Encore: Presidential Assassinations | Anarchist at the Exposition | 3
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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 September 1901. You're a surgeon at the Niagara Falls Medical Center in upstate New York, and you're in the middle of a delicate procedure. Sweat soaks through your medical cap as the bright lights shining in the operating room make a hot day even hotter.

Your patient is a man with cancer of the lymph nodes, and he lies on the operating table anesthetized and unconscious. You straighten your back and steady your nerves. You're one of the most talented surgeons in the country, but even for you, the slightest mistake could mean the difference between your patient living or dying. With your left hand gripping a surgical clamp, you reach out with your free right hand. Scalpel, please. Now, I need you to firmly grasp this clamp, understood? Yes.

The nurse nods and places her hand on the clamp, allowing you to let go. Good, good. Now maintain pressure until I've confirmed I've removed the tumor. You take a deep breath and prepare to make an incision. You freeze. Your scalpel inches from your patient's neck. Someone please send whoever that is away. Another nurse scurries out the door. You can't quite make out what's being said in the hallway, but the discussion sounds animated. What in the world is going on out there?

The door opens and the nurse steps back into the room. Doctor, you're needed in the hall. He can wait. The messenger was adamant about speaking to you without delay. Exasperated, you turn to the attending nurse holding the clamp. Now, whatever you do, do not release pressure. I'll be back soon.

You barrel out the door into the hallway and stop abruptly in front of an anxious-looking young man. He seems to be out of breath. Whatever your message is, tell me quickly. There's a man with his neck open on the operating table. I'm terribly sorry, Doctor. You are urgently needed at the exposition hospital. You stare at the young man, confused.

The Pan-American Exposition, a massive world's fair, is taking place 20 miles away in Buffalo, New York. What? I don't understand. There's no other doctors you could call on? No, sir. I've been told to fetch you. It's a matter of life and death. And so it is with my patient. I can't leave this case, even if it were the President of the United States. The young man flinches. Doctor, it is the President of the United States.

Shock replaces your irritation as the messenger explains that President William McKinley has been shot. His condition is grave and a surgeon is needed immediately. Reality hits you. You need to finish this surgery as quickly as possible and then race to Buffalo before it's too late.

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Amen.

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From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. American History Tellers

On September 6, 1901, renowned surgeon Dr. Roswell Park was called to attend to the 25th President of the United States, William McKinley. The President was fighting for his life, having been shot while attending the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York.

The exposition was an elaborate event celebrating the Western Hemisphere's progress and optimism at the dawn of the 20th century. It was also a celebration of the achievements and policies of McKinley himself. During his first term as president, McKinley oversaw military victories abroad and pulled the country out of a devastating recession. As he began his second term, America was poised to become a global leader.

But the country's swift economic, military, and industrial rise had left many behind. Poor working conditions, low wages, and brutal anti-union tactics had kept many workers trapped in grinding poverty, even as the nation as a whole prospered. McKinley's attacker was one of these disaffected workers, who had found inspiration in the radical anarchist movement sweeping through the Western world. His search for justice would lead him to target the president.

In 1893, four years before he became president, William McKinley was the governor of his home state of Ohio, and he found himself dealing with a crisis.

That year, the failure of a major railroad company set off a chain reaction in the economy. Stock and commodity prices nosedived, and overproducing factories drove down the price of goods. Thousands of businesses across the country fell into bankruptcy. And as the economy went into freefall, heavily industrialized states like Ohio bore the brunt of the crisis. Half of all Ohio factory workers lost their jobs.

For McKinley, this panic of 1893 also brought turmoil to his personal finances. For many years prior, Governor McKinley had guaranteed the business loans of a longtime friend. But when the recession wiped out his friend's holdings, the governor fell into financial ruin. Finding himself $100,000 in debt, he offered to resign from office and return to his private law practice in order to pay it off.

But McKinley would not have to leave the governor's mansion yet. Wealthy benefactors came to his rescue, and by the end of the year, his debts were wiped out, with no strings attached. The whole ordeal ended up garnering sympathy for McKinley, as the public came to see him as another victim of the economic downturn. So in November 1893, McKinley was re-elected by the largest margin of any Ohio governor since the Civil War.

