many other bar-serving gay clientele, the Stonewall was a large club on a main street, just across from Christopher Park and 7th Avenue, with a neon sign flashing. At the front entrance, the Stonewall doorman would assess any approaching customer through a peephole.

If you fit in, if you looked like you weren't a cop or a straight person, you would be omitted. Then you'd have to sign the guestbook, although fake names were commonplace. Once inside, you could purchase tickets that could then be exchanged for drinks at the bar. The lights were kept very dim, and the air would be thick with a mixture of cigarette smoke and perfume. Drinks were both watered down and overpriced, but the bar was often packed because of the two dance floors, each one with a lighting system in its own jukebox. Radio hits by bands like the Beach Boys and The Doors played in the front room, while a side room was reserved for soul and R&B singles from artists like Otis Renning and Carla Thomas. One young gay Stonewall patron recalled that the

first time he visited the bar, the most incredible sight was men dancing with other men. When I saw couples dancing together, I had such a thrill in my stomach. It was like an electric shock. Another Stonewall patron, Danny Garvin, recalled breaking his own personal taboos in the Stonewall's back dance floor. I was at the point that I would have sex with men, but I wouldn't kiss. I was still in the early stages of coming out. Then one night at the Stonewall, a man named Frank asked me to dance. I felt embarrassed and nervous, and I realized that I liked this guy. That was the first time I allowed myself to dance, to be part of gay life,

to go ahead and kiss a man in public. Raymond Castro, a 27-year-old Puerto Rican baker, remembered how safe he felt at Stonewall. Stonewall was a place where you could be comfortable being yourself. It was a place to meet your own kind and hang out with your own kind. It was refreshing to know you were not alone. We were all the same. That was comforting. But not everyone felt welcome. Some patrons recall that lesbians were often turned away for looking too straight. Others claim that transgender people were turned away. But for many, including writer and Stonewall patron Vito Russell,

it was a bar for people who were too young, too poor, or just too much to get in anywhere else. Over the next two years, Stonewall grew more popular, nestling itself into the fabric of the LGBTQ community. But beneath the nightly party, something else was going on. The four businessmen who had remade the Stonewall into a popular, dance-friendly venue were members of the Italian Mafia, the Genovese crime family. The owners had provided a sanctuary for the LGBTQ community in the village, but they'd also created a trap where the Mafia could turn huge profits by preying on their own clientele. Through blackmail and corruption, they were putting their gay customers at risk and threatening to bring down the bar that was quickly becoming a cornerstone of New York's gay nightlife. This is the emergency broadcast system.

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Join Wondery+, in on Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify. In the Pacific Ocean, halfway between Peru and New Zealand, lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn, and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reached the age of 10 that was still a virgin. It just happens to all of us. I'm journalist Luke Jones, and for almost two years, I've been investigating a shocking story

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But for Stonewall's mafia owners, the steady stream of business only meant one thing, profit. With their rent hovering around $3,000 a month, the bar's owners were pulling in around $12,000 over an average weekend. The police crackdown on gay bars throughout the 1960s had created a vacuum that the mob was eager to fill. They found that the cops would look away for a price. Like many other gay bars in the city, the Stonewall made regular cash payoffs to their local police precincts. Chuck Shaheen, one of the men who helped the Genovese family open the club, would later confirm that these payments were made on a regular basis, saying, The police were very much on the payroll of the

