For all his faults, Frank Collin was a man of action.
Born to a Jewish father and Catholic mother in 1944, Collin grew up in Chicago and came of age during the 1960s.
His father, Max Simon Collin, survived internment at Dachau, a Nazi labor camp in southern Germany. After liberation from Dachau, Max resettled in the U.S. and anglicized the family surname — given as Cohen — to Collin. When asked about his son, Frank, in the years leading up to and following Frank’s incarceration, Max was too ashamed to speak about his “Nazi kid,” known instead for dropping his head and ducking conversation.
Frank Collin’s rise to prominence as a neo-Nazi in Chicago began in his early 20s, when he concealed his Jewish lineage and enlisted with the National Socialist White People’s Party — also known as the American Nazi Party.
Perhaps growing up in Chicago, one of the nation’s most segregated cities during the 1960s, fostered and shaped Collin’s militant racism, but the true motives of a Jew-cum-Nazi are any layman’s guess. Collin quickly ascended Party ranks and his diligent efforts weren’t lost on George Lincoln Rockwell, the Party’s founding member.
Just before Rockwell’s death in 1967 — when he was gunned down by a disaffected member of his own Party — he appointed Collin as the Party’s Midwest Coordinator. As abrupt as Rockwell’s murder, so too, was Collin’s falling out with Rockwell’s named successor, Matt Koehl, when the Party uncovered that Frank was, in fact, born to a Jewish father who’d survived the Holocaust. Ever a man on the move, Collin responded by breaking from the American Nazi Party and publicly denying his Judaism.
In 1970, he formed and subsequently declared himself as President of the National Socialist Party of America. At the time, Collin was able to corral only twenty or so co-members, who were summarily dismissed as misfits by the Chicago community where they took up headquarters. That is, until he took action.
Through the early 1970s, Collin made his name by sustained, dedicated confrontation and intimidation. He became a local nuisance on Chicago’s south side by holding Nazi gatherings at Marquette Park and in other neighborhoods, where he went to great lengths to intimidate those demonstrators who spoke out against the group’s message.
One group was not so easily intimidated. Led by Buzz Alpert, the Jewish Defense League regularly brawled with the NSPA during the group’s early marches in the 1970s. When asked during a television interview about the JDL’s chosen strategy in and around Marquette Park, Alpert replied: “If we went to Europe and we raised the souls of all the dead . . . all those who died at the hands of the Nazis . . . and we said to them, ‘This time we’ll give you a chance, will you resist?’ The answer, I’m sure, would be, ‘Yes’.”
In the 1970s, Marquette Park was a nearly all-white neighborhood, cordoned off to the east by Western Avenue. Beyond Western Avenue, a commercial strip lined by taverns and used-car lots, lies West Englewood, a neighborhood that was as black as Marquette Park was white.
Marquette Park had played host to public demonstrations in the past — Martin Luther King, Jr. spoke there in 1966. Of the crowd that greeted him, Dr. King, Jr. said: “I’ve been in many demonstrations all across the South, but I can say that I have never seen — even in Mississippi and Alabama — mobs as hostile or as hate-filled as I’ve seen here in Chicago.”
A decade later, the streets of Englewood raged on. One day, in 1976, a group of demonstrators turned out from the mostly black community, gathering along the curbs of Western Avenue. They carried signs decrying on explicit terms, what they perceived as the racist and bigoted message of Frank Collin’s NSPA. When the demonstrators crossed Western Avenue and marched within blocks of Marquette Park, Collin raised a fit, publicly renouncing the group’s efforts as a “black invasion.” Only days later, Collin applied for a permit to hold a Nazi rally in Marquette Park and publicly announced his plans for a retaliatory “invasion” of his own.
With his application pending, Collin took his message to the streets, though the community didn’t take kindly to him. In the public brawls that inevitably broke loose, Collin, a pudgy man with short arms and small, feeble hands, took a beating. Undeterred, Collin paraded his bloody face in front of reporters and news cameras, boasting a swastika and proclaiming his intentions to resurrect the Nazi death camps along Western Avenue.
The Chicago Park District ultimately denied Collin’s permit requests and went on to impose another obstacle — a “parade insurance” bond of $250,000 as liability insurance to be put up as a condition for securing a permit. Collin may have claimed to be a Nazi but his blood wasn’t that rich. In appearance, the man was more akin to the millions of gypsies who, alongside the Jews, were herded into gas chambers by Nazi officers during World War II.
