Part 1

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A MODERN PURGATORY

_By CARLO DE FORNARO_

_CARRANZA AND MEXICO_ _A MODERN PURGATORY_

A MODERN PURGATORY

BY CARLO DE FORNARO

NEW YORK MITCHELL KENNERLEY 1917

COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY CARLO DE FORNARO

PRINTED IN AMERICA

TO M. L. R.

"_It is believed in this country that a poor man has less chance to get justice administered to him than a rich man._"

_--Woodrow Wilson, in a speech in Chicago, January 11, 1913._

INTRODUCTION

This book is a record of the prison experiences of Carlo de Fornaro, artist, writer, editor, revolutionary. It is a record of experiences in the famous Tombs Prison, in New York City, and in the New York City penitentiary on Blackwell's Island--a record of the daily happenings of life in a prison, of brutalities and stupidities and abominations; a sordid record, from the pages of which gleam many fine human things, the sympathies and kindnesses and sacrifices of men thrust by society into the dark of prison because society was afraid of them.

The book begins with the author's imprisonment, and ends with his release or discharge from prison. It is the tale of his punishment, but it tells nothing of the "crime" that brought the punishment upon him.

It is a strange story, that of the circumstances that brought him to prison and an unprecedented proceeding in the United States, a prosecution for libelling an official of a foreign government.

Carlo de Fornaro came to America when he was a young man. He was born in Calcutta, British India, in 1871, of Swiss-Italian parents; and, determined to be an artist, he studied, first architecture in Zurich, then painting in Munich. But when he came to America he found a dearth of art, and when his talent for caricature was recognized, he turned to a newspaper career.

He began in Chicago, with the old _Times-Herald_, but the greatest part of his work was done in New York, on the _Herald_, the _Telegraph_, the _World_ and the _Evening Sun_. In 1906 he went to Mexico to visit a friend--and he stayed three years.

Mexico first interested him--the people, the problems, the smouldering fire of revolution--and then absorbed him. Porfirio Diaz was President of Mexico, and approaching the end of his long reign of power. Fornaro, always a revolutionary, became interested in politics--a dangerous interest, especially for a radical opposed to the Diaz régime. Assassination and murder and life imprisonment in dungeons immured from the world were commonplace methods used in that day to defeat the purposes of the opposition to the undermined Diaz dynasty.

But Fornaro, undeterred, went into politics. He chose the way best known to him; he organized a company and established a daily newspaper in Mexico City, of which he was Director. This was late in 1906. He continued with this newspaper for over two years, doing his share of fomenting the revolution that brought the Diaz government to its fall a few years later. Then, in 1909, he came back to New York, to continue the work in another form.

He wrote, and early in 1909 had published in New York, a book entitled "Diaz, Czar of Mexico." It was translated into Spanish, and thousands of copies were smuggled across the border into Mexico. It created an immediate sensation; it was forbidden and interdicted; copies of it were confiscated and destroyed; people selling it, distributing it, giving it away, or having it in their possession, were subject to punishment. But in the face of this it was widely distributed; it was passed from hand to hand, secretly, clandestinely; and the demand for it was so great, and the interest in it so intense, that in many cases where it was difficult to procure it, single copies were sold for as much as five dollars and ten dollars.

When the efforts to stop its distribution among the people of Mexico failed, other measures were tried. Agents of the Diaz government came to New York; they sent messages to Fornaro; they came finally to see him; and they offered him $50,000 for the entire edition and to suppress all future editions. But they were true to the practices of the system that had so long exacted tribute from the people of Mexico. They knew the amount of money that would be paid to suppress Fornaro's book--and a proposition was made to Fornaro offering him $50,000, and asking him to sign a receipt for $150,000.

They failed. Fornaro told them the book was not for sale except for distribution; it would not be suppressed for any price.

It took these agents of the Diaz government some time to realize this fact. They could not believe there was a thing their money could not buy. But when they realized it they gave up and departed. And then other tactics were begun, and this time they were more effective.