Stonewall. Once a week, they would come by to collect. There were two envelopes, because in those days there was an officer and that was his beat, and then someone in the precinct, usually the captain or the desk sergeant, would get an envelope. By some estimates, the payouts amounted to as much as $1,200 a month, nearly four times the rent, but merely a drop in the bucket when compared to the club's profit. For a long while, the Stonewall continued to make money off their LGBTQ clientele, and for the most part, neighborhood police kept their distance. The precautions taken by the club's mafia owners for their own protection—the reinforced steel doors, the blackout windows, the doorman—discouraged the cops. But they had the added benefit of protecting the bar's patrons

and concealing them from the prying eyes of passersby. In theory, Stonewall's customers were safer inside than at any of the other neighborhood bars. But mob protection came with trade-offs. There was no fire escape or emergency exit, and no running water behind the bar. Toilets often overflowed. For Craig Rodwell, the sense of safety was merely a facade. He later told an interviewer, Bars have always been our only place, our haven in a sense. I was always furious that the mob controlled so much of our social life. They liked our money, hated our guts. There was collusion between the cops and the mob, and we were caught in the middle all the time. The need for places where the LGBTQ community could safely gather meant that any gay club that managed to stay

open long enough would draw a crowd. Stonewall's crowd was bigger than most. Its patrons just had to settle for dirty and dangerous conditions because there was simply no other alternative. It was around this time that the New York Mattachine Society discovered something troubling. They were getting phone calls from men who had fallen victim to what they described as an extortion ring operated by Stonewall's management. Stonewall's customers were being shaken down, tracked and followed to their homes, visited by mob enforcers pretending to be police. The enforcers would then threaten to out the victims publicly, forcing them to pay as much money as they could, often thousands of dollars, to keep their sexual orientation a secret.

Imagine it's the mid-1960s. You work for a large insurance company, one of the few in Manhattan. This evening, you've just walked into a small hotel room on a midtown side street. The room is featureless and drab, just like you feel. Glad you could make it. Not like I had much choice in the matter. The man you're here to meet is standing over by the hotel room window. You once thought he was handsome, but now you can't stand the sight of him. I've got some room service coming up in a second. My apologies, I probably didn't order enough for both of us, though. I'm not planning on sticking around. Here, here's your money. That's too bad,

but I probably wouldn't want to stick around either if I was in your shoes. You're not in my shoes. Money's there. Count it if you want. Do whatever it is you do. Then I'm going to leave. I'll count it in a second, but we need to talk about the next payment. No, this is it. This is all I have. You said that last month, and yet here you are with more. I can't get any more. This is it. My bosses aren't going to like that. Maybe you should have thought twice before you picked me up down in Greenwich Village. I didn't know what I was getting into. Now you do. I understand. You don't want your family to find out. Don't you threaten them. I'm not threatening anyone. I'm simply telling you how

it is. And I understand if you can't get more, then maybe you can go back to the stone wall some night and find yourself a young man, a young man with money like yourself. Bring him back here. Tell him that you're going to need a payment from him. And if he doesn't pay, you'll tell his family. You'll tell his wife. You're disgusting. Maybe. I'm just doing a job. I'm also giving you another chance. Look, if you can't find the money, and I don't care how you do it, we'll call your wife. We'll tell her where you hang out, who you hang out with, what you are. And that will be the end of it. Your awful secret will be out.

This wasn't what we agreed to. She'll leave you, and she'll take the kids. She'll eat you alive in divorce court. Or you can keep coming here once a month and giving me the money I need. It's up to you. You bring your hands up to your face, rub your eyes. The world goes dark as you press your knuckles against your eye sockets. You made a mistake. Then you made an even bigger mistake by thinking you could buy this man's silence with a few hundred bucks. This is your new reality. A drab, featureless nightmare,

and you can't see a way out. In 1966, the New York Times uncovered a blackmail ring that had swindled almost two million dollars from several highly successful men. The victims included a member of Congress, two army generals, a Princeton professor, and a Navy admiral. The last of these, Admiral William Church, took his own life rather than testify about his sexuality before a grand jury. These stories were shocking, but even more shocking for some Stonewall patrons was that one of the extortionists named in the Times' expose was also the club's doorman. Tipped to the danger, the 1968 New York-Madison Society newsletter warned its readers that Stonewall's doorman, Ed Murphy, was in fact an ex-felon.