But for everyday citizens without McKinley's connections, the Panic of 1893 was a devastating setback. Among the victims of the downturn was a 20-year-old son of Polish immigrants named Leon Czolgosz. Czolgosz worked at the Cleveland rolling mill making steel wire.

This mill, located in the working-class Polish and Czech community of Newburgh, Ohio, was one of the few in the area that survived the panic. But the owners drastically reduced worker pay, and in response, steel unions called on their members to strike. As a union member, Cholgosz dutifully joined the picket lines. But the mill hired strikebreakers and put union members on an industry-wide blacklist. Cholgosz found himself not only out of a job, but barred from the only profession he knew.

Cholgosh began work at the mill at age 17 when his father moved a large family of eight children from Detroit to Cleveland in 1890. The mill paid a good wage and relatively safe working conditions, and Cholgosh thought he'd achieved the American dream. The Panic of 1893 shattered that illusion.

Cholgash was angered by the devastating effects of the recession in his Eastern European immigrant neighborhood and by how casually he and his fellow workers had been tossed aside. A quiet and reflective man, he initially sought solace in the Catholic Church, but grew disillusioned with the Church's inability or unwillingness to help struggling families put food on their tables. Cholgash then turned to fraternal societies, looking for ones that sought fairness and justice for laborers like himself.

Eventually, he found the club the Knights of the Golden Eagle. This club helped its working-class members find employment and encouraged discussion that focused on the betterment of society.

But Cholgash also soon found the Golden Eagles no better than the Catholic Church. The group was populated by men of higher social status than Cholgash, making him feel out of place. And their ideas of reforming a broken capitalist system did not seem radical enough to help low-ranking factory workers like him. Cholgash attended many meetings but rarely spoke.

Meanwhile, weeks turned to months, and Czolgosz remained out of work. Then in 1894, he finally met someone at the Golden Eagles with a background he could relate to, a fellow Polish-American laborer named Anton Zwolinski.

Zywolinski invited Czolgosz to be part of a Polish educational club known as SILA, or The Force. SILA was a loose collection of social radicals whose gatherings often consisted of beer-fueled rants against authority. But it was in these meetings that Czolgosz was introduced to a new ideology, anarchism. Anarchy's promise of a stateless society built around individual rights intrigued Czolgosz,

But what really fascinated him was the anarchist strategy known as propaganda of the deed, a euphemism for violent acts of terror. One attempted act in particular seemed to have captured his imagination. In July of 1892, in the company steel town of Homestead, Pennsylvania, the Carnegie Steel Company had been locked in a brutal labor dispute with the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers.

As violence escalated, activists tried and failed to assassinate Carnegie Steel's chief negotiator, Henry Frick. The main conspirator in Frick's attempted murder was sentenced to 22 years in prison, but his accomplice, a 23-year-old Russian immigrant named Emma Goldman, managed to avoid charges.

The attack on Frick made Goldman a household name, and she parlayed her infamy into a speaking tour, packing halls to their rafters with her charismatic style and vicious attacks on politicians and business leaders. As her star rose, authorities took note, and she was arrested and charged several times for attempting to incite a riot. But she continued to draw people from far and wide, all eager to hear her speak. Among them was Leon Cholgash.

After six months of unemployment, Cholgosh had finally returned to the Cleveland Rolling Company, taking back his old job, but for reduced wages. Because he was still blacklisted, he had to give the foreman a fake name, Fred C. Neiman. And for the next few years, he led a life of mundane routine. He kept to himself and rarely socialized outside his sporadic attendings of SELA meetings. Then, in 1897, he began to develop respiratory problems.

Believing the factory environment was making him sick, Cholgosh quit for good in August of 1898. Hoping to recuperate, Cholgosh retreated to his family's farm in Warrensville, Ohio. But he felt like a prisoner on the property, with no friends and few job prospects. Increasingly bitter and isolated, Cholgosh slipped further into radical ideology.

He read anarchist periodicals and attended anarchist speeches whenever he could. Finally, in the summer of 1901, he could take no more of life at home. So with his entire savings of $70 in his pocket, he fled farm life without even saying goodbye to his father. He hopped a train to Chicago, determined to meet the radical leader he admired most. Imagine it's July 1901.

