The Assassination of Harvey Milk | Blood on the Streets | 3

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It's 10:30 a.m.

on November 27th, 1978.

San Francisco's City Hall is buzzing with activity.

Mayor George Moscone is expected to make a crucial announcement concerning the Board of Supervisors in an hour, and everyone's bracing for the impact of his decision.

32-year-old Dan White already knows what the mayor is going to announce.

That's why he's heading to the mayoral suite on the building's second floor.

He's got a message of his own to deliver.

But when he reaches the main entrance to the mayor's chambers, Dan stops, hesitates.

He knows that there's a police guard on the other side of the door sitting in the formal reception room.

Back when he was a cop, Dan once pulled his shift there himself.

In all likelihood, he wouldn't raise the suspicions of the officer, but with a loaded gun on him, he doesn't want to take any chances.

Looking around, Dan notices a clerk opening a side door to the chambers.

Moving quickly, Dan heads towards the clerk who smiles at him, holding the door open as he comes up behind her.

When the door closes, Dan's in a wood-paneled hallway that leads directly to the mayor's office.

He follows the clerk who stops by a desk to pick up some mail.

Dan makes a beeline for the appointment secretary, trying to keep his voice steady.

He asks the woman if he can see Mayor Moscone, then sits down while she goes to check.

A minute later, the secretary reappears with a smile and tells Dan he's free to go in.

Dan stands, smooths down his suit jacket, and strides into the office where George Moscone is waiting.

At 49, George has a round face with cheeks that bracket his wide smile.

Today, though, that usually easy grin is strained.

Dan can see it even as the mayor invites him to take a seat, but Dan doesn't want to sit down.

He's had enough of calm discussions.

Remaining on his feet, Dan asked George to let him have his seat back on the board of supervisors.

Dan had had a momentary lapse in judgment.

That's all, and now he wants to take everything back.

And besides, he's got plenty of support from his community.

He says not to mention the police union.

They all want him back on the board.

George sighs, glancing out the soaring windows behind his desk.

Then, he inclines his head towards a door on the other side of the room.

It looks like a closet, but when the mayor opens it, Dan sees that it's actually a small study, complete with couches and a wet bar.

As George walks into the study ahead of Dan, he says they should have a drink.

That's when Dan knows he's not going to get what he wants.

So he follows George into the cozy room, removing his gun from its holster as he walks.

By the time George has turned around, a drink in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other, Dan's got the revolver pointed right at him.

Dan doesn't give the mayor time to say anything.

The first bullet hits George in the arm.

The second, his torso.

George collapses to the floor, a hand grasping at his chest, where blood's blooming across his shirt and tie.

Dan crouches down next to him, brings the barrel of his gun close to George's head, and fires twice more.

After the gunshots, there's a slight ringing in Dan's ears.

He looks over his shoulder, half expecting someone to burst through the door, but no one's there.

So with the last look at George Moscone's unmoving body, Dan White stands up, reloads his gun, and tucks it back into its hiding place.

That's one.

On to the next.

From Airship, I'm Jeremy Schwartz, and this is American Criminal.

From the moment he arrived in San Francisco, Harvey Milk knew that he wanted to be more than just another citizen.

Only months after moving to the West Coast, he told a friend that he'd love to be mayor of San Francisco someday.

But the road from would-be politician to elected leader is a long one, and Harvey faced an uphill battle.

Even in the unofficial gay capital of America, running as an out candidate was a hard sell, even for some people within the gay community.

After his first election loss in 1973, Harvey transformed himself into a genuine community leader to prepare for his second campaign.

Unfortunately, many of the same problems he'd faced the first go-round were waiting for him the next, and things didn't go quite as he'd hoped.

But Harvey wasn't going to just wait for the next election cycle.

He had grand ambitions for himself, plans for his community, and a sneaking suspicion that his time was running out.