In and out of jail his whole life, Murphy had been charged with larceny, extortion, and impersonating a police officer. Murphy pled guilty under a federal indictment to the extortion charges. But because Murphy had made a deal to provide the state with more evidence, his sentence was reduced to a mere five years probation. With just a slap on the wrist, Murphy had escaped any jail time and was now back on the street. Mattachine's newsletter reported,

Murphy has an interest in the Stonewall, along with several other gay clubs in New York. We caution our readers to never use your real name when cruising. And remember, that trick or hustler you just picked up may be working for the management. But it wasn't just Stonewall's doorman Murphy extorting money. The scheme filtered down to Stonewall waiters and busboys as well. They targeted middle-class gay men who looked like they could afford to pay. Victims who could not pay were pulled further into the scheme and forced to turn around and blackmail other gay men. There was nowhere, it seems, where LGBTQ

people could exist without having to look over their shoulders. Not Stonewall's dance floor, not the whole of the village. The extortion rings stretch all the way to Wall Street. According to one bartender who also worked as a pageboy on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, the pickings were all too easy. Between the brokers, married and single, and the exchange employees, there were more gay men on Wall Street than at any gay bar. The New York City Police Department had been willing to turn a blind eye when gay men were being shaken down at a nightclub. But the potential blackmail of Wall Street traders and bankers, even gay ones, was a claim they took very seriously. So seriously that the city police assigned a special team to the case.

The leader of this team was a decorated deputy inspector named Seymour Pine. Just shy of his 50th birthday, Inspector Pine had been transferred to the Morals Division of the NYPD after a career spent fighting the mafia in Brooklyn. Pine's team was tasked with tracing the source of counterfeit bonds that had been appearing in Europe. It was thought that these forged bonds were coming from the mafia and that the extortion schemes on Wall Street could be traced right to the LGBTQ bars the mob owned in Greenwich Village.

Pine's commanding officer wanted these clubs shut down permanently. So Pine and his team began securing the proper warrants they would need to start raiding gay clubs in the village. The warrants would help them legally search the private clubs, and the other officers would train undercover. By the summer of 1969, Pine and his team had raided several bars, but turned up nothing. Then, late in the evening on Friday night, June 27th, Pine and a small team of plainclothes police officers gathered in Christopher Park across the street from the Stonewall. Even though Pine had already orchestrated a raid on Stonewall just three days before, he decided to return.

This time, his team would move in during prime time, after midnight on a Friday when the club was at its busiest. A Friday night raid would be a surprise to just about everyone, and perhaps his team could finally dig up something useful. But now Pine was nervous. He'd sent two female undercover officers inside around midnight. When they emerged from the bar, it would be a signal for the raid to start. That was well over half an hour ago, and they were nowhere to be seen. By 1.20 in the morning, Pine felt he had waited long enough. He and four officers strode across Christopher Street to the front doors of the Stonewall Inn, and they demanded to be let inside. I'm Tristan Redmond, and as a journalist, I've never believed in ghosts. But when I discovered

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You'll be there when the very foundations of the White House are laid in 1792, and you'll watch as the British burn it down in 1814. Then you'll hear the intimate conversations between FDR and Winston Churchill as they make plans to defeat Nazi forces in 1941. And you'll be in the Situation Room when President Barack Obama approves the raid to bring down the most infamous terrorist in American history. Order The Hidden History of the White House now in hardcover or digital edition, wherever you get your books. Friday, June 27th, was Yvonne Ritter's 18th birthday. She could think of no better way to celebrate it than with her friends at the Stonewall Inn. Ritter now identifies as a transgender woman,

but at the time, she was still keeping her identity a secret from her parents. She'd taken to borrowing her mother's dresses, and she'd begun saving up for gender confirmation surgery. That night in June 1969, she'd selected an elegant black-and-white striped cocktail dress from her mother's closet. But wearing women's clothes in public still made her nervous. Ritter knew that transgender people were often physically assaulted, but she women's clothes in public still made her nervous. Ritter knew that transgender people were often physically assaulted, but she tried not to dwell on it. She recalled

