Even with the years weighing on him, Hoffa's voice cut through the hall like a jagged blade, amplified by the speakers without losing an ounce of its grit. In that moment, the simmering tension between the Black and white workers hit a standstill. Every head turned toward the platform—toward Hoffa, and the defaced portrait behind him, smeared beyond recognition.
Hoffa scanned the sea of faces. He saw the ghosts of the past—men who had stood on the picket lines with him for decades.
"Look at me!" he roared. "A lot of you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me during the strikes. Do you remember when the cops opened fire? Do you remember the sound of batons cracking ribs?! How many of our brothers carried those scars home?"
"Did I hide in some air-conditioned office like a coward? No—I was at the front of the line. I took the hits. My skin is as marked as yours!"
Hoffa yanked up his sleeves, exposing the jagged white lines of old scar tissue.
"These? I got these from company goons while I was fighting for the wages of my Black drivers! And today, you've got the nerve to tell me I betrayed the working man?"
"I, Jimmy Hoffa, have done a lot of things I'm not proud of—but I have never turned my back on this union, and I have never turned my back on you!"
A heavy silence fell. The veteran drivers felt the weight of it. They remembered the early days when the Teamsters were small—just a few thousand men barely holding on against the corporate machines. It had been a white man's game back then, but eventually, the goal became universal: dignity. The right to look a boss in the eye and negotiate from a position of power. To make them realize that without the men behind the wheel, the country stops. Everything rots in the warehouse. The American lifeline snaps.
Capital couldn't break a united front. And Hoffa had built that front. Under him, truck driving wasn't just a job; it was a respected profession. The union had swelled into the millions. As an organization, no outfit in the United States—legal or otherwise—could touch them.
"And now," Hoffa's voice dropped to a growl, "they want to split us up. They call me a racist? Open your eyes and look at the books!"
"Black drivers in Detroit have more pension equity in union accounts than the white drivers do! Your real enemy isn't me—it's the low-life hijackers and the gangs robbing our rigs! They're the reason you're losing work, and I'm just the scapegoat!"
The mention of the gangs struck a nerve. The crowd shifted, the recent court verdict still fresh and burning like salt in a wound. Hoffa took a deep breath.
"Brothers! I get the anger—I truly do. But a federal judge and a jury handed down that verdict. That's the law. If we start rioting every time we get a bad hand, how are we any different from the thugs we're fighting?"
The room erupted.
"The whole jury was white!" someone screamed. "The judge was in somebody's pocket!" "It's a sham! You're just backing the cops who kill our people!"
The chaos spiraled. A bottle shattered against the stage. Hoffa wiped a stain from his lapel, his voice remaining low and steady.
"Why would I back a killer? Listen to me—I don't care about Philip Krauss as a man. I care about the badge. I care about the system that's supposed to protect people like us. I care about the law that keeps our drivers from getting executed on the highway!"
"Don't forget—just a few years ago, a Black brother was gunned down by a crew. Where were the protests then? The Detroit gangs are stripping our trucks and kill our brother. Why aren't you taking the fight to them?"
That silenced a few. Everyone knew the score. Detroit was a war zone. No white driver entered the East Side without heat under the seat. And the gangs? They didn't discriminate. They robbed their own neighbors.
Hoffa sighed. "We fought for decades to build this order. I'm asking you to keep your heads. Conspiracy theories won't save your jobs. We built this city—we didn't build it just to watch it burn."
"The verdict is a lie!" a young man shouted, hurling a wooden stave at the stage.
Hoffa let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Back when we occupied the Ford plants, we shouted about injustice too. We threw things at the bosses, too."
"But look at where we are. Over half the Black men in this union are drivers. The union clinic delivered hundreds of Black babies last year. Did the feds give you that? Did the cops? No—we took it at the negotiating table!"
A sneer came from the back. "Using our pensions to fund the police? To buy the bullets they use on us?"
"That money was to take down the crews that don't play by the rules!" Hoffa snapped, his legendary temper finally flaring. "Go check the ledgers! The union hasn't touched a dime of your money. Millions in insurance and pensions went to Black families last year—every cent of it earned!"