So when an opportunity came along to leapfrog small-time city politics and enter a much bigger pond, Harvey grabbed at it with both hands.

The problem was that Harvey still had a lot to learn about politics, and his decision to enter yet another race would annoy some very powerful people.

This is episode 3 in our 5-part series on The Assassination of Harvey Milk, Blood on the Streets.

It's the afternoon of September 18, 1975, in San Francisco's Mission District.

21-year-old Patty Hurst is let out of a two-story duplex in handcuffs.

The granddaughter of publishing magnate William Randolph Hurst has been making splashy headlines for over a year after she was kidnapped by a radical terrorist group, then persuaded to join their cause.

Now though, she's finally in custody, and people around the country will all start weighing in on just how high a price she should pay for her crimes.

The arrest of Patty Hurst isn't the only headline-grabbing news to come out of San Francisco in September of 1975.

Less than a week later, on the 22nd, Sarah Jane Moore makes a failed assassination attempt against President Gerald Ford.

It's Ford's second close call in California in a month.

A few weeks ago, Charles Mantenacolite Lynette Squeaky-Fromey also tried to kill the president.

So all in all, it's been a busy, hectic month, not just for San Francisco, but for the whole country.

The upshot is that there's plenty for people to talk about lately, which isn't good news for 45-year-old Harvey Milk.

He's recently announced that he's running for the Board of Supervisors again.

But with the major news stories sucking up all the air, he's having a hard time getting anyone to pay attention.

Still, after his strong performance in the previous election earned him some name recognition in the city, Harvey's determined to do even better this time.

And he knows what it's going to take.

In 1973, Harvey spent around $4,500 on his campaign.

Enough for a sizable house deposit in the Castro neighborhood that was so popular with the gay community.

But it wasn't enough to win him a seat on the board.

So now he has to up his spend.

He and his partner Scott raise around $7,500 for his next campaign.

And then Harvey borrows another $2,500 from their store, Castro Camera.

All together, that's almost as much as the median income at the time.

Ten grand is still not enough for Harvey to compete with the incumbents, though.

The ones with rich friends and the support of big businesses.

The money will cover flyers and campaign events, but it won't stretch to things like billboards or television ads.

When Harvey's complaining about this to a friend one day, they suggest that he use human billboards, volunteers who can stand beside the road holding signs with Harvey's name on them.

The idea sounds a bit out there, but the more Harvey and his team think about it, the more it makes sense.

Regular billboards are static, so after you pass them a couple of times, you stop paying attention.

But if your billboards are people, they can be sent just about anywhere.

They can wave to drivers, chat with pedestrians passing on the sidewalk.

They'll be impossible to ignore.

So Harvey rounds up some enthusiastic volunteers and has them lined up during rush hour, shaking their signs, smiling at drivers, talking to them while they're stuck in traffic.

It's an eye-catching strategy, and it gets the attention of the local media.

Newspapers love the stunt and show up to write about Harvey Milk's human billboards.

Now not only is he getting attention from passing drivers, people all around the city are reading about Harvey's campaign.

But the core of his support still comes from San Francisco's gay community.

Last year, Harvey helped mobilize gay bars in the city to enact an effective boycott of Coors beers.

And now, it seems like politicians throughout the state are recognizing the might of the gay community.

Nowhere is that more evident than in the race for San Francisco mayor.

One of the leading candidates is George Mosconi, the Senate Majority Leader for California.

Just a few months ago, he earned the respect of the state's gay residents by pushing through the consenting adult sex bill, which decriminalized private and consenting sex between two men.

For the last century, that had been a felony.

And there were plenty of people in California who thought it should stay that way.

But Mosconi knew that he was going to need gay voters on his side if he was going to win the race for mayor.

So he and his colleagues passed the bill in a dramatic 21 to 20 showdown.

Now, in the wake of California's bill, 15 other states have introduced similar measures to provide more freedoms for gay people.

It feels like momentum.

