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Chapter 22: Albany
Roosevelt's voice echoed in Leo’s mind, tinged with a trace of unsurprised amusement.
"A very standard political maneuver, child. If they can’t defeat you on the battlefield, they invite you into their banquet hall. Then they drown you in the swamp of bureaucracy with generous salaries, excellent benefits, and endless, meaningless paperwork."
"By the time you wake up one day, you’ll realize you’ve forgotten why you started fighting in the first place because you’ve become one of them."
Leo felt a shiver run down his spine.
What Roosevelt described was the trap he had almost stepped into.
"So, I should call him immediately and firmly reject the job offer?" Leo asked.
"No," Roosevelt replied, surprising him. "Direct rejection is the behavior of cowards and fools. It would only make you look like a naive idealist who knows nothing but shouting slogans."
"A true politician never lets an opportunity go to waste. You must learn to turn the poison they hand you into nourishment for yourself."
"You must learn to use their system, transforming their carefully laid trap into the first step on our ladder to the pinnacle of power."
Leo felt confused.
"I don’t understand."
"Then let me teach you this first lesson in politics using my own story."
As Roosevelt’s voice faded, the image of Leo’s apartment vanished instantly.
Once again, he was pulled into that familiar vortex of consciousness.
After a brief sensation of weightlessness, Leo’s awareness refocused.
He found himself standing in the vast, dimly lit hall of an imposing building.
Light struggled to filter through high arched windows, casting dappled shadows on the floor.
The air carried a thick, complex aroma—a blend of fine cigar smoke, damp wool coats, and aged whiskey wafting from some distant room.
This smell was the scent of power itself.
Towering marble columns supported the domed ceiling, their shadows deepening the hall’s cavernous atmosphere.
Well-dressed men gathered in small clusters beneath the gloom. They moved briskly, their polished shoes clicking against the marble floor, exchanging hushed whispers and knowing glances.
This was the New York State Capitol, a hunting ground constructed from legal texts and secret deals.
Leo’s perspective quickly locked onto a young man who stood out starkly against the surroundings.
He was tall, over six feet, with an upright posture—no beer belly or slight stoop like the older politicians.
He wore a well-tailored tweed jacket, a bow tie around his neck, and held a long ivory cigarette holder between his lips.
His gait was light and confident, his face bearing the hallmark expression of someone freshly graduated from Harvard: a mix of naivety and arrogance unique to the elite class.
Leo recognized him.
It was Franklin Delano Roosevelt, 28 years old.
A newly minted state senator from the Hudson Valley estate, stepping into the political arena for the first time.
At this moment, he could still walk steadily on his own two legs.
"My first step was to enter the system and build a reputation."
Roosevelt’s resonant voice-over echoed in Leo’s mind.
"At that time, the New York State Legislature was a Republican club. Meanwhile, our Democratic Party was firmly controlled by a massive corrupt machine called Tammany Hall."
"It was a sprawling network of Irish-American politicians whose influence stretched from the foremen counting votes at New York City docks all the way to the Speaker’s office in the state legislature. Everyone answered to their boss, a man named Charles Murphy."
Leo’s perspective followed the young Roosevelt as he walked down a long corridor.
Portraits of past governors lined the walls.
Roosevelt pushed open a heavy oak door and entered a smoke-filled caucus room.
The room was packed with people, most of them older men.
They were overweight, their faces flushed from alcohol and rich food.
Their voices boomed, punctuated by bursts of coarse laughter. Their every move exuded the slickness and brashness characteristic of seasoned politicians.
These were the men of Tammany Hall.
At the head of the room sat a man who seemed entirely out of place.
He too was overweight, his face expressionless, his eyes cold and calculating.
This was Charles Murphy, the absolute dictator of Tammany Hall, known as "Silent Charlie."
He rarely spoke, sitting quietly while observing everyone in the room with his small, piercing eyes.
But everyone knew that a single glance from him could determine whether a politician’s career would continue—or end.
At this moment, his icy gaze was fixed on the audacious young man—Roosevelt.
There was only one agenda for this meeting.
To select a Democratic candidate to represent New York State in the U.S. Senate.
Tammany Hall had already decided on their man.
William Sheehan, a banker with close ties to Wall Street.
This meeting was merely a formality.
A ritual to display Boss Murphy’s authority.
Just as Murphy was about to announce the result, the young Roosevelt stood up.
He cleared his throat, his crisp voice cutting sharply through the room.
He delivered a passionate speech.
He invoked the principles of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, denouncing Tammany Hall’s backroom politics and money-driven deals.
He called for the restoration of democratic procedures within the party, demanding an open, transparent election free from manipulation.
The more he spoke, the louder the jeers grew in the room.
The old politicians exchanged disdainful looks.
They watched this inexperienced aristocrat as if he were a lamb that had just wandered into a slaughterhouse, unaware of its fate.
When Roosevelt concluded his impassioned speech, the room fell into a brief silence.
Then came an even louder, unapologetic burst of laughter.
Charles Murphy didn’t even bother to look at him.
He simply leaned over to his most trusted lieutenant, Senator Tim Sullivan, and whispered:
"The children have had their fun. Let’s start the vote."
The outcome was predictable.
Tammany Hall’s candidate, Sheehan, won by a landslide.
Roosevelt and the handful of reform-minded new legislators who dared to support him were utterly defeated.
"In the vote, we undoubtedly lost," Roosevelt’s voice-over returned, devoid of any hint of disappointment.
"But I gained something far more valuable than a ballot."
The heavy oak door of the meeting room swung open.
Outside, reporters from New York’s major newspapers crowded the hallway.
They ignored the triumphant banker, Sheehan, basking in his victory.
Instead, they pointed all their cameras, flashbulbs, and microphones at the young man who had just suffered a crushing defeat—Roosevelt.
"Mr. Roosevelt, what’s your next move?" one reporter shouted.
"How long do you think Tammany Hall’s reign over the Democratic Party will last?" another pressed.
Roosevelt adjusted his bow tie, his expression weary but his eyes bright.
Facing the cameras, he smiled.
"Gentlemen, this is only the first round. The fight has just begun."
The next day.
Every front page of New York’s newspapers carried the same headline.
A young senator of noble birth and promising future had openly launched a suicidal charge against the corrupt behemoth that had ruled New York politics for decades—Tammany Hall.
He was branded with a label.
A label that would follow him throughout his life and ultimately propel him to the peak of power.
—Reformer.
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