The Assassination of Harvey Milk | Sodom by the Sea | 2

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It's the morning of November 27th, 1978.

32-year-old Dan White paces through the parking lot beside San Francisco's City Hall.

The huge building looms over Dan, its granite walls soaring high above him.

Not for the first time, he feels small, but he's here to change that.

He just has to figure out how to get inside first.

Ordinarily, he'd walk through one of the building's two main entrances.

But a few minutes ago, when his aide dropped him off out the front, Dan saw that security there has been beefed up in the last couple of days.

There have been rumors of hit squads roaming the city, bands of gunmen from People's Temple, the cult that just made headlines for mass suicide and murder in Guyana.

The group had ties to some of San Francisco's politicians, including Mayor George Mosconi.

He's ordered extra security at City Hall.

So now there are police guards at the entrances, checking everyone coming inside.

As one of the city's supervisors, Dan knows he might just be waved past.

But with a gun strapped to his body, he can't risk it.

He has to find another way in.

As he weaves in and out of the parked cars, Dan notices that there's a window at the side of the building that looks pretty close to the ground.

Getting closer, Dan can see that the office on the other side of the glass has just one person in it.

And, as luck would have it, the guy turns and walks out of the room right as Dan approaches.

Without stopping to think, Dan reaches out and pushes the window open.

Then he puts his hand on the sill and pulls his torso up onto the ledge, pushing himself further into the building.

He lands in the room, his shoulder crashing into the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

Just as Dan's getting to his feet, the office's owner walks back into the room and lets out a small yelp.

He and Dan stare at each other for a couple of seconds before Dan smooths out his jacket, adjusts his tie, and starts walking towards the door.

The other guy asks him who he is and what he thinks he's doing, but Dan doesn't stop.

Over his shoulder, he rattles off a vague story about his secretary forgetting to let him in the side door, and then before anyone else arrives to ask why, as a city supervisor breaking into City Hall, Dan White jogs off down the hallway.

Now that he's inside the building, he's focused on making it to his destination, the mayor's office.

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

By the end of the 1960s, Harvey Milk was a man adrift.

He'd spent his youth discovering and exploring his sexuality, keeping that side of his life secret from his family.

Then, once he left home, he meandered from college to the Navy to corporate America, falling in and out of love, never quite finding the right fit.

His jobs had all bored him, and eventually his boyfriends had done the same.

Then, in 1969, he followed his latest young lover Jack McKinley to San Francisco, and that's where Harvey's life started to come into focus.

Here was a city where plenty of gay people had made their home and were living their lives out in the open.

That was a revolutionary idea for Harvey, who'd been picked up by the cops at just 17 because he was in an area associated with gay cruising.

Within a few years of arriving on the West Coast, Harvey had completely transformed his life and was ready to take an active role in the city's leadership.

Today, San Francisco has a reputation as a progressive haven, but when Harvey arrived, it was a city in transition.

Its old guard, led by the police department, was ready to fight tooth and nail to stop their turf from changing.

Harvey might have finally found the home he'd been searching for, but it wasn't going to be quite as welcoming as he expected.

This is episode 2 in our 5-part series on the assassination of Harvey Milk, Sodom by the Sea.

It's May 1st, 1970, and the mood in San Francisco is one of outrage.

Just hours ago, President Nixon announced that US troops were invading Cambodia, and protests have erupted on college campuses around the country.

In the city's financial district, a growing crowd has gathered on Pine Street, outside the Pacific Coast Stock Exchange.

At the base of the steps leading into the imposing gray Art Deco building, students and self-described hippies hold up anti-war signs and chant.

Among them is 39-year-old Harvey Milk.

Like a lot of the protestors, he's got long hair spilling over his shoulders, but unlike most of them, he's dressed in a suit and tie.

Over the past few years, Harvey's become increasingly disillusioned with corporate America, as well as with the United States' participation in international conflicts like the Vietnam War.

Now he's stopped by the impromptu protest on his lunch break to join the people raising up their voices.

But despite his convictions, being just another face in the crowd has never really been Harvey's style.

Even among the hundreds of angry people, he wants to make a spectacle, wants to draw all eyes to him.

So grabbing his wallet, Harvey pulls out his credit card and rushes up onto the steps.

He waves to the people spilling from the sidewalk into the road yelling to get their attention.