Not only will these new laws help lessen the stigma for gayness, it will give gay men and women more standing in court, if and when they challenge discrimination in places like civic employment.

Watching all of this happen, Harvey can't help but feel like things will be different this time around.

After his recent experience turning himself into a community organizer, he racks up plenty of crucial union endorsements, including from the San Francisco Firefighters, the beer truck drivers, laborers union and the building and construction trades union.

It seems like people are lining up to vote for Harvey Milk, but one group that won't be supporting him are the leaders of San Francisco's gay political establishment.

They've been working for years behind the scenes to advance their cause, and they don't like the idea of Harvey sweeping in at the last minute.

They worry that as candidates he will undermine all their hard work.

They don't think he's right for the city, and they don't think he's right for their community.

They withhold their endorsement.

They withhold their support and their money.

Come November, Harvey misses out on a seat again.

There are six spots up for grabs on the Board of Supervisors, and he finishes a heartbreaking seventh.

He has the gay vote all sewn up.

He just doesn't have the broad support across a cross section of voters some other candidates do.

But Harvey's not the only one to fall just short of victory.

In the mayoral race, George Moscone has held to a runoff vote, which means people will be heading back to the polls in December.

Moscone knows that he needs the gay community to come out and cast their ballots for him, so he wastes no time in asking for Harvey's help.

He even sets up a campaign field office in Harvey's store.

On election day, Harvey's hefty influence swings it.

The gay community turn out to cast their ballots, and they're on Moscone's side.

On the night of Moscone's victory, he makes sure to thank Harvey personally.

But that's not the only thank you the new mayor gives Harvey Milk.

In January 1976, after George Moscone is sworn in as San Francisco's newest mayor, he appoints Harvey to the city's Board of Permit Appeals.

The board is the last stop for decision making when it comes to permits and licenses, and Harvey's spot on it signals that he's moving up in the political world.

If he sits tight and does a good job, he'll have an even better shot at making the Board of Supervisors in a couple of years.

But Harvey Milk has never been one to sit tight.

He's always felt the steady drum beat of time, fearing that the older he becomes, the less relevant he'll be, the less he'll have to show for his life.

So, when he hears that his local district assembly seat has become vacant, he starts to think he should go after that.

Why wait for a supervisor seat when he could just walk into the lower house of the state legislature?

Here's the thing.

George Moscone left the state senate to run for mayor, which meant his position was filled by John Ferran, assemblyman for the 16th district.

Ferran had won that assembly seat about a year ago, with a little over 16,000 votes.

And Harvey has just nabbed 17,000 votes in the supervisor election.

He figures that if he can get those same numbers again, it'll be a cakewalk.

He doesn't realize, though, that the 16th is already spoken for, and has been for quite some time.

When George Moscone first decided to run for mayor, there was some political chess going on between the state's top Democrats.

Assembly Speaker Leo McCarthy decided not to run a more moderate candidate to oppose Moscone.

The deal wasn't ever anything more than implied, but in exchange, Moscone backed Speaker McCarthy's former law partner John Foran to take over his Senate seat, and McCarthy got to handpick who he wanted to fill Foran's assembly seat as well.

He chose his top aide Art Agnos.

Harvey's completely clueless to all of this, so when Art Agnos drops by Castro Camera to ask for Harvey's support as a key community leader in the city, Harvey initially agrees, sort of.

He calls Speaker McCarthy directly and tells him that if McCarthy can promise him some influential endorsements from high-ranking state lawmakers at the next supervisor's election, then Harvey won't run against Art.

Harvey's feeling cocky.

After all, he's just gotten 17,000 votes, and how many did this art guy get?

None.

But McCarthy's not impressed by Harvey's power play.

He declines the deal, setting the stage for a bloody political showdown.

At first, Harvey acts like he's just flirting with the idea of running for the assembly seat.

But when he finds out that every powerful figure in the Democratic Party is supporting Art Agnos, he's annoyed.