You've just finished a luncheon at the Chicago home of a prominent anarchist publisher. As a popular speaker in the anarchist movement, your schedule is exhausting, and already you're late to catch your train home. But you'll do whatever is necessary to spread your message and inspire other activists. After the luncheon, as you try to hustle to the train station, you're suddenly confronted face-to-face with a handsome, smart-dressed man. He stares at you awkwardly. Excuse me, sir.

"'The man takes off his hat and addresses you nervously. "'No, excuse me. I would very much like to speak with you.' "'You peer at him, suddenly recognizing his face. "'Oh, you. You were in the front row when I spoke two months ago in Cleveland.'

I remember your applause was especially enthusiastic. Yes, yes, I'm a great admirer. Well, it's very nice to see you again, Mr. Neiman, Fred Neiman. Of course. You approached me after that speech and asked to know more about the movement. Did you read those books I recommended? No, I haven't, because I wanted to learn more about it directly from people like you who are doing the work. Well, you have to do it walking. I need to catch a train. I have friends waiting at the station to see me off.

but you'll have my sole attention until we get there. The man shuffles alongside you as you walk in the direction of the station. Well, I have been greatly interested in your more... aggressive rhetoric. Aggression is what's needed. We anarchists must believe that any individual can start a revolution. Like in Italy. You mean King Humbert? Yes, assassinating a king is one way. There's more to it than that. We must liberate the minds of the people as well as liberate the people from the oppressors. Well, I want to serve the cause...

"'I haven't worked since leaving the mill in Cleveland, two years ago. Well, no doubt your labor was being exploited. You don't have to live under the yoke of any mill. And now I see my friends are just ahead. I'll give you an introduction. There's a lot you can learn from them. Oh, I'm not especially comfortable with strangers. Well, you did quite well with me. Well, that's because you're... you...' He trails off awkwardly and stares at you in silence.'

You realize that there's a look in his blue eyes that's more than just admiration of your speaking skills. Well, unfortunately, our chat must end here. But if you're serious about our movement, take the initiative. The young man struggles to keep up with you as you make your way through the crowded train station until you find your friends. Abraham, Hippolyte, may I introduce Mr. Neiman. Mr. Neiman, Abraham Isaac, and Hippolyte Havel, two brilliant minds within the

I must be off. Abraham, would you please take care of my new friend? And Mr. Neiman, it was a pleasure. You put out your hand. He wipes the sweat off his palm and takes your hand into his, holding it for just a bit too long. You nod politely to your friends and start up the steps to the elevated platform. As you walk away, you glance once more at your new admirer.

He's certainly not the first would-be anarchist you've met who seemed more smitten with you than your ideas, and you hope your friends will give him the guidance he so clearly desires. On July 12, 1901, Leon Cholga showed up unannounced at the Chicago home of a prominent anarchist publisher looking to speak with Emma Goldman. His clumsy demeanor and blunt questioning troubled her circle of friends, but Goldman dismissed his behavior as mere social awkwardness.

She considered him harmless, overeager, and in need of direction. But the brief discussion on the way to the train station set Cholgosz's mind ablaze. Afterward, he was determined to demonstrate his commitment to anarchism, but didn't know how. He spent much of the summer of 1901 moving from city to city in the Midwest without a job, boarding with strangers for days at a time, and searching aimlessly for inspiration.

He was back in Chicago at the end of August when a newspaper article caught his eye. It announced the attendance of the most important guest at the upcoming Pan American Exposition, former Ohio Governor William McKinley, who was now President of the United States. By this time, Cholgosh had come to believe that McKinley was the man most responsible for the misery of the working class. He was a symbol of elite power and exploitation in America. He was about to meet his public at a major event.

So only hours later, Leon Cholgash bought a train ticket to Buffalo, New York. He had finally found his purpose, to assassinate the president. ♪

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On July 5th, 1901, President William McKinley boarded a Western Express train from San Francisco to Ohio with his wife, Ida.

He was just a few months into his second term as president and riding high on a wave of popularity. His first term had been marked by a return to economic prosperity and a decisive victory in the Spanish-American War, a conflict that gave the United States control of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Philippines.