He holds up his credit card and a cigarette lighter.

While the crowd roars its approval, Harvey sets the card on fire.

He smiles as the plastic curls and melts and basks in the approval of the other protesters.

By the time he burns his credit card on the steps of the stock exchange, Harvey Milk's been in San Francisco for the better part of a year.

He'd moved there to be with his boyfriend, Jack, who was working on the local production of the Broadway musical Hair.

But their relationship was already on the rocks when they left New York City, and a change of scenery didn't make things any better.

So when Jack got the call to come back east to stage manage a new musical, Jesus Christ Superstar, Harvey didn't follow him.

But it wasn't only because their relationship had run its course.

It was also because Harvey felt like San Francisco might just be the home he'd been searching for all his life.

Long before Harvey arrived, the city had a reputation for being a sexually permissive playground.

That had started during the gold rush of the 19th century, when brothels sprang up to cater to the thousands of lonely prospectors arriving in the region.

In the century since then, San Francisco's been locked in a battle between the sex industry that hums along in the city and the locals who wish it didn't.

During World War II, gay men and women from around America found community in the armed forces, and many of them passed through San Francisco on their way to fight in the Pacific.

By then, the city had several bars and other businesses that catered specifically to the queer community.

And, like Harvey did during his time in the Navy in the 1950s, servicemen and women eagerly sought out these gathering spots to find companionship, romance, and sex.

Of course, homosexuality was quite literally against the law, so the military and local police tried to suppress the burgeoning gay community.

There was even a list of almost a hundred bars and nightclubs that were off limits to soldiers because they were known dens of homosexual activity.

But that list just ended up acting like a map to all the best gay hotspots in town.

For the troops who were caught, though, the consequences were swift.

More than 9,000 servicemen and women were dishonorably discharged from the military during World War II due to their sexuality, and a lot of that number received their papers while stationed in San Francisco.

For many, the blue discharge paper might as well have been a scarlet A stitched on to their clothing or one of the pink triangles the Nazis were forcing queer people to wear in Germany.

Blue discharge papers marked a person as gay, which would make finding housing and work incredibly difficult and cut off access to military benefits.

But for those who were so publicly declared gay, home might no longer mean a warm welcome or even a safe place.

So, men and women who were handed blue papers often chose to stay in San Francisco.

With employment options thin, they opened up bars, restaurants, clothing stores, doctor's offices of their own, all catering specifically to gay clientele.

By 1961, San Francisco boasted North America's first openly queer political candidate in José Julio Saria, a drag performer and activist.

Saria ran for one of the seats on the city's board of supervisors, finishing fifth in a field of 29 candidates.

It was a trailblazing campaign and helped cement San Francisco as the unofficial gay capital of the country.

Now less than a decade after Saria's campaign, Harvey Milk is making the city his new home, delighted to be surrounded by so many other gay men.

That doesn't mean he loves everything about San Francisco, though.

For one, Harvey's frustrated that despite the large gay community, queer people don't have any voice in local government.

Sure, there are some politicians who support and advocate for the concerns of gays and lesbians, people like Dianne Feinstein, who won a seat on the board by actively seeking the votes of gay people.

But Harvey doesn't think that's enough.

He wants an actual gay person to do the fighting, not a proxy with no skin in the game.

And in recent years, Harvey's become someone who's happy to put his money where his mouth is.

Perhaps it was the influence of his hippie artist friends in New York.

Or maybe it's just a reflection of his own experiences.

But Harvey's pulling further and further away from the quiet, relatively conventional life he'd lived after leaving the Navy.

The same day he burns his credit card to protest the US invasion of Cambodia, Harvey's boss gives him an ultimatum.

Ever since he arrived in San Francisco, Harvey's worked as a financial analyst for a big firm.

But he's grown disillusioned with corporate America.

So when his boss orders Harvey to cut his hair to a respectable length or be fired, Harvey refuses.

His long hair is symbolic of his freedom, of his rebellion against society's norms.

So Harvey's fired on the same day he destroys his own credit card.

Luckily though, he's not out of work for long.

His friend Tim O'Horgan is in Los Angeles taking a break from directing Broadway to work on a film.

In December of 1970, he hires Harvey to come to LA to be his assistant.

When work on the film wraps in early 71, Tom heads back to New York and Harvey goes with him.