"And I didn't fund Roth's defense! That was the businessmen! I'm the one who's been stopping them from dipping into our brothers' pockets!"
"Then why were you there?" a man challenged. "We saw you shake his hand!"
Hoffa stared at him, a sudden wave of exhaustion hitting him. Did they not see the game?
"Because I have to keep my enemies close," Hoffa said, his voice dropping. "I watch those bastards while they sit on their yachts plotting how to crush the labor movement. You think Roth won that case in a courtroom? No—he won it on the streets of the East Side. How many people die in gang crossfire there every year? Who's going to testify? There are no witnesses, no evidence. What do you expect a jury to do with that?"
"Stop blaming me. Everything I've done... I did for the union."
In the wings, reporters scrambled.
"You buying it?" one whispered. The photographer didn't look up. "No comment. But when he was up for fraud years ago... he sounded just as smooth."
On stage, Hoffa pressed on. "Look at Detroit. Three lines shut down in six months. Families on the street. Unemployment on the East Side is over 50%! Because of the chaos, we've lost 30% of our contracts!"
He held up three fingers. "Three hundred million dollars gone next quarter. Do you know what that means for your kids? You want a union paycheck, or do you want the gangs feeding your family with drug money?"
"We want justice—not bread!" a voice cried out.
Hoffa's head throbbed. "Riots don't end in justice! They end in ruins!" He leaped off the stage, storming toward a young man in the front. "Are you even a member? Listen!"
He grabbed the kid's shoulder. "The suits would love for you to burn this place down. It gives them an excuse to move the jobs out of the city for good. You want that layoff list to become real?"
The crowd surged forward. "Are you threatening us?"
A man stepped into Hoffa's space, lifting his shirt to reveal a Glock tucked into his waistband.
"A threat?" Hoffa didn't flinch. "You think I'm scared of that? That piece—is it for me? Or is it for the scabs? It should be pointed at the dealers and the politicians. And you bring it here? To the hall?"
"We didn't destroy this place," the man growled, shoving past the guards. "The system did!"
Hoffa looked at them and realized the gap was too wide. Then, a horrific crackle came from the overhead speakers. A different voice—pre-recorded, hateful—began to blar:
"When they kill a cop, nobody says a word! But when a cop does his job, they burn the city!""The verdict was right! Detroit would be a hell of a lot quieter if certain people just disappeared!"
Hoffa's eyes went wide. "Turn it off! Cut the power!"
But the speakers kept screaming. It was a setup.
"This is what Hoffa really thinks!" someone yelled. "He's been playing us!"
"No! That's not me!" Hoffa screamed over the din. "It's a frame-up!"
BANG!
A gunshot echoed through the hall. A bullet grazed Hoffa's shoulder, blood spraying onto his white shirt.
The speakers reached a deafening roar: "Killing a man like that isn't a crime!"
That was the spark. The mob surged. The young man with the pistol stepped out of the crowd, eyes cold and focused.
"Your turn, Jimmy. Time to pay the tab."
BANG!
The bullet caught Hoffa square in the forehead.
His head snapped back. For a split second, time slowed. His eyes drifted upward to the Teamsters emblem hanging from the rafters. Unity is Strength.
His body hit the floor. The hall descended into total madness. White drivers screamed; Black protesters roared.
The speakers were still glitching, blaring distorted nonsense about bribes and pensions. In the haze of his final moments, Hoffa saw a figure standing by the exit.
Frank Sheeran ... The Irishman.
Their eyes locked across the blood and smoke. There was no surprise, only a cold, final understanding. Where the Painter stood, the floor was always being prepped for a new coat of red.
This wasn't a riot. It was a hit. The mob, the anger, the speakers—it was all just theater for an execution. Hoffa had thought he was too big to kill. He had been wrong.
He died in the very hall where he had taken his oath, at the hands of the people he claimed to lead.
The union had risen because of him. And now, it would bleed out with him.
A dove fluttered through a broken window, landing on a nearby rafter. It cooed, a soft, peaceful sound amidst the screaming.
Hoffa looked at it one last time—and let go.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on P Site/OrbisTranslate. Access 15 advanced chapters for just $3.
Additionally, I will release two bonus chapters for every 100 Stones received.