later in an interview, I was a big girl, so people didn't bother me that much. Still, leaving for the bar that evening, she kept a change of clothes with her and a bag, just in case. That night on the stone wall dance floor, Yvonne lost all her nervousness. She could drink legally, and she was about to graduate from high school in three days. She was elated. She recalled, I felt like I had finally come of age, that I was growing up. I was going to be able to finally live the life I wanted to live. By 1.20 in the morning, Yvonne Ritter was fully immersed on the dance floor

as the rolling stones blasted from the jukebox. Then, all of a sudden, white lights flooded the room. Confused, Ritter at first didn't realize it was a raid. Near the club's front door, Inspector Pine and a team of about a dozen officers shut off the music and instructed everyone to line up against the wall and produce identification. There were around 200 people in the bar. Ritter made a dash for the bathroom, where she knew there might be a way out through a window. She recalled, When I stood on the toilet to get out, a policeman grabbed me by the leg.

He told me I wasn't going anywhere. They pushed me up against the wall with the other people. Then we were herded to the front of the bar, along the wall that led to the exit door. I was frightened. I was young, and I was scared. Pine and his officers quickly began checking IDs. Several Stonewall employees were immediately cuffed. Anyone who couldn't produce an ID, anyone looking under 18,

and anyone who stood out because of their clothing were also taken into custody. Yvonne Ritter recalls, I was up against the wall with other transgender people and drag queens. We were taken aside from some of the other people and grouped together because we were not in the appropriate attire. Ritter was terrified that she would be arrested, and she was doubly terrified that a picture of her wearing her mother's dress might appear in the paper or on TV where her parents would see it. As an officer led Ritter outside to the police wagon, she was thankful that, at least, she hadn't been handcuffed. She noticed that the air was just as hot and stifling outside as it had been in the club.

She also noticed something strange. Lots of other people had not been arrested. They were free to leave. But it didn't look like they were going anywhere. As Ritter waited for the police van to arrive, the crowd grew larger. People in the crowd were loudly complaining about their treatment at the hands of the police. Many were discussing the unjustness of the raids themselves. Others were striking campy poses as a demonstration for a growing audience of onlookers. The mood was shifting quickly from anger to theatrics, then back to anger. But still, no one was leaving. Inside the stone wall, Pine noticed the same thing. So far, everyone had cooperated. Typically, the patrons of places like this would vanish into the streets as soon as they were released.

But Pine noticed small acts of resistance bubbling up. One of his officers shoved a woman. Then she almost struck the officer back. He could hear voices in the crowd complaining loudly. One saying, Why do we have to take this? Outside, a police van had pulled up, but the crowd was still not dispersing. First, the police escorted the mafia employees into the back of the van.

The crowd on the sidewalk began to cheer or jeer as the Stonewall management and workers ducked and climbed inside. But once the cops began to bring out Stonewall customers who'd been arrested, the crowd began to boo loudly. The cops had targeted mostly transgender people. Following at the end of the line, Ritter watched as some of the arrested patrons struck poses of their own on their way to the police van. Even on their way to jail, they were resisting, and the crowd was feeding off of it. Soon, pennies began to ricochet off the side of the police van, thrown by people in the crowd.

Others were yelling squarely at the cops, calling them pigs, while still others had gotten on one side of the police van and started to rocket back and forth. Some people began chanting, We shall overcome. For Ritter, it was at this moment that something miraculous happened. As she was stepping into the police van, the police officer turned away. The van was already getting full, and the cops were distracted.