Everyone's already fallen in the line.

Countless political deals have been struck to ensure that the party is united behind the man Leo McCarthy has chosen.

Harvey's not okay with that.

So in February of 1976, just three months after his last election defeat, he announces that he's running again, this time for the state assembly.

But he can't go against the will of the local Democratic Party's kingmakers without repercussions.

Immediately, George Moscone removes Harvey from the Board of Permit Appeals.

It's a setback, but when Harvey turns to his own advantage, he makes his campaign slogan, Harvey Milk versus the Machine, casting himself as David against a political Goliath.

And like in the past, he's relentless in his determination to win.

He shakes hands, he visits commuters at bus stops, he walks up and down the lines outside of movie theaters to talk to voters.

He spends his nights at candidate events, then comes home to stamp campaign mail into the small hours.

He locks down key endorsements from community groups, surprising our diagnosis team who were expecting an easy election.

Through it all, Harvey always makes time for his would-be constituents in the Castro.

Having made himself into the city's most prominent gay man, as well as a self-styled champion for the neighborhood, Harvey always has people coming to talk to him about problems they're having, to ask for his advice or help.

Despite his busy schedule, he turns no one away.

So, with everything on his plate, Harvey is only too happy to have extra hands on deck for his campaign, even when they come from a slightly unusual source.

In 1976, San Francisco has a new power player on the scene.

In the historically black neighborhood of Fillmore, a charismatic preacher has moved his growing religious group into an abandoned synagogue and begun outreach to the local community.

Over the last couple of decades, a federal policy targeting areas with large black populations has devastated Fillmore.

It's all in the name of urban renewal, but in reality, the once bustling entertainment and shopping destination has seen businesses torn down, homes leveled and expressways carved right through its heart.

After years of watching their home be systematically destroyed, locals are ready to hear a message of hope and fellowship.

So, the Reverend Jim Jones has no problems attracting people to his group, which he calls People's Temple.

One day, when Harvey's in the thick of his latest election cycle, Jones calls Harvey to say that he wants to help him out.

He says he'll send volunteers out to Canvas and Hunter's Point, another predominantly black neighborhood.

Soon after that, a representative from People's Temple follows up with another phone call to request that 30,000 campaign brochures be brought to their gated compound in Fillmore.

At the converted synagogue, Harvey's friends are greeted by armed guards, who escort them inside the building with boxes of pamphlets.

They walk down hallways where more armed men stand watch at closed doors.

It's unnerving in the extreme.

When they get back to Harvey's shop to tell him about the experience, he tells them that people's temple are weird and they're dangerous.

Always do what they tell you, he says.

You don't want to be on their bad side.

Harvey might have misgivings about Jim Jones and his followers, but he'll accept their help all the same.

And this won't be the last time he does so.

Jim Jones is a shrewd man, though.

He's building power in San Francisco and doesn't want to get caught backing the wrong horse in any race.

So even as he directs his loyal flock to knock on doors for Harvey Milk, he publicly endorses Art Agnos for the assembly seat.

Around the same time, Mayor Moscone appoints Jones chair of the San Francisco Housing Authority.

One hand washes the other.

But in the end, the endorsements, the help from Jim Jones, the name recognition, it all comes to nothing.

Come November 1976, Harvey loses again.

He fought the machine and the machine won.

But Harvey won't have much time to lick his wounds.

In just a couple of months, the United States will be plunged into a new culture war.

One woman will emerge as a champion for so-called traditional values, with a fire and brimstone brand of politics that will embolden elected officials to target the gay community across America.

The fight will begin on the other side of the country.

But it won't be long before it comes right to Harvey Milk's door, transforming him from neighborhood advocate into bona fide icon.

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It's around 8 p.m.

on June 7th, 1977, and Castro Street is roiling.

A crowd of gay men have spilled out of the bars and their homes, shocked and angered by the news that's just hitting the airwaves.