Stonewalled in Chicago, Collin knew that his momentum was fading. He needed a new platform. He turned his attention north. On NSPA letterhead, he sent a flurry of solicitation letters to Chicago’s north suburbs, requesting a permit to hold a Nazi demonstration. Of the twelve park districts that received letters, Skokie was the only one to respond. The NSPA received a resounding and unequivocal, “No!”
Meanwhile, at NSPA headquarters, Collin read Skokie’s reply and saw nothing but opportunity. In Collin’s own words, his choice of Skokie was “calculated,” and designed to exploit a peculiar aspect of this leafy community in Chicago’s north suburbs. As far back as 1850, Skokie was a small Illinois town, home to a village of German immigrants. The town, called Niles Center in those early years, saw an occasional march or gathering in the name of the German Nazi Party. Once the U.S. entered World War II in 1941, any remains of the Nazi Party had been scrubbed from the suburban enclave. By 1977, Skokie was home to 70,000 residents. Of those, 40,000 were Jewish. By some accounts, 7,000 survivors of Nazi internment camps called Skokie, “Home.” With affordable housing and relative proximity to downtown Chicago, Jews migrated in droves from Chicago’s city center to Skokie. Over time, the town came to represent a Midwestern slice of the Jewish American Dream. Peace and tranquility. Pastrami and smoked fish. Delicatessen and synagogues. Good schools. A community to call their own.
Few people in Skokie had heard of Frank Collin before he came knocking at the Park District office requesting a demonstration permit. From the moment Collin applied to march on Skokie, there was a strong contingent of community leaders who believed that the best way to deal with Collin’s antics was to allow him to march, ignore his message, and get the whole thing behind them as quickly as possible.
Local rabbis were particularly vocal, convinced that it was best to stay quiet, to stay out of it. Let Collin and his misfits yell and scream and march in an empty hallway. Then, let them take their yelling somewhere else.
But something unexpected happened.
One by one, then all at once, Holocaust survivors living in Skokie spoke out, enraged at the prospect of Nazi demonstrators marching in their quiet, suburban streets. When the initial turmoil of their outrage settled, what emerged was an outpouring of stories from a community still deeply wounded.
Their tales were graphic and harrowing, as death camp survivor stories tend to be. One resident recounted how his sister had been sent to a death camp east of Warsaw, called Treblinka. Unlike other labor camps across Nazi Germany, death camps had one purpose only: whole-sale extermination. To prevent those sent there from uncovering its true nature, the Nazis camouflaged the camp so as to give the impression of a temporary stay-over before deportation further east. Treblinka was complete with fake train schedules and Potemkin ticket offices. On arrival to Treblinka, prisoners would be chased into a large sorting room, stripped naked, and shaved before being marched into a shower outfitted as a lethal gas chamber.
A local attorney, Sol Goldstein, also spoke out. He told a story about how, while being herded into Jewish ghettos in his native Lithuania, his daughter had tripped out of a sorting line and was swarmed by uniformed Nazi officers. Sol rushed to her aid, climbing along a barbed wire fence, but was unable to reach her in time. Sol lost his daughter to the Nazis that day, but he carried the scars from the barbed wire fence on his back and chest for the rest of his life.
As their stories surfaced, a consistent theme emerged. The Jews of Skokie believed that Adolf Hitler and his Nazi Party had been underestimated during their early rise to power, dismissed the same way the community was now trying to dismiss Frank Collin and the NSPA. Holocaust survivors living in Skokie spoke with one voice: “Never again, never forget.”
Support for Skokie’s Holocaust survivors and their families poured in, and members of the community began to organize their efforts and their message. Community religious leaders — Jewish, Catholic and Protestant alike — joined in a public statement, reprinted by the local newspaper and roundly condemning the symbols and regalia of the Nazi Party: “To the survivors of the concentration camps that very thought of brown shirts and swastikas on the streets of their community stirs up the memories of loved ones being driven to torture and destruction before their eyes . . . These symbols loosen an elemental force in them which can sweep away the years of healing and renewal of hope.”
Skokie’s Mayor, Albert Smith, responded by meeting with local religious leaders, who he asked to inform their own congregations about the possibility of a local Nazi rally and provide assurance that the Mayor’s Office had plans in place to keep the event “quiet and under control.”
