TO HER PHOTOGRAPH.

Painted by sunlight, all the brightness caught,

From out the sky and to my prison brought.

No vision, essence, song, so sweet by half,

As smiles to me from out her photograph.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CHAPTER V_

_Fads_

The Death-Chamber is well worth studying. Our community is certainly

interesting. Already I have made a discovery. Every one of us is busy.

Here are many languages, temperaments, and moods, but we all have our

fancies and our fads.

For instance, there is the Italian next door who makes gorgeous picture

frames from scraps of paper, decorating them with colored pencils; these

are considerately furnished by the State to prevent him from going

crazy. His creations are wonderful, and as his mood at present is

devoutly religious, his cage looks like a cathedral. Many are the saints

that smile benignly and beckon hospitably; and yet Larry does not want

to join them.

The religious mood is usually the last of a progression beginning with

despair. It is in the latter frame of mind that new arrivals appear.

Then there is the studious period, with which I struggle just now, when

one reads a great deal and works out chess problems with bits of paper

on a home-made board.

Yes, I read incessantly, often under difficulties. Recently I had

selected “Paradise Lost.” Ah, it was a venerable tome—ragged and

bethumbed; dog-eared and tattered was that volume in the Sing Sing

prison library. I believe its back was also broken. Many cells had it

visited. Apparently it was appreciated by the inhabitants thereof. Poor

creatures, they too had lost their paradise; but, alas, others had found

it—and had moved into the book itself—generations of them! I perused

Milton’s matchless epic. The stately iambus, the exceptional trochee,

dactyl, amphibrach, and anapest rolled and sang solemn music in my soul.

I read:

“Thus they,

Breathing united force, with fixèd thought,

Moved on in silence----”

What is that! What _is_ that!! On my wrist, up my arm! Another, another!

Not _that_, but _those_—the myriad hosts of Apollyon’s army. They were

starved, _they_ entered their paradise! Ah, that book was unusually

lively reading, for while holding the volume, while improving my mind,

the inhabitants—the appreciative ones—had improved their opportunity.

They ascended my sleeves for lunch—the book was intellectual food for

me, I was food for—I will spare the reader’s feelings, the good

housewife is their enemy. Just as Satan with appropriate taunts hurled

his mighty javelin at the archangel, so I flung the sweet singer’s poem

into the corridor, thereby adding to its appearance of usage. It was

returned in triumph to the library with a pair of tongs. Some day,

perhaps, an interested visitor may see this volume, the librarian may

even indicate it with pride, and judging by appearances (which are quite

deceptive) will remark how fond the poor “cons” must be of good reading,

of classic literature, of standard works. As for me, my fad is _new_

books.

Of the other fads, among the many, is one which the man possesses who

makes exquisite paper boxes. His paste was soap, till I taught him to

use oatmeal. Then there is the Greek who grows onions. It is for

company, surely, for he cannot speak two words of English, and has not a

single visitor. The library contains no Greek books, and the English

ones are Greek to him. Once a week the great Empire State presents a raw

onion to each condemned man. Death-Chamber and raw onions—what a

combination for producing tears! Let me inform the commonwealth that the

onions are superfluous. Some of us eat them. I give mine away, but the

Greek plants all of his. This is vastly exciting. First he makes little

paper boxes that just hold them, then packs them round with tobacco,

moistens the latter, and then sits down and watches them grow. This is

almost literal, for never did “green bay tree” so flourish. From the

rapid way they shoot up, I know that if any blossoms or fruit grew on

the stalks they would be little balloons. And the color! the most

beautiful green you ever saw—this from the tobacco. I have always

suspected that “State” tobacco was made from some sort of—fertilizer! So

the Greek watches his onions, and the death-watch watches the Greek.

I try to imagine his thoughts. It is easily done. I am sure he sees the

little cottage and garden in the far-away archipelago where he helped

his mother do just what he is doing now. Perhaps that is the first thing

he remembers—perhaps it will be the last. He is not handsome, but how

his face lights up sometimes! Then I know that he is living over the

days when, as a youth, he worked in the vineyards or among the currant

bushes at home. There is a romance behind it all, you may be sure.

Yesterday he was here watching his onions with all his usual care;

to-day he is gone, and the keepers are sweeping his onions out and

throwing them away, for no one cares for the onions except the Greek,

and no one regrets the Greek, except, perhaps, the onions.

Happily this is not a sad ending, for “John, the Greek,” has been given

a hope—he has gone to New York for a new trial. His life was never in

the slightest danger, he having been tried and sentenced by a judge who

has condemned many men to electrocution, and not one of them, I believe,

was ever executed, because their trials before this judge have been

found by a higher court to have been illegal. This is one of “His

Honor’s” little ways—he also has his fad.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CHAPTER VI_

_The Mayor of the Death-Chamber_

I had ruled undisputed for a year—it seemed a century. By common consent

I was the acknowledged “Mayor of the Death-Chamber,” and very properly

so, for was not I the oldest inhabitant? All questions were referred to

me. I was the final court of arbitration; what I said “went.”

This delightful state of affairs was undisturbed, even undisputed, until

Benjamin appeared. Benjamin was a gentleman of color, a youth with a

penchant for politics. Before he had been among us long enough to learn

to appreciate “State” tobacco, he became rebellious. He disputed my

authority. He was evidently jealous. His ambition vaunted itself till it

seemed as if he would attempt to appropriate to himself the perquisites

of my high office. Benjamin was altogether impossible. He knew all about

politics; his brother worked for an alderman. Benjamin insisted upon

expounding their intricacies and the subterfuges necessary to carry

wards and districts. What a mayor could or could not do was an open book

to him. Benjamin knew everything. He would hear no reason, listen to no

explanation, had no respect for my year in the Death-Chamber. He

trampled upon my rights; he was unceremonious, even familiar. He

questioned the legality of my claims. He demanded a fair and open

election, announcing himself to our citizens as a candidate, the

people’s candidate, the poor man’s friend, a Democrat! All that evening

he gave us of his oratory. He denounced me in every scathing phrase to

which he could lay his tongue. I was an aristocrat, a representative of

trusts, a vile Republican.

A rival had presented himself. The issues were joined. I bribed him into

silence with a cigar. The next evening he demanded two to stop talking.

I refused. It was war to the death. I made no speeches, but consulted

with my constituents. “We were seven,” and seven fat cigars left my

pocket; but into the same receptacle from whence they came I put the

solid and unanimous vote of the Death-Chamber. I did more. I taught

Benjamin a lesson. I told him I did not care for that office any more;

that it was a burden I would gladly lay down. He wept as he thanked me.

He worked hard, and received pledges of support from every voter—they

had their instructions.