Ritter quickly stepped back down onto the pavement and began to walk towards the crowd. She later recalled, I was walking away, and the cop who put me in saw me. He said, Hey, you, come over here. He was a young guy, and I begged him, Please, it's my birthday. I'm 18, and my mother's going to kill me. I was crying, and my makeup was going. The cop almost looked the other way, kind of gave me the hand motion, and I kept walking. I thought, if he comes after me and grabs me by the scruff of the neck, he's going to arrest me again. But he didn't. By the time Ritter got to the edge of the crowd, she couldn't believe it. She'd managed to escape. Outside, tension was building. As one of the police officers she couldn't believe it. She'd managed to escape. Outside, tension was

building. As one of the police officers pushed a woman into the back of the police van, she turned around and hit him with her purse. The officer, in turn, hit her with his nightstick. At that moment, a voice rang out. The bystanders would later disagree whether it belonged to the woman resisting arrest or someone else. Why don't you guys do something? The question was a call to action that lingered in the tense air. And then soon, people in the crowd began to act as one, rushing the police van as it drove away. Then they rushed Pine and his officers, who remained on the sidewalk. The simmering anger had boiled over. Pine suddenly faced a very real problem. With the police van gone, he and his men

were hopelessly outnumbered, pinned against the building and circled by the crowd. Objects were being thrown. Someone had found a pile of bricks. So the cops retreated back inside the Stonewall Inn, barricading the doors behind them. Imagine it's early Saturday morning, June 1969. You entered the doors of the Stonewall a few hours ago, looking for a drink and a fun night out. Now you're in handcuffs on the floor. Even though you showed ID, the police still cuffed you. But you put up a struggle, and they never got you into the police wagon before it left. Now you can hear chanting from outside, and the sound of people beating on the

front windows. But inside, the feeling is even more desperate. You can't see much, but you can hear cops talking to themselves. They sound panicked. From your position on the floor, you turn over to try and get a look at what's going on. There's a few other people like you, handcuffed and laying on the ground or propped up on a couch. Only the cops are in motion. The very cops that just busted the bar, the cops that sent your friends off to jail, those cops are now stuck here inside with you. Hey, get me out of these cuffs, officer.

The police have barricaded the front door with tables and chairs, but it doesn't look like that's going to hold out for long. Officer, can you take these off? It's not like I've got anywhere to run. A nearby officer glances back. Stay where you are. We're trying to get this situation under control. Yeah, good luck with that. Suddenly, the officer is in your face.

Listen, those are your people out there. That's a mob outside, and they want to tear this place apart. A mob? You guys are the ones who are going to do it. We're the ones busting up the place. We weren't hurting anyone. We're just fed up with being hassled all the time. We've had enough. Your argument is interrupted by the sound of smashing glass. You see a glint of flame out of the corner of your eye. Are they throwing firebombs through the broken window? Just an hour ago, the people outside were dancing to music. They were flirting. It was Friday night and anything was possible with one more drink.

But now everything's changed. It's no longer just a party. It's something different. A resistance. The New York City Fire Department arrived before Pine's reinforcements could. When Pine and the police retreated into the stonewall, the assembled crowd began to pelt the building's facade with bottles, bricks, cobblestones, and makeshift Molotov cocktails. Two hundred people directed all of their fury and frustration against the

police barricaded inside. A stone wall regular, Michael Fader, later recalled, It was like the last straw. It was time to reclaim something that had always been taken from us. It was something that just happened. All kinds of people, all kinds of different reasons, but mostly it was total outrage, anger, sorrow, everything combined. We felt like we'd been booted out of our home for no reason. The crowd tried to break back into the stone wall and in doing so managed to dislodge a parking meter and use it as a battering ram against the windows of the club. Someone began throwing firebombs through the broken windows, prompting a call to the fire department.