In Dade County, Florida, a human rights ordinance that was enacted less than six months ago has just been repealed.

Until tonight, the local ordinance banned discrimination in housing, employment and accommodations based on sexual orientation.

But now, an overwhelming majority of voters in Dade County have decided to rip up those protections.

When the ordinance first passed in January, it inspired a wave of similar laws around the country.

Just like a couple of years earlier, when California overturned its own laws against sodomy, it felt like momentum was with the gay and lesbian community.

But Christian fundamentalists, led by pseudo-celebrity and orange juice spokesperson Anita Bryant, fought a bitter campaign to repeal the ordinance.

They claimed that homosexuality is a sin, a perverse lifestyle that the government shouldn't be encouraging in its laws.

For the most part, the gay community wasn't that worried about the vote in Dade County.

Things have been going relatively well lately, so it didn't seem likely Anita Bryant and her ilk would prevail.

But they did.

And now it's lit a powder keg.

As more and more of San Francisco's gay community arrive on Castro Street, local police aren't sure what to do.

They'd never seen these people so riled up, and the cops are worried that if they don't do something, there's gonna be a riot.

People are already chanting, desperate to vent their anger and frustration.

In the past, the cops might have waded into the fray and started using force to disperse the crowd.

The SFPD has a history of aggressive and violent tactics when it comes to the gay community.

But there's a reform-minded chief at the helm now, so that's not really an option.

Instead, they call the one person in town who seems to be a genuine leader to the community, someone with name recognition, who can speak to a large audience, someone they'll listen to.

And that someone is Harvey Milk.

By the time Harvey arrives, the crowd is something like 3,000 strong.

Like the cops, Harvey's worried that letting so many people stay in one spot for too long will lead to trouble.

So he draws the throng through the Castro, down towards Market Street, past City Hall, and into the wealthy neighborhood of Knob Hill.

After walking miles through the city, Harvey finally brings his people to Union Square, where he holds an impromptu rally.

Speaking into a bullhorn, he reminds the thousands of people that their community is strong and calls them to action.

Anita Bryant may have won a victory in Florida, but she's stirred a national gay force, he says.

The fight is just beginning.

Harvey Milk makes the front page of the San Francisco Examiner the next day, the face of the Castro's fury.

But while the gay capital of the country comes to terms with what happened in Dade County, other communities around the nation look to Florida as a template for how to stamp out what they see as the gay problem.

Violent crime against queer people jumps, even in the Castro.

Gay men take to carrying police whistles with them and organize street patrols to protect the neighborhood.

Other attacks on gay men and women are less physical, but equally devastating.

Cities and counties start rolling back recent laws that offered protections to queer people against discrimination.

And in California, a Republican gubernatorial candidate decides he's going to join the anti-gay party too.

State Senator John Briggs has watched Anita Bryant's success with admiration.

He even flew to Dade County to watch her declare victory on election night.

Now with all the attention gay rights are getting on the national stage, he wants to find a way to make hay.

Unfortunately for him, there's no equivalent human rights ordinance on the books in California that he can try to overturn.

So instead, he introduces a ballot proposition for the impending November election.

The proposition, which will come to be known as the Briggs Initiative, seeks to remove and ban all gay and lesbian teachers from California schools.

Wanting to cause as much of a frenzy over his initiative as possible, Briggs flies to San Francisco to announce his proposal on the steps of City Hall.

It's a deliberately provocative shot across the bow, and it's a shot that the local gay and lesbian community answers immediately.

They show up to Briggs' press conference to confront him.

One hundred people booing and jeering as the Senator addresses the crowd in front of soaring granite walls.

Unfortunately, that's exactly what Briggs was hoping for.

Until just a few weeks ago, he was a virtual unknown from Fullerton, just north of the largely affluent Orange County.

Now, though, his star is on the rise, and angry responses from community groups are only helping his cause.