It seemed a “walkover” for Benjamin. He began to think how “Honorable”

would sound before his name. The voting proceeded. The superintendent of

elections was the night keeper. He announced Benjamin’s unanimous

election to the office of Mayor. The sounds of revelry and thanksgiving

from Benjamin’s cage sounded like rival camp-meetings possessed of the

devil. He—Ben, not the latter—made an eloquent speech of thanks as

befitting the occasion in which, for the last time in his life, he spoke

well of me.

In response he heard the announcement of my election as—Governor. Then

there was silence in Benjamin’s executive mansion, the “city hall,” as

he had just christened his cell. The first official act of “His

Excellency” was to exercise his inherent right and remove “His Honor,

the Mayor,” from office. Benjamin never recovered. When, a few months

later, they escorted Ben through the “little door,” I think he was

perfectly willing to go.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CHAPTER VII_

_A Psychological Experiment

(A Chronicle of the Tombs)_

It was in the old Tombs prison and in the old days which are past, when

they hung men in its courtyard, and it was a very hot night in summer.

Of all the human beings within its walls—keepers and kept—one man alone

was there because he wanted to be. Not another beneath its old roof but

would gladly have changed his position—on either side of the bars—for

the free hot night without. It was blistering, and there was no breeze

or beer to be obtained in the Tombs, and very little rest or sleep.

Does it seem incongruous that a man of wealth, culture, and position

should be there of his own volition? Not at all; he was trying an

experiment. And that was why, after a liberal expenditure of money and

the use of some little influence, this young man was the occupant of

that particular narrow cell for the night. What he saw there was very

little, for the apartments were constructed from a point of view not

scenic but secure. What he heard might perhaps better be left unsaid.

And what he smelt was indescribable. For this story is of the Tombs in

the old days, and really to describe it at night and in summer would be

to drive realism insane. The home of misery, revelry, and some

repentance—tears and jests six inches apart—romance and death, young sin

and old crime; folly, vice, and worse, all mixed together and seasoned

with a very little humor.

The Tombs is like a sieve, separating the unjust within from—well, the

more or less just without. It is like some great iron net through which

the tide of criminal life surges, and many are the strange fish caught

therein. If fish, one of my senses assures me that many of them have

been out of their natural element for a long while. Some of them were

not caught yesterday or even the day before. They are old, and you know

it even as you approach.

But it is with this young man’s feelings we have to do. In spite of the

investigator’s unpleasant surroundings, his thoughts were those of happy

anticipation, and his mood that of extreme satisfaction. All unmindful

of the misery on every side, he paced up and down the little cell, in

which the faint light from the corridor chased shadows on the stone

floor and dim walls. His face bore a look of triumph. He congratulated

himself. What to him were the disturbances that assaulted his senses,

the noises of those who amused themselves according to their

possibilities, or the snoring of some who dully slept, luxuriating in

the comforts of the best home they had ever known, the vomiting of a

drunken sailor across the tier, an obscene song from a young negro with

a falsetto voice heard along the corridor, or the clog dancing of an

“artist” directly over his head, who whistled his own accompaniment.

These things were nothing. He scarcely heard the shriek of the delirium

tremens case in the hospital ward below, nor the curses of the person

constrained in the straight-jacket. The remarks of the poor devil

occupying the “cooler” were naught. The smell of iodoform was lost to

him, for all this had nothing to do with his experiment.

Had you seen the books on theosophy, occult science, reports of

psychological societies, etc., in his beautiful apartments uptown, you

would perhaps have guessed his object. But only he could have told you

properly of his enthusiastic devotion, his absorbing interest in these

studies, and, most of all, of his disappointing attempts at personal

research. For in spite of closest study, deepest investigations, and

widest experimenting, his longing and anxiety to see an apparition had

never been satisfied. Such things as ghosts existed, he was sure of

that—he knew it. Others had seen them. But his ardent longing to have

personal demonstration of their presence remained unsatisfied, despite

the many séances attended, desperate colds contracted in churchyards,

and heroic pilgrimages to alleged mahatmas. Oh, the bitterness of

hearing and rehearing the success of others whose accounts he even found

himself jealous enough to doubt!

But at last it had come—this inspiration. Did the doctrine of

environment mean anything at all? Assuredly! Here was the key to the

situation, and that is why arrangements had been effected by him to

sleep alone in the cell, the very bed, and bedclothes of a man hanged

that afternoon. That is why he awaited midnight in the Tombs—midnight in

“Murderers’ Row.”

He had been careful to attend the execution and to view the remains so

as to recognize the astral body when it should appear later, for was it

not absolutely certain that the spirit, consciousness—call it what you

will—of the departed man would return searching for its body? And where

to if not this little space the earthly part had occupied so long and

where every emotion had been known? Surely this cell would be the first

place to attract the released spirit. Here for the deceased had been the

dreamings of past days, the horror of the realized present, the torture

of the anticipated future. Long days and longer nights in which the

inmate had burned with the fever of hope or shivered with the chill of

despair. In this room his mind had been the home of every emotion. What

hate, revenge, fear had these walls seen glower from his eyes! What

prayers had been heard in weaker moments, confessions perhaps solitude

had wrung from his lips! Here had been all passions. Here he had heard

the cold voice of the sheriff reading the death warrant. Success was

assured. There could be no doubt about it; and it had remained for this

adventurer to discover the untrodden path. He was there to note and

describe everything. Sublime discovery, method extraordinary, most

perfect system of wresting the unknowable from the superhuman! He felt a

veritable Columbus of daring. And the envy of his fellow-investigators

in turn when he should give his contribution to science and should read

his paper! Why, this very experience would be quoted in books! It nerved

him to attempt anything.

He took out a note-book and began to prepare the opening of his

prospective address. The night keeper on the last round accepted his

cigars and said good night. It grew quieter. The singers were hoarse,

the hospital patient quiet or drugged into quietness, and the inhabitant

of the “cooler” had expressed all his opinions of every one and

subsided. The time had come to prepare for the reception of the released

spirit. It was his own body the experimenter proposed to submit as the

material part to which the murderer’s consciousness might find access.

He must undress. He did so, and contemplated the soiled sheets; but it

was in the interests of science, and he did not hesitate. And now to

compose his mind, to cultivate an abstracted calm, to wait and observe.

Such was the success of this attempt that he slept.

* * * * *

Twelve solemn strokes.... He awoke. A dim light filtered in from the

corridors. There were low murmurings in the air. The stairway creaked. A

chain rattled. And somewhere far off a gate closed with a clang. The

proverbial cold perspiration streamed from him. The orthodox goose-flesh

appeared. His hair rose as it ought to. His flesh literally crept.