Stonewall patron Raymond Castro recalled being inside the club during the melee. It was like everything was in slow motion. You're not getting any answers. You're not sure what's going to happen next. Time did not move. You could hear screaming outside from the protesters. It was a good sound to know that you had a lot of people out there pulling for you. City fire trucks wailing their way up Christopher Street prevented what could have been a bloodbath

by police had the crowd actually forced their way back inside the stone wall. But the crowd did not break in. Craig Rodwell, from his position on a stoop next door, watched as the scene unfolded. Soon after the fire trucks arrived, more police vans pulled up. These were tactical police units, wearing riot gear and helmets. They came up Christopher Street towards 7th Avenue in a V formation and managed to disperse the crowd from the front door. Rodwell got off his stoop and joined the melee. It was like a tug-of-war that went on for a few hours. They would just chase us down the street, and we'd go around the block and come back and chant things and throw bottles.

Some of the crowd taunted the tactical police by linking arms like raquettes dancers to mimic the cops' advances in formation, singing, We are the village girls. We wear our hair in curls. We wear our sweaters tight. We give the guys a fright. Danny Garvin, who was part of the crowd that night, recalls the police reaction to this theatrical protest.

Cops just charged with the nightsticks and started smacking them in the heads, hitting people, pulling them into cars. I just can't ever get that one sight out of my mind. That kick line, which was a spoof on the cops' machismo, making fun of their authority. People were getting smashed with bats, and for what? A kick line? Fire trucks turned their hoses on the protesters, but the kick lines would form again and again. The two lines would advance on each other, disperse, then advance again. During the melee, Raymond Castro tried to resist arrest. As two policemen forced him inside the back of a police wagon, a handcuffed Castro managed to put one foot on each side of the open doors.

Kicking back, he knocked the two policemen to the ground. Still, he was eventually subdued and dragged back into the police wagon. Miraculously, that night, no shots were fired. In total, 13 people were arrested, including Raymond Castro. But because he was not read his Miranda rights, his case was later dismissed. Craig Rodwell and Yvonne Ritter both escaped injury, but others were not so lucky. Many suffered minor wounds, but some were hospitalized. By around four in the morning, the crowd had dissipated, vanishing into the surrounding streets. Mattachine head Dick Leisch, who had been alerted by a very early morning phone call, described the scene.

I remember the street being so empty, except for the cops, and seeing very few civilians anywhere around. Then I remember the sky being very dark, there being a terrific moon, and the village being eerily quiet. Leisch couldn't help feel that something enormous had just happened. An oppressed and harassed underclass had refused to do what they were told. It was like the moment after a battle. There had been an uprising on Christopher Street. But the uprising didn't end Saturday morning. It would continue for the next six days as people gathered night after night in front

of the Stonewall. Something entirely new was beginning. The gay rights movement had changed. The gay rights movement was out and proud. From Wondery, this is Episode 3 of Stonewall from American History Tellers. On the next episode, the fight for gay rights moves on from its trial by fire at Stonewall with a promise of greater influence and growing visibility. But soon divisions emerge on how radical the movement should become and which voices the movement will ultimately serve.

If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Molly Park. Sound design by Derek Behrens. This episode is written by George Ducker. Edited by Doreen Marina.

Special thanks to Sylveon Consulting for serving as an advisor on this series. And to Kyle Norris, who provided feedback on an early version of this episode. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis, created by Hernán López for Wondery. In November 1991, media tycoon Robert Maxwell mysteriously vanished from his luxury yacht in the Canary Islands. But it wasn't just his body that would come to the surface in the days that followed. It soon emerged that Robert's business was on the brink of collapse, and behind his facade of wealth and success was a litany of bad investments, mounting debt,

and multi-million dollar fraud. Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery Show Business Movers. We tell the true stories of business leaders who risked it all, the critical moments that defined their journey, and the ideas that transform the way we live our lives. In our latest series, a young refugee fleeing the Nazis arrives in Britain determined to make something of his life. Taking the name Robert Maxwell, he builds a publishing and newspaper empire that spans the globe. But ambition eventually curdles into desperation,

and Robert's determination to succeed turns into a willingness to do anything to get ahead. Advertisement