If he keeps this up, he's got a real shot at the governorship in 1978.

He just has to carefully ride the wave of anti-gay rhetoric that's sweeping the country, even here in one of the most progressive states in the nation.

Because despite appearances, California isn't a perfect safe haven for the queer community.

Exactly two weeks after Dade County voted to repeal protections for gay citizens, and one week after John Briggs announced his bill to ban gay teachers, Anita Bryant's war brings bloodshed to the Castro.

In more ways than one.

It's the evening of June 21, 1977.

A Tuesday.

Not a remarkably busy night on the streets of San Francisco, but in a major city like this, there's always something going on.

33-year-old gardener Robert Hillsborough has been on a date with his ex-boyfriend, 27-year-old Jerry Taylor.

The two were giving their romance another try.

They spend the first part of the night at Oil Can Harry's, a popular dance club in the Castro, moving to the beat and remembering why they fell in love in the first place.

Now, sweaty, tired and happy, they get into Robert's pickup truck and head for a popular burger stand in the Mission District, just east of the Castro.

There are some younger guys hanging out in the burger joint's parking lot.

Nothing better to do on a Tuesday night.

Robert and Jerry clock them immediately.

They both know from experience how cruel teenage boys can be, how aggressive.

Still, they're both grown men now, so while they place their order and wait for their food, the couple try to ignore the youths who start throwing taunts and slurs at them.

It's just words, ones they've heard a million times before.

Once they've got their order, Robert and Jerry head back to their car.

As they're about to pull out of the lot, Robert leans out of his window to vent his frustration at the younger men.

They don't like that.

And a group of them climb into their own car to follow the pickup.

A few minutes later, Robert and Jerry park around the corner from Robert's apartment.

That's where the kids catch up with them and start throwing punches.

Jerry manages to climb a tall fence nearby and cowers behind some trash cans, figuring that Robert will be right behind him, or that he'll frighten the teens off.

But on the other side of the fence, Robert's knocked down by brutal blows.

One of the boys, 19-year-old John Cordova, kneels over Robert, pulls out a knife, and starts stabbing him, punctuating each thrust with vicious slurs.

Standing around him, John's three friends, aged between 16 and 21, watch with approval as John stabs Robert 15 times.

Once John stumbles to his feet, his hands red and sticky, the group race back to their car and speed off into the night.

That same evening, 34-year-old Sheriff's Deputy, Alfred Asmussen, attends a young Republicans meeting.

Then, turning down invitations to go drinking with other members of the club, he changes into tight jeans and a casual shirt and makes his way towards the gay bars in the South of Market neighborhood of the city.

He can't go to the Castro, that's where he grew up, where he still lives with his mother.

South of Market's safer.

Less chance someone will see him.

He meets a guy at a bar, goes back to his apartment, and that's when everything goes wrong.

While Al and his host are making out, the guy suddenly feels Al's gun in its holster beneath his shirt.

Al never leaves home without it.

Terrified that he's about to become a victim of some hate crime, the guy runs out of the apartment, finds a payphone, and calls the cops.

A police sergeant arrives and quickly clears up the confusion, but in Al's mind, the damage has been done.

His secret's out.

The sergeant promises Al that he won't file a report, that no one will find out about what's happened.

But Al can't calm down.

He doesn't wait around to laugh about the whole situation.

He gets out of there as soon as he can.

A few hours later, Alfred Asmussen is found in his idling car, dead by suicide.

News of Robert Hillsborough's murder makes the front page the next day.

Mayor Moscone orders that flags be flown at half-mast, and the police and district attorney ask for the public's help finding the killers.

Robert's distraught mother makes a statement, singling out Anita Bryant as the source of the recent violence against the gay community.

My son's blood is on her hand, she says.

Al Asmussen's death will be little more than a footnote, but the country's anti-gay crusaders have to answer for that, too.

Unsurprisingly, the gay community of San Francisco is once again angry.