Everything was as it should be. All the proper symptoms in their proper

order. Something was in the room with him.

Was it the murderer’s spirit returning? The black cap over his gleaming,

protruding eyes, groping in the darkness back to his last place of rest,

feeling his way, searching the bed, and touching the intruder of his

domicile? Yes, he feels something resembling the murderer’s clammy,

trembling fingers passing over him. Victory? Success? Eureka? This awful

moment should be the happiest of his life.

But a great horror came upon him. With a shriek which awoke the warden

and deputy warden, the principal keeper, the deputy principal keeper,

the guards, turnkeys, watchman, nurses, messengers, and all the

prisoners, every living soul within the walls, he threw back the

bedclothes and looked with agonizing eyes at—a score of bloated little

red demons running away into the shadows as fast as their innumerable

legs could carry them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CHAPTER VIII_

_Me and Mike (A Chronicle of the Tombs)_

“That’s me and Mike,” he exclaimed, reverently removing the newspaper

covering and thrusting an old tintype into my hands. And then I

recognized “Mike,” for he came to see my neighbor every day—in his

mother’s arms. We (Mike’s father and I) were neighbors, and

neighborly—which are two different things—and often walked together

during exercise hours, I listening and he telling of the doings of the

little “geezer” and the “tricks me and Mike have turned off together.”

Yes, I knew Mike, and he grew to look for the candy I sent him by Apple

Mary, but he never thanked us; and, considering his short two years of

life, Mary and I did not expect it. His mother spoke to Mike’s father—on

the other side of the bars, no doubt about it. I have heard her! Papa

talked back, but Mike only smiled and cooed. Among other things, my

neighbor told me that the police “had him right,” and so it seemed, and

the day of sentence came round. “Me and Mike” and Mike’s mother

exchanged kisses and epithets; then the sheriff began his search. He

found the tintype and gave it to Mike’s mother despite angry protests;

and then my neighbor made a very foolish move. It was towards his hip

pocket; he put up a good fight while it lasted. But he was overpowered

and handcuffed and the concealed weapon drawn forth—it was Mike’s little

blue shoe. Somehow or other I did not see the rest of it very

distinctly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CHAPTER IX_

_“Old John” (A Chronicle of the Tombs)_

Do funny things happen in the Tombs? Lord bless you, yes! Why, you have

only to visit it to meet the prince of humorists. Come! He will be at

the door to meet you; in fact he is “laying” for you, and will show you

through the entire institution and out again—which is not a detail. He

is affable to a degree, and you would be vastly amused if, like us, you

were on the “inside.” But you will probably listen seriously; and

although you will not lose a word of his remarks, you will lose all

their exquisite humor. It is Old John who has the fun all to himself,

for he is a wag in his way, and combines business with pleasure. He is a

true story-teller. How I envy him his imagination! What tales I would

tell if it were mine! I could—yes, I would write several novels and do

five-act plays, dozens of them. Old John could easily be a poet or a

writer. He certainly is an actor. No tragedian who I have ever heard can

put such horror into his voice. His sepulchral tones, with just the

proper amount of tremolo in them, would make the fortune of any

Thespian. Of course it is impossible for type to reproduce it.

Old John shows you through the main building, the Women’s Prison and

Boys’ Prison, together with the New Prison, the Ten-Day House, the

Hospital, Kitchen, _et al._ He romances with the ardor of a born

raconteur; he knows you will pay him something, but were that not so, I

believe he would do it for the love of his art.

“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.

Take this matter home to yourself; imagine a case in which you are very

much interested. Your house has been entered and all your wife’s jewelry

stolen; you complain to the police. Of course, having done so, the

yellow journals print a full account of the robbery, also more or less

flattering fake portraits of yourself and family. Your bath-room,

through which the burglar entered, is described in detail; your billiard

table, library cuspidor, etc., are photographed and printed life-size in

the evening editions. The next day a portrait of the pretty typewriter

employed at your office is displayed, whom some lynx-eyed reporter has

discovered wearing diamonds. Then everything you _never_ did in your

life is disclosed. The “journalists” take possession of your home; an

old pair of slippers and a bicycle hat of bygone days are discovered.

You stole the jewelry yourself, you know you did! Your hidden sins stand

revealed in all their repulsiveness. The finger of sensational

journalism has torn the mask of hypocrisy, so long and successfully

worn, from your repellant countenance at last. Confess, miserable

wretch! Pictures of Judas Iscariot, Captain Kidd, and others of their

type appear in the hysterical press. They are all labelled with _your_

name. How you will be roasted! “It is said,” etc., that on dark nights

you steal forth to exhume deceased infants from their tombs—and to eat

them. Are you ill-advised enough to deny this? Beware! As for the

partner of your joys and sorrows, “We have it on undeniable authority,”

etc., etc., that she went yachting with that gay club fellow Noah, and

has been engaged to each one of his guests in turn. For a penny, “all

who run may read” these romances; the only redeeming feature being that

those who read do not believe. While this is going on your better half

stays in her room and weeps.

The servants leave, and you have to answer the door-bell yourself and be

polite(?) to the representatives of the press, who call every few

moments for interviews, and who never print a word you say to them.

Every tradesman you deal with sends a collector with his bill; your life

insurance policies are cancelled.

Then the police captain of the precinct sends for you. You go prepared

to be cast into prison. Not so; while the “Journal,” “World,” and

“Herald” have been clearing up the mystery of this “inside job,” the

police have made an arrest. The prisoner is a well-known burglar. On

that night and at the time your house was entered he was seen loitering

outside, but just at present he won’t talk. You know that he either

robbed you himself, or watched while a confederate did. Do you want your

wife’s property? Do you want your character back again? Do you want to

get “hunk”? Remember, whoever entered your house came prepared to kill.

Perhaps you are a father, and know your conscientious duty towards that

eldest son of yours, your own flesh and blood, when he has misbehaved

and is sulky. Do you birch him? Do you trounce him, or do you stop to

argue? Is it more brutal to inflict corporal punishment upon a man than

upon a child?

But you don’t stop now to debate that question. You fling yourself upon

your knees, and with tears implore that you be allowed to assist at—“the

third degree.” You even offer all the worldly goods you have left for

the privilege of plying that garden hose yourself—just once, where it

will do the most good. Stop, sir, the law forbids! After a couple of

howls the peevishness of your new acquaintance vanishes. He speaks. In a

few hours your property is restored, and you are distributing cigars and

buying wine for the reporters, in the hope that they will stop lying

about you. Your wife condescends to speak to you for the first time in

days. If upon his trial the rogue should plead that an illegal

confession had been wrung from him, and the police should deny it, would

you go to court and corroborate the thief, or would you “lie like a

gentleman”?