As brazen as ever, Collin ordered the NSPA to print flyers and distribute them en masse around town. The flyer announced a march planned in Skokie for May 1, 1977 (May Day) during which the NSPA would demonstrate in brown military uniforms brandishing swastikas.
A declaration appeared at the top of the flyer in bold, capital letters:
WE ARE COMING!
The header was adorned by a large swastika.
The flyer went on to explain that the Chicago Park District, by denying Collin’s request for a permit to demonstrate in Marquette Park, had “enforced what amounts to a complete ban of our free speech in public.”
In response, the flyer stated the NSPA’s intentions to “relocate in areas heavily populated by the real enemy — the Jews!”
Skokie residents read the flyer as:
[NAZIS] ARE COMING!
Skokie fired back, a shot across the bow.
Town attorney, Harvey Schwartz, took up the case and filed suit in Cook County on April 28, 1977, just forty-eight hours before the NSPA’s May Day March. The lawsuit was straightforward enough: “By reason of the ethnic and religious composition of the Village of Skokie . . . the public display of the swastika in connection with the proposed activities of the NSPA constitutes a symbolic assault against large numbers of residents.”
Schwartz also cited a campaign of harassing phone calls from the NSPA to Skokie residents and how, if the march were permitted, it would be “an incitation to violence and retaliation.” Attorneys for Frank Collin responded by defending his permit application, citing concerns that Skokie’s denial of a demonstration permit would amount to a violation of the NSPA’s freedoms of speech and assembly.
On April 29, Judge Joseph Wosik ordered that Frank Collin and the NSPA be banned from marching on May Day, 1977. Responding to the court’s order, Collin changed the date of his rally from May 1 to April 30. When he heard the news, Harvey Schwartz rushed to Judge Harold Sullivan’s home in Skokie, showing up just after midnight on the morning of April 30. Schwartz secured an emergency injunction on the spot by imploring Judge Sullivan to broaden the original order to include all dates, not just May 1. With the order in hand, local police intercepted Collin and thirty NSPA members en route to Skokie’s Village Hall on the morning of the march.
Meanwhile, a crowd gathered in Skokie for a counter-demonstration at Village Hall. A sense of awe swept through the crowd, which eventually elevated to cheers when organizers announced that the NSPA’s efforts had been stymied.
With an eye toward tightening the screws on Collin, Skokie’s village council passed three new town ordinances, broadly worded by design, and meant to preclude anyone from marching in the name of “criminality, depravity, racial hatred, and other hostilities.” The ordinances also banned demonstrations by civilians wearing military style uniforms and outlawed distribution of literature promoting racial hatred.
Frank Collin, however, was indefatigable.
In fact, the court’s order and new ordinances seemed to confirm for Collin that Skokie was ripe for further confrontation and intimidation, even if only in the name of creating a stir so that Chicago might be coaxed into granting the NSPA a permit to demonstrate in Marquette Park. Of the Jews in Skokie, Collin was quoted: “I used the hysteria of the Jewish community in Skokie especially to propel the issue of First Amendment rights for the National Socialists and people who speak up for the white people.”
He emphasized the words “used” and “hysteria” with a drawn out pronunciation. His gummy lips and waxy face contorted to form the words in such a way as to nearly compel his bug-eye balls from their narrow sockets.
Collin backed his words with action, and decided to raise the stakes in court by filing a lawsuit of his own. He sued Skokie Mayor, Albert Smith, and the Village of Skokie, arguing that Skokie’s broadly worded town ordinances were a violation of the First Amendment.
In a strange twist, the American Civil Liberties Union entered the fray on Collin’s behalf, joining in a concerted effort to have Skokie’s ordinances struck down by a federal judge. Bob Goldberger, a Jewish volunteer attorney at the ACLU, took up the case against Skokie. Goldberger also filed a separate appeal, challenging the original injunction issued with respect to Collin’s May Day march.
This appeal escalated to the U.S. Supreme Court. On June 14, 1977, a divided Court, by a vote of 5–4, ruled to lift the injunction.
Within twenty-four hours, Collin announced plans to rally in Skokie on July 4, which happened to coincide with the American Nazi Party Convention, planned for Chicago on the same day.