Fornaro was indicted for criminal libel. This was a logical proceeding, and not unexpected. Agents of the Diaz government, acting ostensibly for Rafael Reyes Espindola, a Mexican Congressman, and Editor of the government paper _El Imparcial_, presented complaints to the Grand Jury. Grand Jury proceedings are secret, and Fornaro, of course, had no opportunity to present his case before that tribunal. It was set forth that in his book, "Diaz, Czar of Mexico," Carlo de Fornaro had criminally libeled Rafael Reyes Espindola, and Fornaro was duly indicted. One of the accusations brought against Espindola in the book was that as Editor he used the government paper with impunity to murder reputations.

Fornaro was arrested on April 23, 1909. He pleaded justification. He was admitted to bail in the sum of $1,000. On June 21, 1909, a postponement of the trial was granted, to permit the defendant in support of his plea to secure, by Rogatory Letters, or Depositions, the testimony of witnesses in Mexico as to the truth of the allegations against Espindola contained in the book and complained against.

Some of the most prominent men in Mexico were among those Fornaro sought as witnesses to prove his cause. There were Francisco I. Madero, who led the revolution against Diaz, became President of Mexico and was killed when Victoriano Huerta assumed the Dictatorship of Mexico; F. Iglesias Calderon, the head of a political party, for thirty-five years a consistent opponent of the Diaz system, and the man who had furnished most of the material for Fornaro's book; Heriberto Barron, a member of the Mexican congress and a prominent journalist in Mexico City, and during the latter part of the Diaz régime an exile from Mexico; and others of equal prominence.

But the plan to secure this evidence failed. The witnesses in Mexico were "not allowed" to testify in Fornaro's favor; there was no opportunity to secure the testimony required by Fornaro, or, even if it had been secured, to get it out of Mexico; and his witnesses were threatened with punishment and retaliation if even by speaking the truth they gave aid to Fornaro.

What testimony was offered in his behalf from witnesses in Mexico was not allowed; his lawyer in Mexico City, Diodoro Battalla, a Mexican who had offered to take this case at the risk of his life, was not permitted to represent him. But a representative of the District Attorney of New York was sent to Mexico, and he was permitted to represent the state of New York in such hearings as were had in Mexico City in an endeavor to secure the evidence necessary to establish Fornaro's guilt.

On October 27, 1909, Fornaro was put on trial. The result was inevitable. Fornaro was convicted. On November 9 he was sentenced to one year at hard labor in the city penitentiary on Blackwell's Island.

After his conviction, Fornaro was held for five weeks in the Tombs prison, first awaiting his sentence, and after his sentence, during a stay pending a decision on his application for a Certificate of Reasonable Doubt, which was denied; and on December 4, 1909, he was taken to the penitentiary on Blackwell's Island to begin serving his term.

Two weeks later, when the news of the sentence had reached Mexico, Rafael Reyes Espindola went to a bull fight. As soon as he was seen entering the stands there was a great outcry against him from the spectators--there were over twenty-five thousand of them; they were calling him "Assassin of reputations." They pelted him with missiles and drove him out of the bull ring in confusion and ignominy. The Mexican newspapers, commenting on the incident, called it "Brutal Justice."

On October 3, 1910, Fornaro was discharged. He had served ten months in prison, which was the full term of his sentence, except for two months off for good behavior, which is provided by the laws of New York.

Within a few weeks after Fornaro's discharge from prison, after the revolution against Diaz broke out in Mexico, on November 20, 1910, Fornaro was offered $25,000 to leave the United States if there was an investigation of the manner in which evidence in his behalf was suppressed or kept from the court.

Fornaro refused it, as he refused the bribe for suppressing his book, and as he refused a pardon which he was told would be granted him unconditionally after his appeal to the Supreme Court had been lost. There never was any investigation into his case.