The question is, Is the “third degree” ever used to compel a confession

from an innocent person, or to satisfy a grudge? In either case the

abuse, not the use, is to be condemned. Are theories made up without

evidence, and some poor victim made to fit the case by means of torture?

Was “Frenchy” really innocent and in prison all those years? If not, why

was he pardoned a few months ago? Was McAuliffe beaten to death to

satisfy a grudge, or for fear of future revelations? It is not my

business to find out. I have been informed that at the last election the

people selected some one else to do that; and if in theorizing upon

these subjects to myself I have come to no conclusion which I care to

give here, I am sure I do the “Finest” no injustice, for they have

theorized on my case for nearly four years, and have come to no

conclusion at all.

The first and second degrees are efforts to outwit a criminal. They

would seldom entrap an innocent person. Moreover, the accused need not

answer questions, and this should be the course pursued by any one

accused of crime, no matter how innocent. The first and second degrees

are admitted to exist; the third degree has been described, and, on the

whole, I am inclined to approve of it, although unlawful. It has brought

many criminals to justice; but I do not defend the _fourth degree_,

which is the name I use, for the lack of a better one, to describe the

present state of affairs existing in the office of the public

prosecutor. It is a continuation of the others, after the affair reaches

the hands of an Assistant District Attorney with an ambition for a

record for securing convictions—one looking for a reputation. It is made

possible by twin evils of recent birth: yellow journalism and expert

testimony. Summed up, it is the use of slander and perjury. In the

“fourth degree” the pen is mightier than the night stick—the victim is

not pounded with the “locust,” but in the press. Like the fourth

dimension of space, if there is one, this state of affairs is invisible;

but invisible only because we will not observe.

Permit me to prove the existence of this fourth degree. Time was, when

trials in the criminal courts of this county were intended to determine

the guilt or the innocence of the accused. All this is changed now;

convictions must be obtained by every and any means, when money and

reputations are to be made; and the secret methods of convicting

innocent men constitute the fourth degree. Immediately upon arrest, or

even before, public opinion is aroused against the suspect by

inflammatory newspaper statements in which the victim is accused of

crime; the presumption of innocence is no longer allowed him. His family

is branded by the most contemptible calumnies; and the public is assured

in every edition that the authorities have ample proof of the accused’s

guilt, that new evidence is constantly pouring in, and that conviction

is a certainty. During this trial in the newspapers, fake evidence is

published; opinions of previous officials not noted for their

over-blameless public lives are printed, experts are turned loose—all of

them, of course, on one side—and this is kept up until it is believed

that public opinion has been swayed against the victim. Eulogies on the

generosity and fairness of the assistant prosecutor in charge are

printed editorially (making certain the source from whence these

articles emanate, for in our day, the District Attorney’s office has

become a news agency for sensational journalism). In the manner affected

by all savages, this red fire is burnt, tum-tums are beaten, stink-balls

thrown to distract public attention from what is about to happen.

Now comes an all important part of the fourth degree. The public

prosecutor declares that he has never known a plainer case of guilt; and

deprives the accused of the examination before a magistrate, which the

law guarantees him, by “railroading” the case before the Grand Jury,

which has been prepared and prejudiced by poisoning the wells of

information—the press. These proceedings being secret, evidence

favorable to the defendant is suppressed; and lies can be manufactured

if needed, for no cross-examination of witnesses is permitted. It is the

golden opportunity of any secret foe. Of course an indictment can always

be secured under such circumstances, the accused branded and thrown into

prison, and need never know one word of the evidence against him. Great

is the political and legal capital of the Assistant District Attorney

who manages a case in this way, especially if the victim be a big fish.

He is called a “Fearless Prosecutor”—an “Able Assistant.”

If the accused has money he can appeal to a higher court and have such

an illegal indictment set aside, but the prosecuting attorney will make

this process long and expensive. The more money the accused spends now,

the less he will have for the necessities of the trial, and his wily

opponent knows this well. The Able Assistant is not troubled with

matters financial. There are fresh bond issues for him, if necessary.

Should the Grand Jury refuse to indict and discharge the accused, the

“Fearless One” simply arrests him again, and repeats his efforts before

another Grand Jury; all the time assuring the public that the prisoner’s

millions will not save him, and that the prosecutor can be trusted to

drag him to the bar of justice. He does it, too, sooner or later. That

is, it is called the “bar of justice.” During this time the people’s

counsel makes his grand stand play. He challenges the accused under

enormous headlines—“Are you innocent of the crime?” Then produce the

culprit, prove his guilt; and this learned and generous gentleman of

legal attainments will release you.

Finally, the accused is cast into prison, and kept there. He must rely

on his friends and his lawyers. This is all very well presuming he has

them, but hard indeed for the poor fellow who has none. In other words,

a man is put in a position where he cannot defend himself. Perhaps the

offence is a bailable one, let bail be offered; it is immediately

increased. The unfortunate victim cannot get out on bail. The Able

Assistant will see to that. In the meantime, any persons who it seems

probable are to be witnesses for the defence are subpœnaed and

terrorized, if possible, threatened with arrest, insulted, bullied. The

yellow newspapers, hungry for sensation, have put the defendant at the

mercy of every blackmailer and crank. Their offers of reward invite all

men without principle, but with a price, to make fake identifications

which will implicate him. Does the prosecution desire any particular

person for a witness? Such persons are simply kidnapped and put in the

House of Detention.

Time elapses, perhaps years; all is now ready for the trial in court.

No! I have forgotten to mention that the county of New York will give a

lawyer five hundred dollars to defend a penniless man accused of murder.

This is American, this is fair play, it is a helping hand to the under

dog. Under, because the fearless prosecutor can spend, and has often

spent, hundreds of thousands of dollars to obtain a conviction. His

limit is the sky, for it costs his pocket nothing, and when the

prosecution makes the issue on expert testimony, the odds on conviction

will be two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which the State may

perhaps spend, to this five hundred dollars granted to the defendant.

At the trial, everything the law forbids the police to do, is permitted

to the District Attorney. In his opening and closing addresses, he

exaggerates shamelessly, and tries to prejudice the jurymen with poison

distilled from his own imagination. For three months he will be allowed

to pour expert testimony into the jury box. And by the way, if a man is

guilty, does it take a matter of a quarter of a million and a quarter of

a year to show it? At this trial proper—or rather improper—the

caricaturist with drawing-board, the jackal reporters—all the cannibals

of Park Row, join in the man hunt. Nothing is sacred. Old age, grief,

womanhood, innocence are but so much material for the “story.” The

official stenographer’s report is a prosaic thing—away with it. The

defendant’s appearance, his conduct—will be indeed a problem for the

readers of the penny dreadfuls—for while the “Journal” describes his

eyes gleaming in their sockets like an infuriated bull’s, the “World”

chronicles the tears which course down his pitiable countenance, and the

“Herald” comments on his indifferent and callous demeanor.

