Part 3
“Do you see that man? He’s in for m-u-r-d-e-r!” You shudder and turn away, saying “poor fellow” perhaps, and the sweet girl you are escorting gets a little closer to your strong right arm; and immediately you are vastly interested in this subject, and determined to thoroughly discuss, to exhaust the topic. And yet the unfortunate man may have committed no more heinous crime than the theft of a door mat, or that equally felonious one of peddling clams without a license. Yet I am sure you would readily condone this departure from the exact truth, even were you aware of it. Old John selects the crime to fit the physiognomy of his subject and enjoys your curiosity immensely, but he never smiles. A neat little gloved hand may have slipped into yours, or more likely you have appropriated it—I have known it to be done—and to prolong the moment you ask, “Where is Molineux?” The question is not altogether an unfamiliar one; it has been asked so often that Old John has given it very considerable thought; and in his answer he rises to a high dramatic effect. “I dasn’t show you!” he quavers. “I dasn’t even go near where he is my own self”—each tone is a triumph of horror, the descending cadence drives the blood back into your heart, and that pretty girl—bless her!—imagines a Molineux eight feet tall, who eats raw meat, and can neither read nor write. He winks at me if I am standing by and overhear. How does he keep from laughing?
Oh, the fund of information he will impart to you as he guides you around! “Yes, the men is allowed to walk up and down in their cells or to sit on the bed daily.” All this on one tone and in one breath. What an engineer John is! Listen to his description of the mighty wall which encloses the Tombs: “That high wall around the prison was built at great expense of money, time, and men, so as to put the yard inside of it.” And an architect! “This building and that building isn’t the same building at all.” Ah, there is method in it all! He is leading, as every great dramatist does, up to his climax. Old John approaches it with reverential awe: this great beam of wood, lying in the yard, what stories it could tell! But John anticipates any superfluous remarks this obsolete institution might make for itself.
“Do you see that beam of wood? That’s the last piece of the old gallows; all the rest has been cut up for relics; here the rope was tied.” Old John’s monologue, which follows, closes with these words: “And here you see the marks made by the axe in the hands of the hangman when it cut the rope that sprung the trap, launching the unhappy wretch into eternity. They do not hang yet any more, they make them sit in a chair up at Sing Sing, and kills them with nobody knows what.” He never says electrocution, it’s too much for him; perhaps he does not believe in it—neither do I.
We suspect that every now and then John freshens up these marks himself; should this part of the old apparatus be painted, John would lose half his income—those chips, not his face, are his fortune. How little a quarter must seem, how good is life to a visitor after hearing John and seeing the old gallows! Old John is a judge of human nature: if he thinks you will stand it, he points to a black stone in the side of the old Tombs and tells you it is where a colored man dashed his brains out long ago rather than be hung, and how the successive wardens have tried unsuccessfully to remove the stain.
I remove my hat to his genius when I recall an instance of John’s impromptus. One afternoon a well-known clergyman called and joined me in my walk over the cobblestones in the prison yard. We talked long and earnestly—the dominie and I—and smoked large black cigars. Old John arrived with a party of eager visitors. Old John was in a state of prime satisfaction; business was good and his pilgrims were appreciative. After pointing me out, he was asked if the minister was Molineux’s spiritual adviser. Oh, John, what inspired you to sin, and have you ever confessed it? Was it the dominie’s cigar? “Do you see that reverend gentleman? He was arrested this morning for throwing his mother-in-law out of the third-story window; he will get twenty years at least.” The horror-stricken visitors looked at the calm, intellectual face at my side and gasped. Not one of them had curiosity about me after that. I was a poor worm in comparison with my more awful companion. I wonder what they will say should they enter Dr. ----’s beautiful church some Sunday and see him in the pulpit.
John never “smiles.” Wait a minute! Hold on about that! About once a month he is missed over night; they say he does “smile” periodically, and then very frequently indeed; the next morning every one in the Tombs accuses him of gallantry. No wonder; John has a very handsome goatee, and knows it. We accuse him of gallantry. How immensely pleased he is, and how modestly he protests! “Methinks he doth protest too much.” I asked him once about the matter. “Is it true, John, these things I hear about you?” This was his reply: “Some says I do and some says I don’t.” You will never get Old John to compromise himself. I suspect he has, like many of us, taken the “third degree” at some time during his long life. I said to him, “John, you have been here a long time, and must have acquired quite a lot of money; why don’t you go home and settle down?” Could Solomon excel the reply? “Because they would take away the little I have and send me back for more.” I shall not be more definite about my friend’s age, for two reasons. The first is that he would not like it; the second, that I do not know it—no one does, no one remembers when he first came. There is much speculation in the Tombs as to Old John’s financial status; on this question he keeps his own counsel; he can always change a $50 bill; perhaps he is your landlord.