When Skokie residents called for a response, local attorney Sol Goldstein answered, filing another lawsuit: “This action is brought on behalf of Jewish residents of Skokie, Illinois, who are survivors of the campaign of racial extermination . . . carried on by Adolf Hitler and the . . . Nazis during World War II.” Goldstein, a Holocaust survivor himself, sued in order to permanently ban Nazis from marching in Skokie “while wearing or displaying Nazi insignia,” citing the “intentional infliction of emotional distress” foisted so forcefully on Skokie residents by the site of Nazi Party regalia.
Collin was stonewalled. As July 4 approached, he knew that the last lines of defense preventing him from taking to the steps of Skokie’s Village Hall were the three Skokie town ordinances banning marches in Nazi regalia. And with his lawsuit challenging the ordinances in legal limbo, Collin cancelled his July 4 march. On that day, the Jewish Defense League and other community organizers held a rally of their own at the Jewish Community Center in Skokie.
The incendiary founder of the JDL, Rabbi Meir Kahane spoke and didn’t mince his words: “What person has the right to demand freedom to end my freedom . . . to put me in an oven?” Rabbi Kahane advocated a zero-tolerance policy, saying, “We spit on the graves of 6 million Jews if we allow the Nazis to march.”
Other members of the Skokie community spoke out. A statement from local resident, Ben Green: “Our kids should understand that there is a great difference between the march of Martin Luther King, who marched for democracy and against racism and in favor of our Constitution and the march of the Nazi who want to spread racism and hatred and against our Constitution.”
During a meeting on June 28, 1977, attorneys at the ACLU advised Collin and the NSPA against further testing the Skokie ordinances. Perhaps it was better, they suggested, to let sleeping dogs lie.
Collin was steadfast but found himself opposed by Skokie attorneys at every turn. In the months that followed, a legal fandango ensued, replete with rulings, counter-rulings, injunctions, lifted injunctions, affirmances, reversals, stays and delays. There were appeals, negotiations, and offers. Time and money were lost to both sides.
The tides turned in favor of Collin and the NSPA when the Illinois Supreme Court ruled on January 27, 1978 that, in view of the U.S. Supreme Court’s decision to lift the original injunction, the NSPA was free to march pending the outcome of Collin’s federal lawsuit challenging the Skokie town ordinances. Then, on February 23, 1978, a federal Judge in Illinois ruled that Skokie’s village ordinances violated the First Amendment. As a result, the court ruled, the NSPA was free to march on the steps of Skokie’s Village Hall, swastikas and military fatigues intact.
The ruling sent a shiver through Skokie, which swelled into a regional frenzy. Letters of advice and support flooded into Mayor Albert Smith’s office from around the country, expressing outrage and urging action. The collective outrage came into focus: Jews in Skokie festered over the fact that they and their families were afforded no justice or day in court under Nazi Germany, and yet, Nazi America could march their streets, intimidating and bullying Jews under the cover of law.
In Skokie, Collin wanted to march on Adolf Hitler’s birthday, April 20, 1978. He spoke out publicly about his plans. His voice echoed through Skokie carrying the same timber and discordant cadence of the Führer himself. As if a deliberate tactic to further unsettle the community, Collin rescheduled the Skokie march again, this time for April 22, 1978, coinciding with the first day of the Passover holiday. Reference to the Jewish people’s enslavement and subsequent exodus from Egypt was not lost on anyone in Skokie, Jews or Gentiles alike.
The world converged on Chicago, where Skokie’s residents were galvanizing global support. There was even an interfaith, non-denominational service in Skokie where political groups and leaders from around the world showed up in solidarity and protest.
Skokie’s Holocaust survivors came to represent a symbol of resistance against systemic racism, a cause championed by the likes of Reverend Jesse Jackson, who delivered a message of his own that day: “Growing racial polarization is a threat to the nation, a threat to domestic tranquility.” He encouraged the town of Skokie to stand resolute, as would all those around the world who face persecution and prejudice.
Skokie residents responded with furor. In a last ditch effort, Skokie applied for and received a stay of the Passover protest so that they could redouble their efforts to appeal the federal Judge’s ruling to the 7th Circuit Court of Appeals. The ploy worked, if only as a temporary measure, leaving Collin no choice but to postpone the rally pending Skokie’s appeal.