For a little while, he's a glorified entourage member for Broadway's hottest director.

On his 41st birthday, Harvey meets 22-year-old Joseph Scott Smith in a subway station, and they start dating almost right away.

Like basically every one of Harvey's relationships, this one moves quickly, and when Harvey's had enough of New York again in early 72, they both move out west.

San Francisco is still calling Harvey's name, and he can't ignore it anymore.

Once they arrive in San Francisco, neither Harvey or Scott are all that interested in finding work.

They just want to soak up the California sun, so they get a car and spend a year driving around the state.

They live off their unemployment benefits and sleep most nights in state parks.

Once their unemployment payments stop, they head back to San Francisco, where they stretch their meager tax refunds out as much as they possibly can.

By the end of 1972, though, the money's all but gone, and they need a cheap place to live.

They decide that Castro Street will make for an ideal address.

There are several gay bars on the road by this stage, and gay men have started buying and restoring homes in the area.

Over the last few years, families have been leaving the neighborhood out of a mixture of white flight and a general desire to avoid proximity to the gay community.

That's just fine for Harvey, who wants an inexpensive apartment on Castro for him and Scott.

With both of them still unemployed, Harvey has plenty of time to dode on his young boyfriend, which includes taking photographs of him posed like a model.

Except when he takes the photos to a local pharmacy to get developed, they come back ruined.

Harvey's annoyed.

This wouldn't have happened if there were an actual camera store in the neighborhood, a business that would take care with its customers' precious memories.

And come to think of it, a business run by gay men might attract other gay customers who would otherwise be embarrassed or even scared to have their photos developed elsewhere.

Risk-gay pictures or even just romantic moments would be safe from judgmental eyes.

So, after discussing it with Scott, Harvey decides that they'll be the ones to open that business.

They've got about a thousand bucks left, of which they use half on supplies and the rest on a down payment for a five-year lease on a Victorian storefront on Castro Street.

The place has an apartment upstairs, so they'll save on rent, too.

Despite the fact that neither of them really know anything about cameras or photography, Harvey and Scott opened Castro Camera in March 1973.

But running his own business isn't a cakewalk.

Not long after the store is up and running, Harvey gets a visit from a representative of the state government.

The guy announces that Castro Camera has to pay a $100 deposit against sales taxes they'll collect in the course of their business.

That would be over $700 bucks today, and it's money Harvey really doesn't have.

The whole thing sends him into a rage.

He can't believe that the state's demanding money when his store has barely opened its doors to customers.

He starts shouting at the bureaucrat, who gives it right back to him.

Then Harvey spends hours over the next few weeks visiting various government offices to complain about the payment, and eventually negotiates the sum down to just $30.

It's not ideal, but it's the best he's going to get.

Still, the incident leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

And that flavor only gets worse a few weeks later, when a teacher from the local high school comes in to ask if Castro Camera has a slide projector she can borrow.

She needs the projector for her classes, and the school doesn't have enough funding for her to get the equipment.

On the one hand, Harvey's happy to help this woman.

He knows what it's like to be a teacher, and admires her for going above and beyond for her students.

But on the other hand, he's pissed.

San Francisco has enough money to expand freeways so the commuters can drive in from the suburbs, and to upgrade airports to bring in more tourists.

Tourists who spend all their cash downtown and never seem to make it out to places like the Castro.

But the city doesn't have enough money to buy the teachers the supplies they need?

It's despicable.

And then, the Watergate hearings start that summer.

Harvey drags a television set into the store so he can watch the proceedings during business hours.

As the story unfolds and members of President Nixon's administration start lying about what they did and didn't do in the lead up to the 1972 election, Harvey gets more and more angry.

He's swearing at the television.

And at one stage, Scott has to restrain him to stop him from kicking the screen in when the Attorney General's on.

Eventually, Harvey's had enough.

He's sick of the government wasting money to appease big businesses at the expense of struggling residents.

He wants teachers to have the funding they need to do their jobs.

And most of all, he believes it's time that the gay community had a seat at the table.

When he first moved to San Francisco in 1969, Harvey told a friend that he'd like to be mayor of the city someday.

That's still something he'd like, but for now, he'll settle for a seat on the board of supervisors.

Harvey Milk is running for office.

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It's just afternoon in early August 1973.

43-year-old Harvey Milk is walking up Castro Street.