But if the State has not proved me guilty? the prisoner may ask. A

fallacy, my friend; in these days you must prove your innocence. Of

course the accused is convicted. No man, however innocent, can

successfully combat the fourth degree. Everything has worked like a

charm; but at last, after two years, perhaps, or more, the case reaches

the Court of Appeals. Then the master stroke is given, the _finesse_ of

which is startling even to old criminal lawyers. That the conviction has

been obtained illegally is universally admitted. How will the attorney

for the people induce the Court of Appeals to sustain it? Of course, the

method will be in the nature of an innovation; for the fourth degree is

a new thing, and just as certainly will it be something unjust.

Judging others by himself, the Able Assistant will rely on the use of

money. Special counsel is obtained to try to have the illegal conviction

sustained in the higher courts. A man of national reputation, the leader

of his party, and noted for his political influence and his willingness

to use it; who, strangely enough, when high in office appointed some of

the judges who are to listen to his argument, may be retained to argue

before the Court of Appeals, and beg that it allow the conviction to

stand. The honorable special counsel receives a great many thousands of

dollars for doing this, and in one case had at last the opportunity of

gratifying a little personal grudge of nearly twenty years’ standing. As

the epitaph of the Western man read, “He did his damnedest; angels could

do no more.”

In one case I have in mind nothing could equal this person’s eloquence

when arguing in the higher courts _against_ a new trial for the

defendant, unless it was his effort when, a few weeks later, he insisted

in a lower court that the defendant _must_ be tried again; thus proving

that there are two sides to a case—the inside and outside. Consistency

is a jewel, a rare one in the Criminal Court Building, County of New

York, for after all this fuss and expenditure, the “good lady” who held

the office of District Attorney dared not try the case, but left it to

his successor. All this is not an imaginary case; it is my own. I know

whereof I speak.

Just consider for a moment another case recently tried. Does it not

furnish further proof of the fourth degree?

Two men were involved—one was to be killed in earnest, because he had

inherited money; the other was nearly killed with kindness to make the

former killing possible. The office had no case against the first man.

But they arrested him; nor against the second man, so they arrested him,

also. The Assistant District Attorney who prosecuted them had a private

practice while holding public office. The charge against these men was,

that they had killed a third man, who really died a natural death—an old

man who had money. Now began the offers to each prisoner, separately, to

inform on the other. This always happens. The result in this case was

nil. Both protested their innocence, but the fearless prosecutor found

the weaker-natured of the two during these interviews. It was the second

man. To him was offered absolute freedom—and what else?—if he would say

the other did the murder. He did so. The examination took place. There

the other proved the informer’s story a lie; he proved a perfect alibi,

which could not be shaken. The legal adviser of the people had

employed—perjury. That was the one thing proved. Circumstances were now

changed; that story would not work. Remember there were millions at

stake, and the Able Assistant had a private practice. So quite a

different lie was invented and sworn to by the second man. This was also

proved to be a perjury, something for which no prosecutor’s witness is

ever prosecuted. Still the first man, the legatee, was held for trial.

But during the long wait of years in the Tombs for him, how did the

second man, the Assistant’s tool, fare? I said he was killed with

kindness. Of course that is not literal; but the Fearless Prosecutor

took good care of him; he was supplied with every comfort—no key was

ever turned on him.

In return he subscribed to any and all statements which were required to

kill number one. At the trial he made still a different confession from

the two previous ones; the third one was that he himself had committed

the murder at the instigation of the defendant. A self-confessed

murderer, a triple perjurer, he is now scot-free, and an innocent man is

in the Death-Chamber.

These are the methods of the fourth degree. The Court of Appeals does

not approve of them; one District Attorney has been removed from office

by the Governor; but another, he of the ever-ready biography, has handed

them down to his sons as an heritage of fame.

The public has no idea of the enormous number of cases which are

reversed by the Court of Appeals. Here is a recent one. A young man was

sentenced to imprisonment for twenty-five years by a General Session’s

judge. But the Appellate Division of the Supreme Court, when reviewing

the case, said: “The defendant’s guilt has not been proven. It is not

even proven by the evidence that _any_ crime was committed.” This is a

fact, and any one who will take the trouble to read the published

decisions will find it and many more such instances.

Of the convictions obtained by the District Attorney in the Court of

General Sessions, a small proportion of the convicted men have money to

appeal to the higher courts, and the percentage of new trials granted is

high. How much higher would it be if _all_ cases were appealed? In other

words, think of the poor devils who are in State prison unjustly because

of their lack of money.

There is a remedy for this state of affairs. We have a legislature, a

bar association, and a legal aid society. Among all these could not some

arrangement be made for inspectors, to whom a man unjustly convicted

could complain and receive assistance? Is there no relief or redress for

the sufferers from the fourth degree, when even the third degree is

forbidden by law?

If the third degree is brutal, the fourth is hellish. Call the third

illegal assault, and you must name the fourth murder illegally designed.

By means of the fourth a gentleman can be hounded to death by his

enemies. In the third degree a criminal has his ears boxed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CHAPTER XIV_

_It’s Just Like Her (A Chronicle of the Tombs)_

The missionaries I have met! Mind, I am not speaking of the professional

ones, those who are officially connected with the Tombs, or with Sing

Sing prison; nor the chaplains. Years of experience have taught them

their good work; they do it properly and without the aid of trumpets.

Nor do I mean the ladies, who out of the goodness of their hearts, come

and sing to us on Sundays. I am referring to those kind creatures who

have made it their “life work” to come here _occasionally_ and bestow

tracts and cheering words upon us; the kind that carry enormous Bibles,

full of colored book marks, pressed against their flat chests, and who

punctuate their sentences by rolling their eyes upward. These book

marks, I am convinced, are what make them so round-shouldered. They do

not come during all the year: with summer they receive calls, doubtless

from a celestial source, to “green fields and pastures new”; while the

real helpers stay and, with us, bear the heat and burden of the day.

How I have been comforted by the visitations (on _clear_ days during the

winter, and _how_ I have prayed for stormy ones) of these devoted and

self-appointed examiners of my beliefs, and by a perusal of the

literature they thrust upon me, “The Drunkard’s Home” (this to me, who

have never tasted liquor in my life); “The Path to Hell” (when I am

there already); “A Life of Sin” (I have always lived at home with my

parents). Still another piece of literature informs me that I may

possibly be a Christian, but _not_ a _clean one_—if I smoke. Oh, the

irony of life! with all this abundant and excellent supply, I am not

allowed, while in the Tombs, to shave myself!