Within a matter of weeks, the 7th Circuit affirmed, ruling that Skokie’s village ordinances were unconstitutional as written. On June 12, 1978, the U.S. Supreme Court declined judicial review, a decision that, in effect, confirmed that the Skokie ordinances would be struck down as a violation of the First Amendment. Collin and the NSPA had the green light. Backed by the ACLU, Skokie’s ordinances fell and the unshackled NSPA President stood at the blood-ready to march on Skokie.
On June 21, 1978, the city of Chicago finally relented. When a Chicago Judge overturned the city’s “parade insurance” requirement, the Chicago Park District granted Collin’s long-awaited permit to march on Marquette Park.
Collin responded during a television interview: “My enemy in all of this is not the people of Skokie.” According to Collin, had the Chicago Park District “given us our rights years ago, there would have never been none of this difficulty after all.” He added that the NSPA had plans to march on Marquette Park on June 24.
As the controversy swirled, the Department of Justice intervened, making available an alternative location for the Chicago march, citing concerns over security and policing in Marquette Park. The march was relocated to the John Kluczynski Federal Building Plaza in downtown Chicago.
The city’s tenor in the days leading up to the NSPA’s march in Chicago stoked a growing fear in Skokie that violence might beset their community if Collin were to make good on his intention to march on Village Hall. In preparation, Mayor Smith announced road and park closures, even calling in additional police officers.
The Illinois State Legislature tossed up a legal Hail Mary, introducing a number of eleventh-hour bills in the Illinois Senate that would address the NSPA march. When those bills withered and died in the Illinois House, Mayor Smith implored his incensed community, who were becoming more vocal about the absurdity of the situation.
With one crowd member at a town gathering in Skokie, Mayor Smith fielded this exchange:
“Is it necessary to use the taxpayers’ money to offer free protection [to the NSPA]?”
Mayor Smith responded that it’s the law to offer this protection.
A voice from the crowd replied, “Maybe after the parade, we should offer them a free steak dinner and thank them for what they’re doing.”
Smith replied with poise and directness, “That’s not the law.”
By this time, Collin and the NSPA had the law on their side and all the leverage they could hope for over the Chicago Park District. In fact, Chicago granted the NSPA a second demonstration permit for a march on Marquette Park to take place July 9, 1978.
Collin had nothing but green lights up Western Avenue and into the north suburbs. He also had the best of both worlds. He could demonstrate in Chicago on June 24 and then, the next day, march on Skokie.
For all his rhetoric about marching on Skokie, and for all the turmoil wrought on the town’s residents, Collin balked. After a two-year battle, he got cold feet, choosing to march in Chicago in lieu of Skokie.
With a small band of some thirty members, Collin’s choice makes sense in hindsight. March on Skokie and be faced with the prospect of hundreds of police officers and some 50,000 counter-demonstrators. There was even word that, once the routes had been announced, Jewish Defense League members rented apartments along the routes for the day of the march. The idea was that the JDL would position armed snipers in the apartment windows overlooking the Nazi demonstrators. Choose Chicago’s Federal Plaza instead, and Collin faced an open plaza and strong police barricades.
On June 23, Collin publicly cancelled plans to march on Skokie. Within hours, Skokie revoked his demonstration permit.
Led by their manic President, a sparse contingent of the NSPA descended on Chicago’s Federal Plaza on June 24, 1978. In total, only twenty nine self-proclaimed Nazis showed up to march. Meanwhile, more than 3,000 counter-demonstrators turned out, including members of the JDL and several other ethnic groups. Words were exchanged but few punches thrown.
Police largely kept a lid on the tension. One demonstrator, Rich Kaufman, interviewed by the Washington Post at the time, summed up the strength of the police presence that day: “I’ve been involved in civil rights demonstrations and peace demonstrations. The police never gave us the protection they’re giving these lunatics. When I marched with Martin Luther King in Marquette Park in 1967 [sic], the crowd was throwing bottles and rocks at us and there were no police.”
On July 9, twelve NSPA members showed up to march on Marquette Park. In contrast to the march in Chicago’s Loop, the NSPA march in Marquette Park was not so peaceful. Collin and his men were received by a crowd that numbered in the thousands. A mile away, police officers detained 2,000 protestors, preventing them from confronting those gathered to listen to Collin speak. Despite these precautions, 72 people were arrested.