But the book that caused all the trouble went on. The first edition of "Diaz, Czar of Mexico" had been exhausted, and a second edition was printed. The revolutionists in Mexico still say that this book, in conjunction with Francisco I. Madero's "The Presidential Succession in 1910," were the greatest influences in bringing about the fall of Porfirio Diaz.

A MODERN PURGATORY

THE TRIAL

It is the second day of my trial. The whole performance is tiresome and monotonous in the extreme. On one side--the side of the prosecution, the side against me--the case is legally perfect, on my side there is practically no defense; and surrounded as I am by powerful and subtle political influences, I have come to the conclusion that I have as much chance of success--or escape--as the proverbial snowball in Hades.

Considering my hopeless predicament and my helplessness, I am astonished at the sneering and insulting manner of the prosecuting attorney. Why this unseemly desire to swat as insignificant a gnat as I?[1] During lunch at recess I hear that my victim and accuser is very much embarrassed and annoyed at the pertinent questions asked by the prosecutor and translated by an interpreter.

"Are you a picaroon?" queried the District Attorney.

"No," protested the blushing Mexican, "I am only a congressman."

Insults are sometimes the making of a man's reputation, but ridicule always kills, as my Mexican opponent confessed to me once in Mexico City, adding that he never paid the slightest attention to insults or libelous attacks of the Mexican press. In this case they made him change his mind and he was sent twice three thousand miles from Mexico to prosecute as libel that which he could not even read.

Finally the case is concluded and I am led through a maze into the Tombs prison to await the deliberation of the jury.

The keepers inquire as to the real meaning and equivalent in slang of the word "picaroon," and they seem disappointed at its commonplace meaning as compared to the phonetic redundance of a word which promised so much. All seem quite certain the jury won't convict, but I am of a different opinion.

After waiting more than two hours I am brought back to court to hear the decision of the jury. I notice the foreman, a gray-haired, lean person with a long neck two sizes smaller than his collar. He is speaking in a low voice. I cannot hear what he says, but when he stops, and I see two Mexican friends and refugees come towards me with tears in their eyes, then I know my fate. They pat me on the back and say encouraging things as to the effect the publicity of this conviction will have on the cause of liberal Mexico. Newspapermen and friends surround me. An adverse verdict was expected; nevertheless I am somewhat dazed. They ask for a declaration, but adequate words fail me. I can only smile and say awkwardly: "It's all in the day's work. I believe what is to be, will be." And the keepers lead me through the bridge of sighs.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] In justice to the Prosecuting Attorney it must be added that over two years after the trial he apologized to the writer in the presence of Judge John J. Freschi, at the Press Club.

THE TOMBS PRISON

The next thing I remember is being "frisked," as they say in prison parlance, when the keeper looks through the prisoner's pockets for contraband.

They lead me to my cell and the iron doors clang behind me. A deep sigh of relief escapes me. The terrific mental strain of the last ten months, the long and sleepless nights of vigil, the knowledge of impending danger, have been blown away like an unhealthy mist, and I feel calm, secure, safely barred beyond the reach of the Mexican Czar's sicarii and thugs.

The necessary things for comfort are sent by kind friends, and I inspect my future abode.

The cell is spacious, enclosed on three sides by solid steel; air, light and ventilation come through the bars; two iron beds are attached to chains on one side and let down at night; there is running water for washing, drinking and sanitary purposes. An electric bulb and a small wooden bench complete the furniture.

The first thing in the morning I make the acquaintance of a prisoner who eagerly offers to become my guide and monitor.

We walk around the spacious corridor which surrounds the prison proper like an ellipse, and by a connecting gallery cuts it in half like number 8. Three tiers of steel cages go up to the ceiling and can be observed by standing close to the wall opposite our cells.

The men in the tiers above us walk around, some one way, others the opposite, like restless animals in captivity. Some young prisoners hang on to the bars and make faces at us downstairs, reminding us of monkeys in a gigantic cage.