What a spiritual uplift I experienced by the sudden appearance of a

female of uncertain age, who demanded: “Where are you going to spend

eternity?” and before I could answer, “Not with _you_ if I can help it,”

she put her second question. “Do you pray, brother? Do you get right

down on your knees and lift yourself up?” (wouldn’t that be a stunt? it

is also a mixed metaphor, but what do missionaries care for rhetoric?)

On the first day of my incarceration a good lady (she is also a type of

all the others) introduced herself to me in this manner: Transfixing me

with an awful glance she said, “Man’s nature is _three_fold: physical,

intellectual, spiritual. I am here to minister to your _spiritual_

necessities.” This she proceeded to do by telling me to “look up, hope

on, it is brighter further off”; and that I was in a prison cell—“for a

_purpose_.”

Hardly had she passed on and left me happy in my solitude when her place

was taken by another, and then another, who gave place to still another,

all with the same tracts and expostulations. Not one of them neglected

to tell me, that even St. Paul had been put in prison (for a purpose,

doubtless), and that John Bunyan, although in a similar state of

durance, had written that great and good book, “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Had

I ever read it? I pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to read it again for

my own good. After several hours of this, I also was in the mood to

write—I wrote this and to my mother—begging her to come and sit in front

of my cell all day, and to bring a broom; but still they came. My

mother’s presence and the absence of the broom but gave them the

opportunity to inflict her also.

Oh, the missionaries! are there no bandits in America? Why, oh why, do

they insist on questioning me about my soul, and offering to wrestle

with my most secret sins, when there is a man in the next cell who needs

underclothes? After hearing the missionaries and being promised another

call on the morrow, I wonder that the men do not rush to the District

Attorney’s office and accept “pleas.” Sing Sing would seem preferable to

another visitation.

I must not forget Sister “Goo-Goo,” who is so sympathetic. She stands

outside, looking into my cell through the barred door; she also looks

alluring. She sighs, then whispers, “This may be your door of hope.”

“Then why is it kept locked?” I beg to inquire.

Sometimes they come on Sundays with last year’s religious papers and

magazines; they come and gossip with the keepers; or they bring a friend

to whom they show the sights and point out us poor unfortunates. It is

pleasant to watch them as they meet and compare dress goods patterns

which they produce from their pocket-books; how briefly the hours go by,

what brotherly and sisterly love; how they enjoy themselves; how happy

_we_ are while they do _this_.

Of course we exchange experiences when they have departed; and, good

souls, their visits often provoke some humor in the gray days of our

existence. During the exercise hour one morning I overheard the “hard”

man tell another, “her skirts” (that woman) “says she is praying for me,

but it won’t hurt me none, for I’ve got an alibi.”

“See what the old ‘four-eyed gent’ just gave me,” said the wooden-legged

man. It was a tract on the sin of dancing.

“He’s all right,” cut in another, “the old ‘polar top’s’ going to see

the judge about me and I’ll only get two years.”

“Oh,” said the lame man, “that’s what the judge _intends_ to give yer

_now_; after ‘the century plant’ talks to him for three or four hours,

the judge will give you eighty years.”

How the missionaries love each other! few are on speaking terms; but

must they make _me_ their confidant; do I not suffer sufficiently? This

is what I must listen to, “That woman over there putting her ‘stuff’

through the bars is one of the very worst liars who comes here; you

can’t believe a word she says. You don’t want to have anything to do

with her; the less you tell her the better. What do you think, she keeps

the money she collects for the poor prisoners.”

My visitor goes and his place is taken by the “friend” he has just

eulogized. “Did that man say anything about me? Did you ever hear of his

doing any good for any one? He ought to be put out.”

This good lady is followed by another, her sister in the Lord. The

second one does not speak to the first; but she does speak of her and

imparts her social and financial status. “Oh, yes, she’s very wealthy;

she could afford to do _much more_ than she does; she lives in a

brownstone house, and keeps three servants; but _I_ have given

everything I possess to the Lord.”

Oh, the cant! the cant one hears in the Tombs.

But there is another kind; there are the real workers who bring gladness

and help; there _was_ the “Tombs Angel,” there is “Sister Sunshine,” and

“Sister ----”; but it is of her I started to tell this story. I heard it

from a court officer over in the Criminal Court Building during my

examination before the Coroner.

I was in the “box,” which means the “pen,” that is to say, the “stall”

in which you wait till you are called before the judge, and my friend

the officer said, referring to a very miserable specimen in the opposite

“pen,” who was in convulsions by reason of his anger:

“He’s the worst ever; the worst ever I see; the very worst. Why, what do

you think? he cursed the Sister—what? did I? Did I call him down?”

The Sister he referred to is one of the black-robed saints, who for the

sake of the lowly Nazarene devote their lives to laboring among the

sinners and unfortunates in the city prisons. The object of the keeper’s

wrath was the toughest man in the Tombs—to have that distinction one

must be hard indeed.

The treatment which this particular Sister of whom I speak had received

at the hands of the hard citizen was somewhat as follows, according to

my informant: First, he had lied to her; then he had asked of her an

impossibility. Of course she had attempted to do it. Of course she

failed; then he insulted her, and what he said I am ashamed to write;

but tears were in her eyes when she turned away. But for all that—wait,

I am ahead of my story.

It seems that previous to this he had abused his own lawyer until that

worthy would do little or nothing for him. “Let him go. No one will help

him, anyhow—there’s no one who would be a witness for him. He has no

friends—there’s no evidence that can save him,” said his legal adviser.

At the trial, which took place that day, the day it stormed so, some

evidence _did_ appear which proved him absolutely innocent; never was

this expected; it came from an old enemy; he had not dreamed this

possible.

How did this happen? She (the Sisters hear much that no one else does)

had learned of this witness, and in spite of the man himself and her own

outraged feelings, had procured his defence and acquittal.

“He didn’t deserve it, but then that is just her way,” said my friend

the attendant. “Whose way?” I asked. “Don’t you know? Why, God bless

her, I thought every one knew Sister Xavier.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CHAPTER XV_

_“Shorty”_

Had I been the Governor of the State of New York, I would have pardoned

“Shorty.” There was universal sorrow in the Death-Chamber when he died,

for we knew his story, and every one of us felt that justice might have

been satisfied in another way. Each of us had learned to respect this

stupid-faced little fellow of five feet one inch; who walked with such

heavy feet, and whose stooped shoulders were the result of a long life

of excessive hard work, yet Shorty was only twenty-two years old.

On arriving among us, there was something very like an animal about him.