A wooden crate under one arm, a placard over his shoulder, he's got a broad grin on his face, the excitement of what he's about to do bursting to the surface.

Behind him, a couple of Harvey's friends are carrying posters of their own.

The silkscreen signs read, Harvey Milk has something for everybody.

When the small entourage reaches a pedestrian plaza at a busy intersection, Harvey comes to a stop.

He places the crate on the ground, positioning it so that people can see where he's painted soap across the rough wood.

Then he steps up onto a soap box and calls for people's attention.

A few people turn their heads and keep walking, but others stop to see what's going on.

Raising his voice to carry over the lunchtime bustle of Castro, he announces to the few people in front of him that his name is Harvey Milk and he's running for the San Francisco Board of Supervisors.

He stands there for a few moments drinking in the polite applause and looking around expectantly, like he's waiting for questions.

When no one else speaks up, he continues, saying that he owns a local business, Castro Camera, which is where he can be found if anyone wants to speak to him.

Not just about his campaign, but about any problems they're having in the neighborhood.

Then, after giving a small bow, Harvey steps down from his crate.

The moment's over.

Now comes the hard part.

Harvey has plenty of reasons to want to seat on the Board of Supervisors.

And not long after the announcement, he speaks to a reporter about them.

He explains that he wants to improve society, not just for himself and his boyfriend, but for all the people like them who will follow.

It has to be better for future generations than it has been for him.

And becoming a supervisor will help him make real changes within the city, because they hold a lot of power over what does and doesn't happen in San Francisco.

As the legislative branch of both the city and county, the board establishes policies and adopts ordinances and resolutions.

Basically, it operates as a city council, with 11 members at any one time.

But unlike most other similar bodies in the United States, the San Francisco board doesn't elect representatives by district.

Instead, they're elected on a citywide basis, with all candidates appearing on the ballot together.

It makes campaigning incredibly expensive, because candidates have to try and reach hundreds of thousands of voters to have any hope of success.

That's part of the reason that drag artist Jose Saria's performance was so impressive in the 1961 election.

He didn't have funding to run a traditional citywide campaign.

So instead, he ran a tightly focused one.

He relied on his popularity and influence as one of the city's most prominent gay activists to harness the voting power of his community.

That strategy had netted him some 7,000 votes.

Almost enough to secure a spot on the board.

Now Harvey wants to use a similar playbook to better Jose's result.

But Harvey's not just going to campaign on issues that only concern gay people.

He's got a laundry list of things he'd like to get done if he wins a seat.

In a questionnaire for a pamphlet that will go out to voters, Harvey's asked about his platform.

His answer isn't concise, but it does have a theme.

He writes that as a gay Jewish man, he feels like a double outsider.

As such, he wants to fight for non-majority groups in the community, people of color, the elderly, the poor, the gay, and the young.

He writes that he wants to legalize cannabis use, and suggests that hard drug users should receive help, not prison time.

He decries the city's continued funding of a growing police force, which he believes is being directed to arrest perpetrators of victimless crimes.

Instead, that money could be used for more productive things that help, health care, welfare payments, and grants for new businesses.

Then there are the things that Harvey wants to stop.

To begin with, he's against the expansion of the city's airport, which is intended to serve the tourism industry San Francisco has been courting in recent years.

He's also intent on blocking a downtown development that will remove low-income housing to make room for high-rises to suit the needs of large corporations.

Perhaps most radically, though, Harvey wants to eliminate the SFPD's vice squad.

While plenty of his policies are designed to appeal to a broad spectrum of voters, this last one's definitely aimed at winning gay votes.

For years, the police have served as a kind of enforcing arm for the city's more socially conservative officials.

What's more, the force is mostly made up of Irish Catholics, and there's resentment among them that gays have overrun the formerly Irish neighborhood of the Castro.

So, with orders from the city's Italian Catholic mayor, Joe Alioto, the police have taken to making regular raids on public parks, arresting thousands of gay men for public sex offenses.

For comparison, New York's police are now making less than a hundred such arrests each year.

But in the supposedly more liberal San Francisco, the police seem fixated on harassing the gay community.

So, among other things, Harvey wants to reign the cops in.

But there's just the small matter of an election first.

And early on, he makes the kind of rookie political mistakes that only make his fight harder.