And with the city's annual gay freedom parade less than a week away, police fear that the celebration will become a riot.

Suddenly, officials are backing out of attending the parade.

And the event organizers can't get a hold of the mayor to help them take care of last-minute logistics.

On June 25th, the day before the parade, police announced that they've arrested Robert Hillsborough's killers, which is of small consolation to the grieving and shaken community.

But despite the intense anger, the next day, there's no violence in the streets, even with a historic number of people marching in the parade.

Some 250,000 people show up, most of them locals, but some coming from as far away as Colorado and Alaska.

Television stations have to use traffic helicopters to get footage of the massive crowd as it makes its way up Market Street towards City Hall.

Some of the marchers carry signs demanding civil rights for the gay community.

Others carry placards showing Anita Bryant's face alongside those of the 20th century's greatest evils, Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin.

One after another, thousands drop flowers on the steps of City Hall, a spontaneous memorial for Robert Hillsborough.

The parade is a show of collective force, not of violence, but of anger, frustration and impatience.

The tide seems to be turning against the gay community, but they're not backing down, they're rising up.

And ready to lead them is Harvey Milk.

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It's the summer of 1977 in the backyard of San Francisco supervisor Diane Feinstein.

Feinstein's a very wealthy woman, which is how she can so easily do the job of supervisor, which pays less than $10,000 a year.

It also means she's got a beautiful home for throwing lavish parties.

Today, she's hosting a wedding for her close friend, Joe Daly.

Well, it's not technically a wedding because Joe's partner is a woman, but here in San Francisco, it's not all that unusual for two women to stand before their loved ones and declare their commitment to one another.

Originally, the event was set to be held on a yacht in the bay, but Diane offered her home instead.

Her husband's dying of cancer, and she doesn't want to leave him alone for too long, but didn't want to miss out on her friend's special day.

She's even chosen some words by Lebanese-American poet Khalil Gabran to read at the ceremony.

Here in the rarefied air of Diane's upscale neighborhood, it's a good day.

But outside the confines of the Feinstein Garden, the battle for a seat on San Francisco's Board of Supervisors is once again heating up.

But things look very different this time around.

Recently, San Franciscans passed a measure to make supervisor elections by district instead of citywide races.

It's a whole new ballgame, with all new challenges.

In the newly created District 5, Harvey Milk's facing 16 other candidates, and half of them are gay.

He's blazed a trail, but now he has to compete with the very people he's inspired.

And those previous races have taken their toll on Harvey.

Now 47, this is his fourth campaign in as many years, and he seems to be running out of steam.

His partner Scott moved out during the last fight for the state assembly, and their business is barely limping along.

The people close to Harvey can see that he's exhausted.

The only time he takes a break from campaigning for himself is when he's asked to attend an event opposing Senator John Briggs' ballot measure to ban gay teachers.

So it's hardly surprising that Harvey's taking help wherever he can get it.

And one of the most reliable sources for volunteers is still Jim Jones and People's Temple.

Privately, Harvey tells friends that none of Jones' people can be trusted.

Publicly, though, he joins many of the city's other influentials in genuflecting to Jones and his mysterious cabal.

He even attends services there on occasion.

At the end of July, Harvey sends a letter to Jones, writing, Hearing your voice, Sunday, gave me a warm feeling.

My name is cut into stone in support of you and your people.

But despite the power Jim Jones has amassed since arriving in San Francisco, concerning rumors have spread about the group recently.

Journalists are looking into claims of violence at the temple, of staged faith healings and of election interference.

Word is that Jones bust in followers from Southern California on the day of the 1975 mayoral runoff election.

The Jones devotees went from precinct to precinct, casting their votes for George Moscone, who later gave Jones a plum appointment on the San Francisco Housing Authority.

Until now, Jones has been able to keep a lid on most of the negative press.

He's got so many politicians and editors in his pocket that most potential stories are squashed before they make it to print.

