In Miami Beach Auditorium one day last week, a band bugled out a rousing version of When the Saints Go Marching In, and in marched nearly 2,000 delegates to the quinquennial convention of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters, as unsaintly a crew as U.S. labor has to offer. They were there to elector rather, ratify a president. The man they wanted was a man they loved: James Riddle Hoffa, 44, pal of gangsters, target of national scorn and innumerable investigations, soon to appear in New York to defend himself on charges of...
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