Collin barely had time to get his thoughts together before being escorted out of the park by police amid a shelling of eggs, aluminum cans, and rocks. He spoke for less than five minutes. That was Collin’s final public speech as NSPA President.
In the months following his march on Marquette Park, Collin kept up his recruiting for new NSPA members. During one televised interview, he proudly described the nature of his efforts: “The kind of person I’m looking for now is a fanatic. I want people in the party who are willing to die for the Movement even though they may not be sure that we’re going to win tomorrow. If you’re not willing to kill, if you’re not willing to shoot someone for your ideals, then you don’t really believe in it.”
Just as his ascent into the national spotlight was abrupt, so too, was Frank Collin’s decline into obscurity and incarceration. Within a year of the Marquette Park march, the NSPA ousted him, not only from his post as President, but also from all activities and operations.
A year later, Collin was incarcerated for molesting at least one under-aged boy, possibly more.
Beginning in 1980, Frank Collin served three years of a seven-year sentence. Released on parole for good behavior, he changed his surname to Joseph and took to writing as a profession. He still writes as a “fringe historian,” taking up topics like the New Age zeitgeist and paganism.
Life really can be stranger than fiction.
Remarkably, the Skokie community ultimately succeeded in fending off Collin and the NSPA. In the end, Skokie never saw a Nazi march. Instead, the town saw an awakening to the troubled past of so many of its residents and their families.
When the dust settled, community leaders campaigned for reform so that Skokie might be educated to the lessons of the past. The Jews of Skokie acted on a united front, establishing the Holocaust Memorial Foundation in 1981. Their first order of business was a successful lobbying effort to mandate Holocaust education in all Illinois schools, a measure that passed into law in June 1989.
This has since become a widespread practice, but Illinois was the first state to reform its education system in this way.
The Foundation also dedicated a memorial in town and opened a small museum exhibit in 1989. That modest exhibit has since blossomed into a museum of the highest order, boasted as one of the finest Holocaust museums in the world.
At first blush, the total sum of this episode seems nothing more than chaos. Is there not anything to be learned? No lessons to be gleaned?
When Frank Collin first announced he would march on Skokie, many community leaders thought the best way to deal with his antics was to urge everyone to stay in their homes, draw the blinds, and once it was over, pretend it never happened.
But the community itself had other plans. Holocaust survivors like Erna Gans, who lost her parents and siblings to the Nazis, couldn’t stay quiet while such grave matters loomed: “All of a sudden I’m confronted by [the NSPA]. And they’re saying ‘6 million more!’ and that [the German Nazis] didn’t kill enough. And we are forgetting that they did kill 6 million Jews, but they also killed 6 million non-Jews. This is not a Jewish question and this is not a Holocaust survivors’ question. This is a human question.”
Decades after Collin was ousted from the NSPA, ACLU attorney Bob Goldberger still maintained that the case was a “no brainer,” that it was nothing more than a controversy about protecting the First Amendment. In his words, he took the case because the First Amendment protects an “unpopular speaker in a public place,” and to prohibit Collin from marching in Skokie would’ve been a violation of his right to free speech. In the words of David Hamlin, Illinois Director of the ACLU from 1974–1978, nobody in Chicago was going to take Collin’s case, and if the ACLU hadn’t stepped up, “the First Amendment would have been damaged for all time.”
According to the ACLU, free speech means guaranteeing the right to speak, even if you don’t agree with the message. The ACLU paid a price for this position with respect to the NSPA. In the years that the organization defended and furthered Frank Collin’s cause, the ACLU lost 30,000 staff members (15% of its total nationwide staff) and nearly $500,000 in funding.
But if Collin’s message depended on stoking confrontation with Skokie residents, if it depended on drumming up violence and conjuring images of genocide to do so, if it required thousands of uniformed police officers (paid by taxpayer money) and years in court to defend, if it took all that time and all those resources — can we really say that his speech was free?
Just as the cost of unqualified free speech played out in Chicago during the 1970s, so too is it playing out today in places like Charlottesville, Virginia and Berkeley, California. It plays out on the Internet every time President Donald Trump sends off a Tweet or Breitbart News posts an article. It plays out every time a neo-Nazi or white supremacy group is granted a permit to demonstrate.
Frank Collin was not the first of his kind, nor will he be the last. And people like him continue to enjoy a legal platform for their message in the United States every single day.
I only ask, at what cost?
— FIN —