But what was supposed to be a six-week cross-country victory lap had been cut short due to his wife's health. Early in the trip, Ida had developed an infected boil on her finger and nearly lost her life from a blood infection caused by frequent lancing. It took several medical interventions to stabilize her, and McKinley insisted that she recover at their Canton, Ohio home, where he would stay with her, taking a three-month working holiday.

During this time, McKinley authorized his staff in Washington, D.C., to carry out his foreign policy goals while he focused on the economy. One of his most energetic deputies was his new vice president, Theodore Roosevelt.

The victory over Spain had bolstered McKinley's re-election chances, but it made a celebrity out of Roosevelt. He became a war hero after his exploits in Cuba, where he led a celebrated cavalry unit nicknamed the Rough Riders. Less than three months after returning home from the war, Roosevelt was elected governor of New York,

And when McKinley's first vice president died of heart disease in November 1899, a groundswell of popular support catapulted Roosevelt into the vacant role, even though he and the president did not get along. Roosevelt had famously once criticized McKinley as having no more backbone than a chocolate eclair. And even as vice president, Roosevelt's zeal often clashed with President McKinley's more cautious approach to policy.

So as the ambitious Roosevelt busied himself with the formalities of his new role, William McKinley tended to his wife as she recovered and then made his way back east from Ohio to test his popularity with the public. The final stop on his resumed journey back to Washington would be a visit in early September 1901 to speak at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York.

This large public celebration was a world's fair, but focused specifically on the Western Hemisphere and America's growing influence throughout Latin America. Its official slogan was commercial well-being and good understanding among the American republics. Using hydroelectric power from nearby Niagara Falls, every exposition building was outlined with multicolored light bulbs that gave the fair its nickname, the Rainbow City.

Over 8 million visitors were expected over the course of the fair's six months, eager to traipse through the 350-acre fairgrounds, marveling at the innovative new technologies on display, such as an incubator for premature infants and a new medical device called the X-ray machine. There was also a grand hall known as the Temple of Music, which housed the largest pipe organ ever built.

On September 5, 1901, more than 100,000 onlookers crowded a large open space called the Esplanade and listened as McKinley laid out a vision to secure trade abroad and expand commerce at home. He ended his speech on a hopeful note, stating, Meanwhile, not far from the flag-draped podium from which the President spoke—

Leon Cholgash lurked in the crowd. He was carrying a newly purchased revolver and waiting patiently for an opportunity to fulfill his purpose. But Cholgash lacked confidence in his ability to hit his target from such a distance, so he never raised the gun. As McKinley's speech ended, the would-be anarchist slunk away, frustrated to have missed his chance.

But Cholgosh found renewed hope when he pursued the day's papers. They announced that the very next day, President McKinley would meet members of the public, one by one, at the Temple of Music. Imagine it's a muggy afternoon on September 6, 1901. After waiting in line for hours outside the enormous dome building known as the Temple of Music, you're finally inside the hall. A hundred feet ahead of you, you can see the president, a large portly man in tails and an overcoat.

He works the crowd like a man on an assembly line, giving each member of the public a firm handshake and then pulling them forward to greet the next guest. You make eye contact with a well-dressed man in line ahead of you. He shifts from one foot to the other nervously, keeps his right hand tucked firmly in his pocket. You nod politely, but he doesn't return the courtesy, so you turn around and address the fellow fairgoer behind you.

The room is sweltering, and he's using his handkerchief to blot the sweat from his brow. Oh, it is hot today, right? Certainly is. Well, we're getting closer, it seems. You know, I've never seen the president up close before. He looks different from his photographs in the papers, you think? Yeah, a bit.

A camera flash draws your attention back to the stage. As you shuffle closer toward the large American flag backdrop, you can see local police and men in dark suits scanning the crowd. "'Well, I think it's fantastic that he's doing this, meeting the people where they are. I came and saw him speak yesterday. Well, I heard him speak. I was too far back to get a good look. I only arrived this morning. Well, he was stirring, let me tell you. Made me feel proud to be an American.' "'Well, as you should,'

but I think you're next. But as you turn back toward the president, you hear two loud pops. At first, you think they're just more of the photographer's flashbulbs. But then you see President McKinley stumble into the arms of the men by his side, clutching his stomach. The well-dressed man ahead of you stands over him, his arms outstretched, and smoke wafts from the handkerchief wrapped around his hand. At that moment, you realize that under that handkerchief, the man has a gun.