Side by side with tough "mugs" and countenances worthy of the gallows, we notice the apparently refined and well-mannered aristocrats of crime, dissipated looking boys, confidence men in pious demeanour, election repeaters, dandified "cadets" and "sissies." There are also sturdy looking laborers, a few black handers, a tramp or two, several negroes, two Chinamen.

A chauffeur with leggings, cap and automobile suit, tramps around with a dapper young pickpocket. They shout, laugh, talk, sing, whistle; and above all is heard the shuffling of several hundred feet walking, walking unceasingly.

A look upward to the superposed steel cages suggests their similarity to the circles in Dante's Inferno; the picture is completed by comparing my mentor to Virgil, but the sarcasm is lost on him, as he is only a very prosaic forger.

He informs me that the circle above contains the murderers, awaiting trial; higher up those on charges of grand larceny; and then follow the petty larceny men, and so on.

We who are on the ground floor have more walking space than those above us. The side walls have four rows of barred windows which give poor ventilation and poorer light. The air has a pungent, mouldy smell. The rumbling noise of the city traffic on the Centre Street side is heard plainly through the din in the prison.

My companion is a voluble and incessant gossip; his knowledge of jails, penitentiaries, and court procedure is amazing; he is a perfect walking prison encyclopedia. Nearly forty years old, he has passed twenty years behind the bars, either in Sing Sing, the Island Penitentiary or the Tombs. Very pale, clean shaven, rather plump, he speaks in a harsh whisper which gives a disagreeable impression of his uncanny knowledge; when he inquires or talks about the outside world he is like a child seeking knowledge about a strange, far-away land.

My next door neighbor is a southerner. He shot a man who cheated him out of all his money, and he spent several months in Sing Sing; now he has been brought back to the Tombs for retrial. Dark, with passionate eyes, black hair and sallow complexion, thin, calm, deliberate in manner and speech, he tells me of his case, and what led to his murderous assault, which he claims was done in self-defense. When I asked if he was resigned to return to Sing Sing, he answered with gleaming eyes: "I'll kill myself before I'll go back to that hell hole."

I

As we are forbidden to keep knives or razors in our possession, those who require a daily shave climb to the circle above to the barber shop.

On the waiting line there is a familiar face, a young man who had been a waiter in a Broadway café. He has not lost his red cheeks and boyish manner while awaiting trial on the charge of seduction.

Those who can afford it and cannot eat the common prison fare have their meals ordered from outside restaurants. A young man with a capacious basket offers us our breakfast in the shape of bread, pies, coffee; and he also sells cigars, cigarettes, writing paper, stamps and various knickknacks.

About nine A. M. we are locked in and are allowed to buy newspapers from a boy. I scan the daily papers and notice that they are beginning to pay attention to this libel case. There are several editorials, one signed by William Randolph Hearst, whose championship in my case was a brave act, as it endangered his interests in Mexico. The mail is voluminous; scores of clippings come in from out of town papers. An unknown doctor in California sends a check, a laboring man in St. Louis sends a dollar bill, to help in the fight.

My first visitor appeared to me like a vision from a strange planet. I felt clumsy and impatient behind the cold and angular bars.

I am informed that two witnesses saw the president's brother and a prominent Mexican lawyer waiting for my verdict on the ground floor of the Criminal Court building. Those two lawyers were the king pins working the wires behind the scenes, and when the glad tidings were brought they hastened to telegraph it to Mexico.

After the visit we are let out of our cells for exercise, which takes place three times a day, morning, noon and evening.

All visitors are permitted to see the prisoners, but not twice in the same day. Keepers and matrons search the visitors, and I hear repeated complaints of the arrogant and rough behaviour of these men who seem to have no power of discrimination; they treat everybody on equal terms of brutality and incivility--those found guilty by the courts, those awaiting trial and the innocent visitors.

Newspapermen are almost daily visitors.

My friend and lawyer, K----, visits me every day in the barred chamber set apart for that purpose. As I descend to see him some one points out to me a special room wherein I recognize the banker Morse conferring with his lawyers. My friends on the _New York World_ send an ambassador, in the person of a reporter, offering their good will and assistance. I am touched by their kindness and loyalty.