At the beginning of August, though, Jones gets word of an investigative piece that will finally expose the temple for the cult that it is.

On the eve of the article's publication, Jones and most of his San Francisco-based followers pack up and flee the city.

They make for Guyana in South America, where Jones has rented a plot of land to create what he insists will be a utopia.

Harvey's heartfelt letter to Jones is sent the day before the cult leader obscons.

Unfortunately for Harvey, there's still about three months until election day, and he's just lost a small army of volunteers.

But things are looking much better for him this time around.

Where in the past he was seen as a joke to the media and established gay politicos, he's proven his leadership skills over the last few years.

Founding a community merchant group, organizing a successful street fair, and helping lead protests against the Anita Bryant's of the world.

In the final days of the campaign, the San Francisco Chronicle endorses Harvey for the first time ever.

It's a surprising move, but a prescient one.

Come election day, Harvey gets some 30% of the votes in his precinct.

In a field of 16 candidates, that's a landslide victory.

After three unsuccessful attempts, Harvey Milk has finally won election to office in the city that he loves.

That night, Harvey rides up to his victory party on the back of a motorcycle.

Photos of the spectacular arrival make the front page of the newspaper the next day, which announced that Harvey is one of the first openly gay elected officials in the entire country.

There have only been two others until now, both gay women, but neither of them was in a city as large or prominent as San Francisco.

The same day that Harvey's photo is splashed on the front pages, he gets his trusty human billboards out one last time.

This time, they're not holding signs asking for votes.

They simply say, thank you.

Harvey himself joins his volunteers, waving at drivers and shaking hands through open windows.

Over the next few days, letters pour in from around the country, as people offer congratulations to Harvey on his historic accomplishment.

But not all of the mail is positive.

Plenty of people are angry to see a gay man in a position of power, and they're not afraid to share those feelings with Harvey.

Some of them even get violent, wishing him bullets instead of congratulations.

These are hardly the first death threats Harvey's gotten over the years.

There were others during his earlier campaigns, but now that he's actually won, things feel different.

Years ago, back when he was living in New York City, Harvey told friends that he'd die young.

He would never make it to 50.

And now he feels that premonition more strongly than ever.

So, a week after the election, in the early hours of one morning, Harvey tape records three copies of a memo, a voice note to convey his wishes if anything happens to him.

In the event of his death, he wants to make sure that Mayor Moscone replaces him with someone suitable.

He also uses the memos to record a more personal wish for the world at large.

When he was younger, Harvey kept his orientation fairly close to his chest.

He even scolded an ex-lover for trying to force men out of the closet.

Now, from his position as a leader of his community, Harvey's changed his tune.

He wants people to come out.

He believes that people couldn't possibly tolerate so much violence and hatred towards gay people if they realized how many of them they knew.

Even now, after achieving what he'd been working towards for years, Harvey's already thinking about what comes next.

He's seen the shape of the world and he understands the reality of his position.

Still, despite how prepared he seems for his own untimely death, it's hard to fathom that in just over a year, Harvey Milk will be dead.

From Airship, this is episode 4 in our series on the assassination of Harvey Milk.

On the next episode, Harvey fights against the Briggs Initiative and meets the man who will become his assassin.

We use many different sources while preparing this episode.

A few we can recommend are The Mayor of Castro Street by Randy Schiltz, Harvey Milk, His Lives and Death by Lillian Faderman, and Seasoned of the Witch by David Talbot.

This episode may contain reenactments or dramatized details.

And while in some cases, we can't know exactly what happened, all our dramatizations are based on historical research.

American Criminal is hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Jeremy Schwartz.

Audio editing by Christian Peraga.

Sound design by Matthew Filler.

Music by Thrum.

This episode is written and researched by Joel Callan.

Managing producer, Emily Burke.

Executive producers are Joel Callan, William Simpson and Lindsey Graham.