People around you scream and panic. Without thinking, you move to subdue the gunman. You lunge forward, striking the man in the head and grabbing at his arm to prevent a third shot. As you pull him down, his revolver tumbles across the floor. Soon others join you and pin the attacker to the ground. Some in the crowd begin kicking and punching the man. And suddenly police and secret servicemen swarm around you. They pull the man up and drag him away.

Through the tangle of bodies, you can see President McKinley clutching his stomach, his shirt covered in blood. Quickly, though, the president has whisked away, and you can only hope that your swift actions may have helped save his life. When President McKinley was shot, the first bystander to bring down the gunman was an African-American waiter from Atlanta named James Parker. It was Parker's quick actions that prevented a third bullet from hitting the assassin's target.

McKinley remained conscious after he was shot and implored his security detail not to harm his assailant. So as Secret Service agents pulled Leon Cholgosh out of the music hall, shielding him from the wrath of the mob, some heard him say, I have done my duty.

Meanwhile, the president was rushed across the fairgrounds by ambulance to the exposition's hospital. But the half-dozen nurses there were only prepared for treating minor issues like skinned knees or heat exhaustion. They were not ready to deal with such a serious situation as a gunshot. The man best suited to treating McKinley was Dr. Roswell Park, a professor of surgery at the University of Buffalo Medical School and an expert in gunshot wounds.

But he was out of town performing lymph node surgery at a hospital in Niagara Falls, 20 miles away. With time of the essence, aides scoured the fairgrounds and surrounding area looking for a surgeon.

One of the doctors who responded to the call was Matthew D. Mann, a highly respected doctor on staff at the University of Buffalo. Despite his expertise in gynecology, Mann was considered the most qualified to conduct the dangerous procedure of treating the gunshot wounds. But Dr. Mann would have to perform surgery on the president under less than ideal conditions.

The hospital did not have adequate surgical tools, and despite every building at the exposition being wired for electricity, the hospital's operating room was not. An assistant had to rig a mirror near a window to reflect enough sunlight onto the wound for the doctor to see what he was doing.

And once he could, Dr. Mann saw that McKinley had been shot twice, but soon realized that one bullet had deflected harmlessly off a button on his coat. The second one, though, had entered five inches under his left pectoral muscle, ripping through his stomach. Dr. Mann did his best to trace the bullet's path, but was unsuccessful in finding it.

He saw a little hemorrhaging, though, and assumed that the bullet had passed through McKinley's stomach and lodged in a back muscle where it could safely rest with no harm to the president. Believing there was nothing further he could do under such conditions, Dr. Mann sutured McKinley's stomach wounds and cleaned out his organs with a saline solution to prevent infection.

Dr. Park arrived from Niagara Falls just as the president's surgery was completed and concurred with Dr. Mann's course of treatment. The doctors sent McKinley to recuperate at the Buffalo home of John Milburn, a prominent local attorney and the Pan American Exposition's president. The doctors assured those in McKinley's circle that he would make a full recovery, but their optimism was misguided. The president's condition would soon take a turn for the worse, and as his assailant sat in a Buffalo jail cell,

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Immediately after being subdued, Leon Cholgosh was brought to a nearby police station for questioning. As a bloodthirsty crowd gathered outside, Cholgosh identified himself as Fred Nieman and calmly laid out his motivations by stating, I am an anarchist. I am a disciple of Emma Goldman. Her words set me on fire. I don't regret my act because I was doing what I could for the great cause.

The day after the shooting, on the morning of September 7, 1901, Emma Goldman was in St. Louis selling stationery to local businesses, one of the many ways she subsidized her income from speaking engagements. She was on the verge of making a large sale when she glanced down at the front page of a newspaper lying on a desk in the shop. Shaken by the photograph on the front page, she quickly completed the transaction and rushed to a nearby newsstand.