There is another matter upon which he imparts information to visitors—the most important one—it comes like the catastrophe of a play, just before the curtain is rung down. “Do you see that man all dressed up in brass buttons?” (pointing to a keeper). “He’s a keeper, _he_ gets paid a salary for _his_ services. But I only gets what the kind _visitors_ gives me, and all I gets over a dollar I buys tobacco with for the poor unfortunate men you see dressed up in stripes, who have no money!” Whew! Old John (the rascal) will give the tobacco in the next world—_perhaps_! and a light with it—maybe.
Out of consideration for many years’ sojourn with Old John, I will not state his salary. But if I ever get out of here (which _I_ never will), and Old John should die (which _he_ never will), I shall apply for his position. Come and see the old Tombs for yourself, where so many good fellows have lived and died, before it is too late. Come and listen to Old John, and pay him well, for it’s worth the money.
_CHAPTER X_
_Her Friend (A Chronicle of the Tombs)_
Bridget, alias “The Rummager” (rummager means thief, pickpocket), was incorrigible; had always been so, and there were many reasons for it, such as heredity, environment, opportunity, habit. Bridget had been in the “Pen” (Penitentiary), the work-house, the Tombs. “Had been,” for “The Rummager” was free. She was just leaving the latter prison on the afternoon of Monday, February 24, 1902. There was money in her pocket. She had worked in the laundry doing washing for the aristocrats and millionaires over in the men’s prison.
Freedom and money! This had always before meant a celebration, but to-day Bridget kept on her way towards Chinatown, passing for the first time the side doors of the saloons which had been best loved and most patronized. She did what she had never done before under such circumstances—she hurried home. Bridget was welcomed, was invited to make an occasion of the event. She declined. This behavior caused consternation and criticism in “The Barracks.” Bridget hurried away to the “Bend.” There she haggled with Isaac over the price of a dress—a black dress. Finally it was hers, but it took her last penny—and all her other bills and coins.
Bridget disappeared. This was no novelty, such occurrences were not unusual. No one worried about it. Some hours afterward they learned that she was working. They jeered at and reviled the joker who brought the news. That afternoon, for the first time in her life, Bridget earned an honest dollar. It was perhaps the first money not spent in dissipation.
The next morning was the first time she had ever bought flowers. “The Rummager” laid them upon the coffin of her friend—“The Tombs Angel.”
[NOTE.—Mrs. Salome C. Foster, of blessed memory, for many years devoted herself to the unfortunates confined in the city prisons. This valuable and beautiful life was lost in the Park Avenue Hotel fire, February 22, 1902.]
_CHAPTER XI_
_Life_
All that is enjoyable; all that one would possess, and do if one could, is summed up in this word—Life!
What is it that the young would see? and the flight of which is regretted by the old? It is Life!
This is the almost universal meaning of the word. You speak it, and think of dance and song, women and wine, sunlight, blue skies, and freedom.
To us it has another meaning—try and imagine it.
Sometimes when an important trial is closing and the jury is out till midnight perhaps, we, the inhabitants of the Tombs, sit up and listen for the little bell which rings in the prison, because one of us is being brought back across the “Bridge of Sighs.”
Here he comes! “What did you get?” calls out a friend from the top tier, and there is a clutch at every heart, a horror that you on the outside will never be able to appreciate, when we hear the answer, the sentence most dreaded—“LIFE.”
_CHAPTER XII_
_My Friend the Major_
Without exception, the Major is one of the finest men I have ever met. I like him so much that I am willing to tell a truthful story, or rather, tell a story truthfully (which is a very different thing), at my own expense.
It was this way: Benjamin had got religion. Benjamin preached a long sermon to us every single evening; he preached revival sermons, missionary sermons, and obituary ones on all the fellows who had gone through the “little door.” When he had exhausted these—and us, he would say, “Now this is what I am going to say about _you_, Mr. Roland, after you have gone.” What followed would depend on how I had treated him during the day.
Another reason why Ben preached. Benjamin had made me this very handsome proposition: He knew a man in Brooklyn who owned a tent. _I_ was to hire that tent, and sing outside to attract a crowd. We agreed that I could do that successfully. Then _I_ should enter and sing inside, and _he_ would stand at the door and collect ten cents from all who entered (if there were any so foolish). Then _he_ would preach, after which _I_ should sing again while HE took up a collection. I tried to suggest other orders of events, but Ben insisted that this was the _only_ one he could agree to; and as it seemed perfectly fair, I consented. If Ben had only lived, how rich and famous we should have become, and happy, too, for Ben enchanted me with descriptions of all the nice colored girls we should meet. Life was _very_ tempting. On account of this arrangement with me Ben thought it necessary to rehearse his sermons every night, so as to get into practice. He addressed them to “youse poor, mean, miserable, damned sinners in here in the Death-Chamber.” His elocution consisted of main strength.