When someone at a campaign event asks Harvey how he expects to beat the cashed up incumbents in the race, Harvey calmly explains that because he's gay, he'll probably be shot by some conservative fanatic.

When he survives, he'll get the sympathy vote.

If it's meant to be a joke, it doesn't go over well.

Similarly, Harvey's appearance is a liability.

With his long hair and mustache, blue jeans and casual shirt, he looks like a hippie, not someone capable of running a city.

All of that might be surmountable though, if Harvey can mobilize the city's gay population behind him.

But even that's easier said than done.

When the community's existing political leaders meet with Harvey, they decide that they just don't like him.

He's an outsider, and he hasn't paid his dues by putting in time in the local gay political clubs.

And like others, they're put off by Harvey's outlandish comments and sloppy appearance.

If there's a gay candidate in the race, they don't want someone like him.

They want a better-groomed, respectable-looking person.

Someone who will give straight people the impression that gays and lesbians are just as boring and ordinary as them, with sensible clothes to match their unthreatening ideas.

Harvey's not that.

That said, Harvey's policy ideas and hippie aesthetic aren't the only reason he doesn't get the endorsement of the city's leading gay politicos.

The truth is, the gay establishment, for lack of a better term, doesn't want a gay supervisor yet.

They'd prefer to work slowly, build power and momentum gradually.

That's their plan, and they're sticking to it.

Obviously, Harvey doesn't like any of this.

In his mind, these self-appointed leaders are moving at a glacial pace, and it's hurting the gay community.

He wants to make San Francisco a safer, more welcoming place for everyone, and he's not going to wait for someone to tell him he's allowed to do that.

So despite missing out on key endorsements, he presses on.

Buttoned up political types aren't the only power players in the gay community.

In fact, their cloud is dwarfed by another less organized, but much more glamorous group.

Drag artists have always been at the forefront of the fight for queer civil rights.

Just a few years ago, in 1969, they were key players in the historic Stonewall riots in New York City, and Jose Sarria was a drag performer long before he ran for office.

Now when San Francisco's drag queens and gay bar owners hear about Harvey Milk's campaign for supervisor, they give him their full-throated support.

They're not interested in appearing respectable to placate the masses.

They just want to live their lives without interference.

Having a gay man in City Hall can only help them get that.

So plenty of the Castro locals stand with them.

If nothing else, Harvey lives in the Castro neighborhood.

He can see what the area needs, what its residents most want from the Board of Supervisors.

Many of San Francisco's neighborhoods are waning.

If it weren't for the influx of gay men and women, the Castro would lack the businesses that have helped revitalize the community.

Record stores, antique malls, restaurants, clothing boutiques, all opened by gay entrepreneurs who might otherwise have a hard time finding work.

If the Castro had its own supervisor on the Board, it might not have needed the queer community to inject money and vitality into its streets.

It might not have been ignored by the wealthy supervisors backed by big business donors.

Donors who are more interested in molding the city to suit their goals rather than addressing the needs of its citizens.

With that in mind, Harvey stands behind the ballot initiative that's up for a vote this coming November.

If it passes, future supervisors will be elected by districts, not across the entire city.

But for now, Harvey's stuck with the current system, so he has to try and appeal to as many people as he possibly can.

Part of his strategy is to mythologize his own story, to find even more common ground with his gay brothers and sisters.

So it's around this time that Harvey starts telling people that he was booted from the Navy for being gay.

This isn't true.

He served his four-year term and received an honorable discharge.

But persecution at the hands of the establishment is a more compelling backstory for an out-political candidate to have.

So that's what he runs with.

Compelling narrative or not, Harvey's very first campaign is struggling to make headway, even among his key demographic.

The city's gay media outlets have largely ignored him so far.

Then, about a month before the election, The Advocate, a national newspaper covering gay-centric stories, publishes an interview with Harvey that's far from flattering.

One of the nicer things the newspaper has to say is that he's not exactly a glamour boy.

But as Oscar Wilde once wrote, There's only one thing in life worse than being talked about.

And that's not being talked about.

So even though they're not writing great things about him, at least they're getting Harvey's name out there, right?

Sure, in theory.

But on October 10th, 1973, the day the Advocate interview with Harvey comes out, US.

Vice President Spearow Agnew resigns after a bribery scandal.

So, few people in San Francisco were paying attention to an interview about an underfunded longshot campaign for city supervisor.