She had heard of McKinley's shooting by a man named Leon Cholgosh the evening before, but not recognizing the name, she paid the news no mind. It wasn't until she saw the man's picture in the morning's paper that she realized it was Fred Neiman, the same man who had accosted her in Chicago two months earlier. As Goldman read the news stories, she was appalled to learn that Neiman, or Cholgosh, claimed that he had shot the president after being inspired by her anarchist rhetoric.

Authorities reacted quickly to Chulgash's claims of anarchist ties. In the days following the assassination attempt, anarchist figures across the country were rounded up by police. Prominent figures within the movement distanced themselves from their own rhetoric and denied Chulgash was part of their cause, but their protests did them little good. Goldman herself was arrested while attempting to negotiate an exclusive interview with the Chicago Tribune.

Her bail was set at $20,000, over $700,000 in today's dollars. Chicago police held and interrogated her for two weeks until the case was dropped for lack of evidence. Meanwhile, in Buffalo, New York, the president rested comfortably at the Milburn house. Color returned to McKinley's cheeks, and his abdominal pain was easily treated with small amounts of morphine. He was even able to hold down some solid food and drink coffee.

Dr. Park told the New York Times that McKinley's health was first-rate and expressed confidence in his recovery. Friends and staff members were comforted enough by this assurance to return home without concern. Vice President Roosevelt, who had rushed to the president's side, went back to a family vacation in the Adirondack Mountains.

But in the days that followed, McKinley's condition suddenly worsened. He stopped being able to digest food and suffered from a high fever and fatigue. His doctors determined that gangrene had set in around the walls of his stomach where the bullet had pierced it. As the infection spread, the president went in and out of consciousness. A messenger was sent to bring staff and loved ones back to Buffalo to prepare for the worst. Imagine it's the evening of September 13th, 1901.

You're placing a log onto the wood-fire stove of a small mountain cabin in the Adirondacks. You can hear your boys, Archie and Quentin, coughing upstairs in bed. This inhospitable weather soaked through their clothes on a long hike with their father, so you're hanging their shirts and socks on a line over the stove to dry them, and hoping their coughs don't get worse.

As you set a kettle on the stove for tea, you hear your husband's footsteps coming down the stairs. "'I put some tea on.' "'Oh, thank you, dear. How are the boys?' "'It's a bit of a cough. Hot to the touch. But they're not in the worst for wear. I don't like having to handle two sick children while you're away.' "'I'm not going away. The hunting club offered a cottage for the rest of the week. We'll all stay together. But the message you received—' "'You need to be by the President's side.'

No, I've just been with him. The doctor sent us away with the greatest of confidence. He's going to pull through. But that was three days ago. Sounds like he's taken a turn for the worse. They wouldn't have sent a park ranger out in the rain to find you if it weren't serious. Well, he may have taken a turn, but I'm certain the president is receiving the greatest medical care a man could have. He's surrounded by friends and family, and I'm not needed there. Besides, if I rush back to Buffalo, I'll come across all sorts of buzzards.

You move to the stove and pull the kettle from the flame. I still think it's your duty to be by the president's side. No one would question your motives. If they truly need me, they'll call on me again. Oh, for goodness sake, who could that be at this hour? At the front door, you hear your husband exchange a few short words with a male voice. A cold, damp wind blows through the house, sending a chill up your spine.

And when the door closes, you turn to see your husband staring at another telegram, incredulously. Well, what is it? It seems I have to go to Buffalo. You set down the kettle and rush to your husband's side. You take the telegram from his hands and read it for yourself. It's worse than you thought. The question is not now if your husband should return to Buffalo, but how fast can he get there?

By 6 p.m. on September 13th, doctors had given up hope that William McKinley could be saved. A messenger was sent to the cottage where Theodore Roosevelt was vacationing with his family to deliver the news. Roosevelt was instructed to return to Buffalo immediately, with the expectation that there would be an imminent transfer of power. It took two carriage rides and a private train for Roosevelt to make it back to Buffalo.

And upon his arrival at the station at dawn, Roosevelt received the news that the president had died of a blood infection at 2.15 a.m., a little less than eight days after being shot. McKinley passed away with his wife Ida at his side.