We were tired of it, so Larry swore out a warrant; Shorty indicted him; Eddy committed him to prison; and finally he was brought to trial. John was the jury. I defended my colored brother, and the Major, who was on duty that evening, prosecuted him. Why did I defend him? Because he sent me three oranges and implored my help. I asked him if these were all he had (this is a lawyer’s first duty toward himself). They were, so I accepted his retainer, and told him not to worry about his affairs—neither did I.
The case came up that evening, and I asked for a postponement, for I have observed that all expensive attorneys do this. No adjournment was allowed, however, so I explained to my client that the District Attorney’s office was trying to “railroad him,” and he must raise more funds. He tendered a paper of State tobacco and three toothpicks. I took the tobacco, but refused to consider the toothpicks as collateral—I had seen newer ones. I demanded more tobacco; he had to borrow another package. Then, knowing I had everything he possessed, I was ready to proceed.
“Judge Sparta,” of Binghamton, presided, and a more learned and impartial jurist never wore “sneaks” (felt-soled slippers). The trial proceeded under his just rulings, and with great decorum. The evidence was so conflicting, that it was agreed between counsel that whoever made the best speech in summing up should win the case. I felt sorry, indeed, for my opponent, for the Major is a silent man. I summed up with all my usual eloquence. Even the judge was affected as I pleaded and threatened. I was humorous and scornful by turns, the jury wept or laughed at my pleasure, and when I spoke of Benjamin, I made a bishop of him, dressed him in episcopal robes, and placed him at the head of a great university (the tent). I showed how his white hair would be loved and venerated at this seat of learning—_if_ he lived. There was not a dry eye in the Death-Chamber when I finished this part of my oration. And when I closed with a scathing arraignment of the Major’s legal methods, the great crowd in the auditorium, who had remained spellbound, prisoners to my eloquence, burst into frantic cheers. During all the time I had been speaking not a single man had left the room. “That speech should be put in the fourth reader,” said the judge. I had a right to think that mine indeed had been a powerful effort—I had made a home run. I was number one. I knew I had the Major licked.
The Major’s speech! Words fail me to describe how, from lofty to still more lofty flights his oratory ascended, climax upon climax and further climaxes still! Even I was thrilled. I forgot my case, my client—everything. I may say it was a long speech—yes, I think I am justified in saying so. First came Henry Ward Beecher’s great abolition sermon, then Ingersoll’s oration at the grave of his brother, next Lincoln’s immortal speech at Gettysburg. Heavens! what a memory that man had. The very bars of our cages melted like wax as he proceeded to declaim his own speech of thanks on the occasion when the Tarrytown Fire Department presented him with a speaking trumpet. Here the enthusiasm of my constituents could be restrained no longer. They cheered the Major. They reviled _me_! I was told to get under the bed. Then followed the Masonic burial service, about our weary feet having come to the end of the toilsome journey before the Great White Throne. When the Major reached this point Benjamin could see, in his mind’s eye, the cemetery, the open grave amid the tombs and monuments; he could see the pall, the coffin under it, and—himself inside the coffin. Blue perspiration exuded from Benjamin’s person. I could plainly hear his teeth chatter as these awful phrases rolled from the Major’s lips as only he can roll them. They made Benjamin sick—I didn’t feel very well myself.
Of course the jury, who was another Mason, convicted Benjamin of the crime of—heresy in the _last_ degree. But Ben maintained to the very day of his death that the Major “conjahed me with churchyard dirt,” and I believe the Major always has a rabbit’s foot concealed about him; at least I hope so, if it brings him good luck.
_CHAPTER XIII_
_A Dissertation on the Third Degree_
That the present condition of affairs regarding the administration of justice in New York City is unsatisfactory, will hardly be denied, while such glaring instances of recent incompetency are fresh in the public mind. The many comments and editorials appearing in the best metropolitan newspapers attest that our citizens are conscious of the defects in this department, while the press of other cities throughout the country, and even abroad, reminds us in no uncertain tones how we are regarded by our neighbors. This matter has been recognized of recent years, and attention called to it by investigating committees appointed by our Legislature. But the efforts of these committees have been too widely distributed; they have attempted to investigate too many things in general; and the methods of the District Attorney’s office in particular, although regarded with suspicion by a large majority of those who read and think, and with contempt by those who know, remain—unexposed, despite the fact that they demand immediate attention.
