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“Remove the handcuffs from the prisoner,” Judge Murray said.

Piquett was just warming up. “Thank you,” he said. “May I also point out that this is a civil court, and not a military court-martial. Could anything be more prejudiced than machine guns pressed into the defendant’s back, and an army of guards cluttering up the room? May the court direct that all guns be removed from the courtroom?”

Sheriff Holley’s nephew, a deputy named Carroll Holley, rose. “I’m responsible for the safe-guarding of the prisoner,” he said.

“Who are you?” Piquett demanded. “Are you a lawyer? What right have you to address this court?”

Judge Murray ordered the guns removed. Piquett then launched into an argument for more time, saying he would need four months to prepare Dillinger’s defense. Estill said it should only take ten days. “To go on trial in ten days would be a legal lynching of this poor lad!” Piquett shouted. “There is a law against lynching in this state!”

“There is a law against murder, too,” Estill shot back.

“Then why don’t you observe it?” Piquett asked. “Why don’t you [just] stand Dillinger against a wall and shoot him down? There’s no need to throw away the state’s money on this kind of mockery . . . Your Honor, even Christ had a fairer trial than this!”

Estill was about to shout something back when Judge Murray told both attorneys to calm down. Piquett apologized to the court and motioned to Estill. “Bob and I respect each other,” he said.

“He’ll be putting his arm around you soon,” Murray quipped. Laughter rippled through the courtroom. After more desultory argument, the judge gave Piquett a month: Dillinger’s trial would begin on March 12. Estill pouted. “Your Honor,” he said, “why don’t you let Mr. Piquett take Dillinger home with him, and bring him back on the day of the trial? You’ve given him everything else he has asked for.”

Dillinger sat through it all wearing his trademark grin. As the handcuffs were reapplied for his return to the jail, he leaned over to Piquett and whispered, “Atta boy, counsel.”5

The agent Hoover selected to supervise the Bremer case was William Rorer, the handsome World War I veteran who had arrested Machine Gun Kelly. Rorer, now promoted to inspector, arrived in St. Paul on Saturday, February 10, the day after Dillinger’s hearing. After reading over reports that day, he interviewed Bremer at his home on Sunday.

They got off to a bad start. The two men repaired to the sunporch, where Rorer emphasized it would be necessary for Bremer to tell him everything he knew. Again Bremer bridled, saying he had already told Pop Nathan everything. Rorer said it was obvious he hadn’t. “Who said I haven’t told the truth?” Bremer demanded.6 In that case, he went on, he wouldn’t say anything at all. Rorer reminded him of the duty he owed the government and the American people.

“To hell with duty,” Bremer said.

The meeting broke up when the young bank president stormed from the room in tears. In Washington, Hoover had no sympathy for Bremer. He was ready to take dramatic action. For several days he had considered issuing a statement criticizing Bremer for failing to cooperate with the Bureau. Nathan asked him to hold off, but Hoover sent a draft to Cummings anyway. Beginning with a lecture on a victim’s duty to help capture his kidnappers, it noted that “in spite of the cooperation of the Special Agents of this Department’s Bureau of Investigation in restraining their activities to permit the safe return of Mr. Bremer, his cooperation has not yet been of a type that should be expected . . . Neither temerity, nor fear, nor indifference will excuse the lack of full, wholesome, wholehearted effort and cooperation.”

Monday morning, when Bremer arrived at the Bureau’s office for further questioning, Rorer read him the statement. It had a dramatic impact. Suddenly Bremer began remembering things. That morning, and in interviews every day that week, his memory sprang vividly to life. The kidnappers let him smoke Chesterfields, he said;