Then comes a brutal blow from the gay establishment, who take out full-page ads in Calendar, the city's biggest gay paper.

The ads remind readers that their community is better off with strong, straight allies, rather than people like Harvey, who they suggest is irresponsible and will do damage to the cause.

Still, Harvey's not giving up.

Every morning, he wakes up early and takes an armful of flyers to bus stops to hand them out to people on their way to work.

He shakes hands, he makes small talk, he asks about their concerns, then he asks for their vote.

It's November 6, election day.

In the evening, Harvey gathers his friends in a restaurant to listen to the results over the radio.

When all the counting's done, he's got 17,000 votes, which places him 10th in a field of 32 candidates.

With only five open seats on the board, it's not enough.

What's more, the measure to impose district elections fails too.

So if Harvey decides to run again in two years, he'll be playing the same game as the one he just lost.

Well, Harvey thinks if he can't change the state of the game board, he can at least change the way he plays.

Two weeks after the 1973 election, he cuts his hair to a respectable, responsible length.

He tells his friends that he's giving up smoking cannabis and stops visiting the city's bathhouses for casual sex.

Harvey Milk's determined to be a leader for his community.

And if that means he has to make some sacrifices, so be it.

It's December 23rd, 1973, a month and a half since Harvey Milk finished 10th in the Board of Supervisors election.

He's gotten up off the mat and is ready to be a champion for San Francisco's gay community.

That's why he and his partner Scott are standing outside the church of the Most Holy Redeemer on Diamond Street.

The church is just around the corner from Harvey and Scott's store, Castro Camera.

But they're not here for a pre-Christmas service.

They're here so Harvey can take a stand.

The church is the meeting place for the Eureka Valley Merchants Association.

The gay population of the Castro, which is part of Eureka Valley, has been growing rapidly over the past decade.

And the Merchants Association isn't thrilled about that.

Many of its members are socially conservative locals who want to preserve the old-fashioned values of days gone by.

To that end, they're currently trying to block a gay couple from getting a business license to open up an antique store in the area.

Harvey's here to try and convince his fellow Eureka Valley Merchants to change their minds.

When Harvey and Scott push through the front doors and into the church, they find the space is all polished floorboards and soaring ceilings.

In the middle of the room, around the altar, about two dozen people mill around, drinking wine and laughing.

Carols are playing from a stereo in the corner.

Harvey can't believe his luck.

He's arrived in the middle of the group's Christmas party.

If people are going to be charitable to their neighbors, surely it's tonight.

But Harvey barely gets halfway through introducing himself to a small clump of people when a man steps up onto the altar and speaks over the music.

With a derisive glance at Harvey and Scott, the man calls for the Association to adjourn for the night.

Seconds later, the group are packing up their party supplies.

They take their wine and their carols and they leave the church right there and then.

So much for the Christmas spirit.

Come the New Year, Harvey's ready to try a different approach.

If the Eureka Valley Merchants don't want to engage with him, he'll just find people who will.

By doing just a little digging, Harvey finds out that another businessman tried to start a gay merchants association in the area, but struggled to find members.

Now Harvey resurrects the Castro Village Association and gets to work recruiting.

Though his campaign last year didn't win him a seat on the board of supervisors, it did help him make some very valuable contacts.

He met with plenty of the gay business owners on Castro Street to ask them for donations.

So when he comes back to tell them about his new venture, they're already familiar with his ideas and passion.

The reformed CVA attracts plenty of members who elect Harvey president.

One of the early non-gay recruits is a photographer who owns a general store on Castro with her husband.

Harvey enlists her to take pictures of all the stores in the CVA, which he publishes in a small pamphlet that he and Scott distribute to the locals.

These are all businesses that the gay community should actively patronize, Harvey writes.

And although they don't say so outright, the implication is that other stores should be avoided.

This is all part of Harvey's new plan to strengthen the gay community.

Inspired by the successes black Americans earned by boycotting buses in Montgomery after the arrest of Rosa Parks, Harvey starts telling his friends and fellow CVA members that gay people in San Francisco should try to only spend money with gay-owned businesses.

He gets a platform for his ideas with columns and gay publications like The Bay Area Reporter and Vector.

Then in the summer of 1974, Harvey gets the chance to prove the might of the gay dollar.