It would seem as if some of the strenuous periodicals with which we are blessed, or otherwise, would find here a fruitful field for sensational effort; but it is precisely to “yellow journalism” that the District Attorney’s office caters; and this branch of the press will be unlikely to turn and bite the hand which feeds it so generously. The better type of journalism will have none of these matters. Those of the legal profession who know—the lawyers practising in criminal law courts—must be careful not to offend so powerful an institution, whose disfavor might mean ruin. And the Bar Association ignores or postpones action. No persons in private life care to take the initiative; and perhaps they are right. It is safest not to interfere. Why then should I undertake the task? Simply because I have suffered unjustly, and have seen others suffer injustice. This is my sole warrant and authority. And in this matter I am very much in earnest.
The present state of affairs is the result of previous conditions, older methods of criminal procedure, which have been developed and expanded until at the present time they have overstepped all decency.
Let us begin at the beginning, for what I am about to describe may happen to any one. When a man is arrested the police proceed as follows: Invariably starting with protestations of sympathy and faith in their prisoner’s innocence, they make offers of help and assistance. The suspect is coaxed into a confession if possible; this is the first degree. Let us further suppose that, on his part, all guilt or knowledge is denied. Then the second degree is “worked.” Here traps will be laid for him—he will be lied to, threatened, frightened, it may be. A lawyer may now appear. He says an agonized mother has retained him to take the case; he guarantees immediate release, and is ready to hear the story. But suppose the “agonized mother” to have been dead many years, naturally his services are declined. It is well. The confidence would have been extended to a policeman. I have heard that a cassock sometimes robes the same individual on a similar errand. This “moral suasion” may be extended over even a day or two, reinforced by such pleasantries as being awakened the moment one drops asleep. Meals are “forgotten,” a drink of water is an impossibility; or liquor is plied if that will open lips. In summer a cheerful fire may burn very near the cell door; the windows are closed, one may perspire a trifle. If the season be winter, no inconvenience is felt by reason of superfluous heat. This is not denied by police officials. I believe Superintendent Byrnes describes all these methods in his book, and tells how a suspect is locked up in a cell with the instruments of the crime he is accused of having committed, or even with the “corpus delicti” itself. Proof of this method is found in that atrociously and hideously managed persecution of a young woman, in which evidence collected in this manner was offered in court—and very properly ruled out by the presiding judge. The case is too recent to be forgotten.
If the prisoner still remains obstinate, the third degree follows in due course. This is not at all the bloody affair which some fancies have painted it. The appearance of those who have just gone through the ordeal indicates nothing unusual—perhaps a little pallor and a slight derangement of the digestive organs; for to be struck in the stomach with a lusty fist enclosed within a boxing glove or beaten across the kidneys with a piece of rubber garden hose leaves no marks, that is, on the _outside_. No right-minded person who has experienced this will ever complain to the courts; he has no witnesses; “there is more in the closet.” I believe that the “third degree” is very seldom used unless there is almost a moral certainty that the person subjected to it is the proper one to receive this modern torture.
I have never experienced the “third degree.” To me, as to every other good citizen, the term had been a familiar one; but the details never having been made public, my impressions of this ceremony were extremely vague, until a time came when opportunities were frequent to get information regarding this matter at second-hand, decidedly the best way of obtaining it. During the exercise hours in the Tombs prison, I walked with scores of men who have gone through this initiation. For two years I asked questions of those who could not possibly be in collusion to deceive me; and as all their stories agreed, I think I have given a correct description of the three degrees. My little diary, kept all that time, contains my notes and lies before me. There was another place in which I heard about the third degree. On rainy days in the Death-Chamber at Sing Sing prison, when it was too dark to read (and there were many “gloomy” days during those two years), we whispered our experiences to one another. All my companions had been taken to Police Headquarters or to station houses when arrested. I went to the Tombs directly from the Coroner’s Court; across the “Bridge of Sighs,” or, as we call it, “The Suspension of Howls,” and there is no “third degree” practised in the Tombs.
The “third degree” is not a fixed ceremony. It is regulated to suit the individual (I do not mean his taste), and differs with the personality of the grand master. Its object is simply to promote conversation in the hope that something compromising will be said. It is almost always a success; some persons become even garrulous. No excuse or explanation is ever made for the third degree, because its use is vigorously denied by those in authority. But I do make such an excuse; there is much to be said in its favor. Guilt cannot be hunted down by innocence. You must “match cunning with guile,” “you must fight the devil with fire,” and when clubs are trumps—play them.