He could not read or write; he learned to do both while there. Larry, an

Italian member of our guild, taught him. At that time, when he was not

drawing pictures for “The Murderers’ Home Journal,” which the editor had

to suppress, he was catching flies; he did this almost as well as a

monkey—and why not? How the flies loved Shorty! But this was at first.

So was his feud with our colored brother, Benjamin, which was renewed

daily. Every morning Shorty told Benjamin that his face was black, and

urged him to wash it. Benjamin replied; Shorty responded; Benjamin

observed, and then the keeper would interfere.

What trivial things bring about misunderstandings among friends. A mere

nothing at all will start a quarrel in the Death-Chamber. We had cookies

for Sunday dinner, “the kind mother used to make,” all dotted over with

dried currants. She gave them to me when I was a good boy: she gave them

to me incessantly. Shorty replaced the currants with dried flies, and

sent them in the twilight to Benjamin with his compliments.

Benjamin was in a dark cell, it was a dark day; Benjamin—my pen refuses

to write it. I shall never be hungry again as long as I live, when I

think of what happened.

“I doan think much of dem currants,” said Ben.

Shorty replied, “No-a-currant—heap a—” My pen again refuses its task.

No; I cannot tolerate the thought, can you? Don’t ask me to write that

word, and then I need not repeat Benjamin’s reply, for Ben’s reply was

_awful_ to hear.

This started the feud, and a little pleasantry of Ben’s not long

afterwards added kerosene to the flame. Benjamin bided his time. One

evening he challenged Shorty to a game of checkers, for a paper of

chewing tobacco a side; best two games in three, the winner to take all.

Now in the Death-Chamber each of us had made a checker-board, and the

squares of each board were numbered alike; so, when an important match

is made, we can follow the game as the combatants call off the moves by

numbers to each other. It is just like a chess match “by cable,” and we

are almost as far away from each other, although in the same room. The

stakes were put up in the keeper’s hands. Shorty won the first game,

Benjamin the second, Shorty the third, and took the tobacco. Shorty was

jubilant; he declared that “Ben knew nothing from the game what he is

about.”

It became strangely silent in Benjamin’s cell. Benjamin was waiting

until Shorty should regale himself with the victor’s spoils. For worlds

Ben would not have lost a word of Shorty’s remarks. The noises which

proceeded from “little Italy” later were worth waiting for. There were

two dead mice hidden away in the interior of that package of tobacco.

“How does yer like dem kurrents?” asked Ben. “Doan yer be afeared to

chaw dem, dey’s perfectly ripe.”

They were.

No more presents were exchanged after that. It is sad when friends lose

confidence in each other.

Shorty spoke a language of his own. It was English in sound and accent,

but the grouping of the words was according to his own sweet will. For

Shorty the rules of syntax had no terrors.

One day he told me his story. “I did was from Italy six year. All the

time mostly work the railroad on. So much big, heavy carry ties. That

don’t make me any never mind. I get the mon. Ah! that is altogether

something—three hundred dollar. I will go home. Ah! a prettyful of a

girls is there to marry.”

Then Shorty told me how he came to New York to take the steamer. Here he

met some friend who invited him to the Italian colony across the river

in Jersey.

“He did went.” Every one said how foolish he was. “Such a nonsense. You

don’t know what’s no good. You talk like a nanny goat.” Why not marry

the beautiful daughter of the house at which they were calling, “ain’t

yer”?

The mother slipped away while the father and friends argued with Shorty;

they were all so kind and convivial. Yes, their new friend must marry

Agnes. The three hundred dollars should set them up in housekeeping, the

prospective father-in-law, who was in “publitics,” would obtain a

brilliant position for Shorty; only a fool would do anything else. And

then the mother brought in the girl, dressed as every mother’s heart

would prompt for the occasion. Shorty looked into her eyes; at the

borrowed plumage; he had, alas, already looked into the cup.

“Ah,” said he to me, overcome by the mere remembrance; “Ah, there was

something not to believe it.”

“Did you like her?” I asked.

“You have good to talk, the same thing is to me,” said Shorty, and there

was a sob in his voice.

Then he went on to tell how the mother took care of the three hundred

dollars; how they, Shorty and the girl, signed a paper; this made them

man and wife, he explained, and then they celebrated—“Maka th’

congratulate.”

Then came the tragedy. “It was one o’clock after twelve—I feel awfully

worse—I don’t know what isn’t—I want my wife,” explained Shorty.

“You must be drink,” said the mother.

“Why don’t you say what you are telling about?” cried the father.

“I want de mon!” demanded Shorty.

“Lie business!” screamed the father.

“Throw away! No believe!” said the friends.

Shorty was trembling as he went on with the story.

“That’s a fearful, what I see? A sharpa wire (stiletto). Ah, that is a

_different_ something!”

Shorty was magnificent now; no words were necessary to tell the story,

his face and gestures showed me all that happened. Tearing back his

shirt, he showed me a long, jagged scar from shoulder to waist.

“Quicker, quick into hall. Light no more. What you have? It is to fight.

Right away quick off. Bigger man throw down on me. They kill. I

shoot—just the same like this—_Dio! Madre de Dio!_—on the floor, the

mother! So, little, small hole in face. I do be arrested.”

As the French say, figure for yourself what justice poor Shorty received

at his trial against these witnesses and without his money—a paper man

in hell would get a fairer chance. So it came to pass that Shorty

arrived in the Death-Chamber at Sing Sing, and deported himself at first

as I have described.

But there came a time when Sister Xavier brought him an Italian Bible

and catechism, and Larry Priori taught him to read them. Then Shorty was

a different creature. He became a man—quiet, considerate, industrious,

and we respected him. About this time came a letter and photograph from

Italy—from home. They read the letter to Shorty—he could not read

writing as yet—they gave him the photograph because it was not a

tintype. You may not possess a tintype in the Death-Chamber. A man once

cut his throat with a picture of his mother; they have been more careful

since. The picture had been taken by a rural artist in some little

mountain town. Shall I ever forget it? On a gilt chair—no, a throne—sat

his mother in peasant dress. I only remember that she had on white

stockings and congress gaiters, and that the elastics on the sides of

them were worn out. She must have weighed a ton, and evidently was

frightened to death. Perhaps the camera _was_ an “evil eye.” The father

on one side looked a hundred and fifty years old. He must have toiled

every moment of it. Oh, the sister on the other side of the mother, how

hideous she is! But listen: that the good saints might be pleased to

look with pity upon her brother at the other end of the earth (the

letter said this), his sister walked to and from church every

day—barefooted. “It’s about eight miles away,” sobbed Shorty. “Let me

see the picture again. It looks different to me now.” Shorty wept;

Shorty howled; Shorty prayed to the picture. He covered the back of it

with soap, pressed it against the wall, and knelt before it.