The days pass swiftly as if on wings while waiting for the sentence. My trial-lawyer, J----, visits me one evening and informs me that somebody has told the judge that I had boasted that I would get off with a fine. A strenuous denial is made, but the futility of the protest is apparent. The purpose of these underhand tactics is to prevent the imposition of a fine which could be paid by friends.

Criminal libel is a misdemeanor, and the limit or maximum sentence is one year in the penitentiary or a fine of $500, or both.

The prosecuting lawyers hope, by the imposition of a prison sentence, to frighten me into accepting either a pardon or a commutation of the sentence, thus forcing me to accept their favors and preventing further investigation into certain proceedings.

A suggestion is made to enter a protest with my ambassador. Such a procedure would empower the judge to offer me the choice between going back to Europe or serving one year in the penitentiary. The Mexican government would prefer to get rid of my agitation in this country and does not relish the idea of assisting the publicity of a willing martyr.

My suspicion of these tactics is aroused when I learn of the case of a young cockney valet who stole from his employer, and who was offered the alternative, when the judge sentenced him, of going back to England or serving five years in Sing Sing. The young valet took great pains to inform me of his case and the advantage to be derived from accepting the lesser of two evils. I mused over the incident, and wondered if the valet's case was not a gentle hint emanating from the Machiavellian brains interested in my case. The trial lawyer, J----, suggested the advisability of appealing to the governor for clemency in case of loss of the appeal. A protest to the ambassador was also proposed. I declined both suggestions.

II

I have become acquainted with a prisoner a few doors from my cell, next to the shower baths. Small of stature, almost a boy, deathly pale, dark, with strong features, this young English pickpocket is a new type in my limited experience with criminals.

Every afternoon we sit together at a five o'clock tea in his model cell. The walls are covered with half-tone pictures of famous stage beauties. He offers me the place of honor, which is an old, rickety, but comfortable armchair which belonged to Harry Thaw.

The bed, the bench, everything, is decorated with paper, cut out with infinite pains. The tea is excellent and there are also condensed milk, Huntley & Palmer's biscuits, butter and orange marmalade. Mine host seldom talks to prisoners; he says the place is filled with stool pigeons. When asked if he does not suspect me, he smiles and remarks that in his profession a deep and varied familiarity with human nature is necessary, as well as a cool head, an impassive mask, and great dexterity with hands and fingers.

Very good-naturedly he answers my questions as to his early life and the influences of which brought him to steal; he tells me also of his philosophy of life. His father and mother were both thieves, and he was taught to steal as soon as he could walk. The whole of Europe was the field of his operations.

Soon after he came to New York he was arrested, and although the detectives could not find any stolen goods on him, nevertheless he was sentenced to seven years in Sing Sing on his past criminal record, which was sent over by Scotland Yard.

Considering this man's record and nationality, the question comes to mind as to why he was not sent back to England, instead of burdening the taxpayers of the state of New York with his maintenance for seven years.

III

In the evening I was interrupted in my conversation with a confidence man by the entrance of Lupo and some of his black hand confederates. Standing against the wall while being searched he refused to answer any questions either in English or in Italian.

A dark mustache aggravated his villainous look, while his black, restless eyes surveyed his surroundings. One of his cronies muttered something, but he only growled, lifting the corners of his mouth and baring his teeth in angry contempt. Verily he gave the impression of a wolf caught in a trap, but still defiant and ferocious.

We stop at the cell of a poor German who is locked up on the charge of attempted suicide. He weeps disconsolately, like a child, the tears running down his haggard and gentle face. His clothes and linen are poor and as dirty as his face; his hair is unkempt. He wrings his hands in despair and moans: "Why did they not let me die in peace?" He was out of a job, friendless and penniless in a foreign country, and when he tried to end his misery they put him in jail. It seems a hopeless task to try and cheer him up.