Theodore Roosevelt took the oath of office on the afternoon of September 14th, wearing a borrowed top hat. The new president stated solemnly, I will take the oath, and in this hour of deep and terrible national bereavement, I wish to state it shall be my aim to continue, absolutely without variance, the policy of President McKinley for the peace and honor of our beloved country. McKinley was the third president to die by an assassin's bullet in just 36 years.

As the nation mourned his loss, his killer faced swift justice. On September 26, 1901, following a three-day trial, Leon Cholgash was found guilty of murder in the first degree. The jury needed only 33 minutes to come to a unanimous verdict.

Although Cholgosh had remained silent throughout his trial, he expressed some remorse to reporters shortly after his sentencing, mostly for the pain he put Ida McKinley through. On the morning of October 29th, he was executed at Auburn Prison, home to New York's only electric chair. Before his death, witnesses heard him say, I killed the president for the good of the laboring people. I am not sorry for my crime, but I am sorry I can't see my father.

After Cholgash's death, many states banned the dissemination of anarchist writings, and Congress passed a law preventing anyone with known anarchist ties from entering the country. It was under a similar congressional law that Cholgash's muse Emma Goldman was deported to Russia in 1919.

So Chogosh's act not only accelerated the downfall of the movement he killed for, but also placed a man with a very different outlook in the White House. Despite his assurances that he would continue McKinley's policies, Roosevelt quickly forged his own path, both at home and abroad.

Under Roosevelt, the executive branch became more aggressive than under any president before him. He took strong steps to regulate business and break up monopolies, enforcing existing but rarely exercised legislation like the Sherman Antitrust Act. He created the Food and Drug Administration to regulate food safety and expanded the national park system.

But it was the new president's foreign policy that differed most from his predecessor. Though McKinley had presided over the Spanish-American War, he preferred to expand America's interests overseas through treaties and other peaceful means. The belligerent Roosevelt instead operated under his famous maxim, speak softly and carry a big stick.

He would describe this ideology as the exercise of intelligent forethought and of decisive action sufficiently far in advance of any likely crisis. For Roosevelt, it was imperative to export American values overseas, and wherever persuasion and diplomacy failed, a robust military response would be at the ready, even without the consent of Congress.

Under Roosevelt, the U.S. expanded its naval fleet to be among the largest in the world. He also expanded America's sphere of influence. According to Roosevelt, any perceived wrongdoing by a Latin American country's government could be deemed hostile to the United States and worthy of military intervention. Roosevelt explicitly turned the U.S. military into what he called an international police power, a role his successors would expand even further over the next century.

William McKinley's four and a half years as President of the United States would soon be considered a footnote in American history, overshadowed by the near-mythical legacy of his successor. Leon Cholgash's bullets may have hit their target, but the self-proclaimed anarchist had no idea that with his single act of violence, he would accelerate America's transformation into a global superpower.

On the next episode, when an assassin's bullet takes the life of the nation's youngest elected president, John F. Kennedy, it sets off a controversial investigation into who was really behind the killing and a fierce power struggle to secure the martyred president's legacy.

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 Bach. Sound design by Derek Behrens. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Jamie Robledo, edited by Dorian Marina. Produced by Alida Rozansky. Our managing producers are Tanja Thigpen and Matt Gant. Our senior producer is Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marshall Louis for Wondery.

Richard Bandler revolutionized the world of self-help all thanks to an approach he developed called neurolinguistic programming. Even though NLP worked for some, its methods have been criticized for being dangerous in the wrong hands.

Throw in Richard's dark past as a cocaine addict and murder suspect, and you can't help but wonder what his true intentions were. I'm Sachi Cole. And I'm Sarah Hagee. And we're the hosts of Scamfluencers, a weekly podcast from Wondery that takes you along the twists and turns of the most infamous scams of all time, the impact on victims, and the

and what's left once the facade falls away. We recently dove into the story of the godfather of modern mental manipulation, Richard Bandler, whose methods inspired some of the most toxic and criminal self-help movements of the last two decades. Follow Scamfluencers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Scamfluencers and more Exhibit C true crime shows like Morbid and Kill List early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery+.

Check out Exhibit C in the Wondery app for all your true crime listening.