That's when Alan Baird, president of the Joint Council of Teamsters, pays a visit to Castro Camera.

He's heard about Harvey's performance in the election last year and wants his help.

See, the Union's been organizing a boycott of Coors Beer, along with several other breweries who've been trying a union bust.

The Teamsters have persuaded some small grocery stores in the city to refuse deliveries from these companies, but it's not having a big enough impact.

So Alan's ready to open a new front in his war.

Alan asks if Harvey'd be willing to visit the city's gay bars to ask them to boycott Coors and the other companies.

Harvey doesn't need any convincing.

Coors is owned by an incredibly conservative family, so they already have a reputation in the gay community.

But Harvey wants something from the Teamsters too.

They have to start hiring gay drivers.

Alan says he'll see what he can do.

The men shake on the deal and Harvey gets to work.

First, he writes a column about the boycott.

Then he and some friends visit every one of the hundred or so gay bars in San Francisco to tell them what's up.

Harvey's hard work gets the attention of the mainstream media, who show up to take photos of bartenders taking beers off shelves and pouring them down the drain.

Every affected company immediately ends their union-busting tactics, except for Coors.

They're the lone holdout and will fight the Teamsters for the next four years.

But the gay community will stick to their guns.

They'll eliminate Coors beers from their bars, their parties and their homes, watching in satisfaction as the company's sales in California fall by a third.

Power of the Gay Dollar Indeed Harvey's not just interested in wielding his influence like a weapon, though.

He also wants to help unite the gay community.

Specifically, he wants to bring the Castro together.

So, when he reads that another gay neighborhood near Polk Street is planning a street fair for the summer, he decides to throw one, too.

On August 18th, 1974, two blocks shut down between Market and 19th Streets for the first Castro Street Fair.

Around 5,000 people show up for the event, which features stalls by local businesses, artwork, drag queens and other live entertainment.

It's a huge success for the community.

But despite Harvey's effective organization, not everything in the Castro is sunshine and roses.

Police officers are regular fixtures in the neighborhood, and are known to pull over any car carrying two men.

The cops then ask if the guys are going to the Midnight Sun, a popular gay bar in the area.

And if either of the men seems to recognize the name, they're given a ticket.

Those are the guys who get off lightly.

Other members of the community share much darker stories with the press.

On busy weekend nights, posses of cops regularly round up small groups of gay men and take them to whichever park is nearest.

Then the officers handcuff and beat the men with nightsticks.

Then they'll often charge them with resisting arrest or trespassing in a park.

A particularly brutal roundup on Labor Day weekend 1974 leads to a galvanization of the gay community in the area.

Harvey himself leads the fundraising for the legal defense of the men caught up in the melee, and a million-dollar lawsuit is lodged against the SFPD.

After that, police predation in the Castro drops considerably, but Harvey's nowhere near declaring victory.

He's shown the world how much power gay consumers have and how quickly the community can unite for a celebration or to protect their own.

Now, he's determined to show how formidable they can be at the ballot box.

It's just to do that, he has to actually get them to their polling place on election day.

During the past year, Harvey's been talking to gay men and women across the city, and he's realized just how many of them aren't registered voters.

And why would they be?

In the past, no matter who was in charge, no one was championing the queer community, so it seemed pointless to participate.

But Harvey's not willing to accept that as an excuse anymore.

All year, he's been talking people into becoming voters, and by Christmas, he's registered over 2300 people.

All in all, it's been a solid year for Harvey.

The Castro Village Association has accrued some 90 local businesses, flexed its might at the street fair, and politicians are regular visitors to its meetings.

In contrast, the Eureka Valley Merchants Association has collapsed, as the area's last social conservatives have fled the growing number of gay residents.

Of course, Harvey's hard work has been great for his community, but it's all been designed with a personal goal in mind.

After the year he's had, he's ready to go for a supervisor seat in 1975, and this time, he's really in it to win.

So much so, that he's willing to accept help from a rising star in San Francisco's religious community, a man named Jim Jones, who's founded a growing church he's calling People's Temple.

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

On the next episode, socially conservative Americans try to stamp out gayness, and Harvey Milk fights back.

We use many different sources while preparing this episode.

Some we can recommend are Harvey Milk, His Lives and Death by Lillian Faderman, The Mayor of Castro Street by Randy Schiltz, and Reporting in Time magazine.

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.