Sacco and Vanzetti were to typify a cause, Moore explained to a friend, adding, “In saving them we strengthen our muscles, develop our forces preparatory to the day when we save ourselves.” The more extreme anarchists of the Defense Committee were critical of such an attitude, feeling that Moore was more interested in building up the biggest labor case in history than in the fate of the men involved. This, too, was Rosina Sacco’s feeling from the first time she met Moore. Not interested in issues, she merely wanted her Nick back to resume their old family life, to see the new baby Ines, born four months after his arrest. Instinctively she distrusted the sparkle of the bohemian lawyer. Moore’s initial objective was to expand the case beyond the parochial limits of Norfolk County. With this in mind he worked up a number of sensational appeals, following the pattern customary both in American criminal cases and in charity drives. He wrote, he telegraphed, he traveled, he sent out assistants, volunteers, anyone whom he could persuade to lend a hand. His salary ($150 a week) never seemed to cover his expenses. He was lawyer, detective, fund-raiser, and propagandist combined. At their annual conventions the Amalgamated Clothing Workers and the American Federation of Teamsters found themselves demanding the release of Sacco and Vanzetti, although few of the delegates had ever heard their names before some official friendly to Moore introduced the resolution. If Moore sent word that there was a frame-up in the offing, his word was enough for the central labor unions in Boston, Chicago, Detroit, Worcester, Seattle, and Salem, just as it was for the United Mine Workers, the Minnesota State Federation of Labor, and dozens of other organizations Moore had known or assisted. Although their resolutions may have been quickly presented and quickly put aside, their effect was to be cumulative. By the end of 1920 there were stirrings across the country, and echoes from overseas. To anyone with as sensitive an ear as Moore’s they were a promise of what was to come. Moore’s temporary office in the Olympian Building at 3 Tremont Row, echoing with talk and typewriters and shuffling feet, was like a bus terminal in its comings and goings. In one corner the blond Lithuanian stenographer hammered away at the keys. Opposite her John Nicholas Beffel, a free-lance socialist journalist from New York, sat chain-smoking and preparing press releases in English. Art Shields, sent on by Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, assisted him. Frank Lopez, a young Spanish anarchist, a cabinetmaker by trade, preserved somehow by Moore from a deportation order, got out propaganda for the Spanish-speaking world. Felicani and the committee, from an upstairs room on Battery Street, took care of the Italian publicity.