Hail to the Chief

Saturday afternoon, with dusk coming on, Panama's mild-mannered President Daniel Chanis screwed up his courage to summon Colonel Jos' ("Chichi") Remon, chief of national police, for a painful interview. The press had been pounding hard with charges of police grafting in the control of slaughterhouse and bus-line operations. After the latest blast in the Panama American, Chanis had made his decision: Remon must go.

Just how ailing, uncertain President Chanis expected to bring the trick off was something of a mystery. Remon, the strong man and orderkeeper for every Panama administration since 1946, was in effect chief of staff of the nation's only armed force, the highly trained 2,000-man police corps. He and a staff of fanatically loyal aides had absolute control of the modern police headquarters, a combination fortress, arsenal, barracks, radio communications center and model jail (known locally as the Hotel Remon). By contrast, the only force directly at the President's disposal was his ceRemonial bodyguard of 70 men.

Lucky Day. Possibly Chanis felt lucky: he had already prepared to celebrate his 58th birthday at the palace on Sunday. Possibly he counted on the fact that Remon, too, has been seriously ill with liver trouble in recent months. For a little while it seemed that his plan might go off without a hitch. Remon arrived at the palace, and was confronted with a demand for his resignation along with that of his two chief subordinates. The chubby, softspoken chief refused, was placed under arrest.

Chanis then appointed a board of four men, headed by the Minister of Government and Justice, and sent them to police headquarters to take command. While they were on the way the President telephoned Lieut. Colonel Bolivar Vallarino, Remon's second-in-command and ordered him to surrender his authority. Vallarino listened glumly, mumbled a request to speak with Remon, then hung up abruptly and set to work. As matters later turned out, that was the precise moment when Chanis' hopeful plan began to fly apart.

The four presidential envoys arrived at headquarters, where they were hospitably received--and conducted to cells in the Carcel Modelo. Busloads of armed troopers promptly rolled out of the barracks and surrounded the palace.

"Rebellion!" cried Chanis. "I will retain the presidency until I am killed." Vallarino sat tight. In some confusion the President asked Remon to reason with his stubborn lieutenant. Chichi Remon indignantly refused to negotiate while under arrest, so he was set free. Vallarino rushed a patrol car for his boss, then Remon took command and moved fast. Police squads were deployed around Panama City, the newspapers were temporarily shut down, the telephone exchange was taken over and ordered to complete calls only to or from police headquarters. Then Chichi Remon sent his ultimatum to Chanis: unless the President resigned by 2 a.m. Sunday, police troops would attack the palace.

Last Day. An hour before the deadline Chanis still insisted that he would never quit, and called on his little guard to defend him. But by then the situation was hopeless, and the foreign diplomatic corps intervened to avert bloodshed. Just before 2 o'clock a committee of ten diplomats, including U.S. Ambassador Monnett B. Davis, arrived at the police station to ask for a ten-minute extension. They telephoned the palace, where Chanis was now ready to compromise: he would resign if Remon would.

The chief, holding all the cards, refused. Tired and shaken, Chanis capitulated, then went to bed. He had been in office almost four months (as successor to the late President Diaz Arosemena) and seemed a bit relieved at the prospect of returning to his medical practice. The victors rounded up the Supreme Court, and at 6 a.m. handsome, square-jawed Vice President Roberto F. ("Nino") Chiari, 44, was sworn in as Chanis' successor. Within an hour he received the traditional loyalty oath from his second cousin, Police Chief Remon.

Panamanians hurrying to early Mass learned with some surprise what had happened overnight. No one had been hurt; only two men were still jailed. The only real inconvenience had been the nightlong shutdown of telephones.

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