Humor and agony are near neighbors in the Death-Chamber. From Italy had

come one hundred dollars; all his family possessed. This was to be used

in arguing the appeal. It was forwarded to an Italian banker in New York

to Shorty’s credit. It was then, and not till then, that Shorty’s

brother appeared. All Shorty had to do was to sign a paper. The brother

had the paper all ready, and the keeper brought a pen. Well, I guess

_not_! Have you forgotten about the three hundred dollars and the other

paper Shorty signed? Shorty hadn’t. While there was breath in his body

he would not sign another paper. It was “lie business.” Then the brother

explained it all over again, the keepers explained, and the “P. K.,”

meaning principal keeper, came with an interpreter and explained many

times over that it was for a trial, lawyer; trial, lawyer. “Don’t you

see, Shorty?”

Shorty stood with his short legs apart, hands behind him, pipe in the

corner of his mouth, and eyes half closed, listening to all they had to

say.

“Throw away lawyer,” remarked Shorty.

“Yes, yes, Shorty, but he’d use it to get you a new trial.”

“I had trial. See?” urged he of small stature.

“No, no, Shorty; a _new_ trial—_new_—_new_!”

“They give new trial? Yes?” Shorty was delighted.

“I don’t know,” said the P. K.

“I wait,” said Shorty, and dismissed them all.

An Italian lawyer came, engaged in a conversation lasting hours, which

sounded like a battle royal between ten thousand enraged parrots; he

departed in tears. An Italian priest came, prayed strenuously, and went

away. The one hundred dollars remained in the bank. Shorty would not

sign a paper to save his life. It’s bad luck to put your name to a

paper, _very_ bad luck, indeed.

In the course of time (a very long time) Shorty’s case reached the Court

of Appeals, and the Court of Appeals decided against Shorty. This made

Shorty furious. He explained that he had been convicted again; that he

had not been present, an outrage; that no witness had spoken for him;

that no one had “said the word.” Why didn’t they send for him, for the

witnesses? Why? a _thousand_ whys? No one was ever able to make him

understand.

Again the brother came. Shorty was going to the “good heaven,” he would

not need the one hundred dollars, but his “loving brother” could use it

in his business; would he sign the paper?

“No! no—no!” said Shorty. Beads of rich perspiration stood out on

“loving brother’s” forehead. “Loving brother” had spent much money;

there was the Italian lawyer, the priest, the carfare, the paper. Loving

brother’s grief was piteous to see. For the sake of the dear _Dio_,

would Shorty sign the paper? No! no—no! Then Shorty might go to the

eternal bad place. Loving brother left and came no more.

Benjamin asked Shorty why he did not give the money to his brother.

“No!” said Shorty.

“What _in hell_ is yer going to do with it?” asked Benjamin.

“No-a hell,” replied Shorty. “Heaven! Go wash your face.”

Larry’s time drew near. Shorty’s chum and teacher was to go out through

the “little door” and be killed. How Shorty prayed for him! But prayers

are not _always_ answered in the Death-Chamber. Larry said good-by to us

and departed; seven others have bidden me good-by. And now there was no

one for Shorty to talk to in his mother tongue.

Shorty’s time drew near, the day was fixed. Loving brother wrote to him,

there was much news in the letter. The girl over in Jersey, whom Shorty

always spoke of as “my wife,” had married another. The couple, her

father, and the mutual friends who had brought Shorty to call so long

ago and Shorty’s brother were going to buy a keg and have a picnic on a

certain day, the same day that Shorty looked ahead to on his calendar,

and— The picnic was to be in honor of that event.

It was just after this letter that Shorty’s eyes went way back into his

head. Shorty ate little or nothing. Those terrible prison lines began to

cut into Shorty’s face. Every day they grew deeper, starting at the

eyes, carving furrows to each end of the mouth, and extending to the

chin. They divided Shorty’s face into three ghastly panels. Shorty’s

skin was turning clay color—and why not? Shorty will soon be—dust. He

got thin; you could almost see through Shorty’s hands.

Shorty prayed night and day, crawling up and down his cell on his hands

and knees, kissing the floor, licking the feet of the crucifix they had

given him. All night long, all night long he did this. We who lay awake

and tried to read heard him mumbling as the beads dropped through his

fingers; heard the tap, tap, tap of his forehead on the floor, repeated

hundreds of times before each of the many pictures of the saints which

were stuck up on the walls. In front of each of these pictures were

little fly-covered heaps of decaying food—Shorty’s votive offering to

the good saints. The saints never accepted the offerings, but the flies

and roaches did. They came by millions, flying and crawling to devour

it; they covered the walls of Shorty’s cell; they covered Shorty. The

saints, in gorgeous crimson and blue robes, with their mitres, crooks,

and uplifted fingers regarded Shorty. Their eyes followed him about

wherever he knelt. Perhaps they will save Shorty’s soul, but they do not

drive away the flies.

Shorty’s brown knees came through his trousers, the toes of Shorty’s

slippers turned up like cotton hooks from kneeling, kneeling, all day

long, all night long.

The priest noticed these things, heard the account of Shorty’s nocturnal

devotions, and told him to stop them, for he realized then—what we had

known long before—that the strain had been too much for Shorty’s

intellect—that Shorty was insane. But Shorty prayed on, harder than

ever. The good Sisters and the priest did all they could to moderate his

devotions. During those final weeks we noticed that they besought him to

do something; what, it was a mystery to us. Finally the morning came—the

_last_ morning.

The priest blessed him, and as they opened the cell-door in the early

morning for the last time, asked him, “Do you forgive _your enemies_?”

then pleaded “you _must_ do it. Say ‘_yes_,’ for _God’s_ sake say _yes_.

You must, or God will not—” The priest was weeping now.

“_No! no—no!_” screamed Shorty, as they marched him away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CHAPTER XVI_

_An Opinion on Expert Opinion

(with special regard to the testimony of Experts in Handwriting)_

The law admits opinion evidence by experts under certain conditions.

This is doubtless right when such experts qualify as _specialists_ who

have prepared themselves by recognized methods regarding some department

of science, art, or industry; and when their testimony is confined to

stating facts and deductions only, omitting all abstract speculations.

The admission of such testimony is, doubtless, necessary. The fields of

science, art, and industry are enormous; and in each, one man during one

life can only hope to acquire thorough knowledge of one small part of

his particular enclosure. Hence “specialties” have arisen—the one

lifework of one man. Specialties represent a movement of “from the

general to the particular.” In the field of science, for instance, is

the department of surgery; and of all kinds of surgeons is one

particular specialist, the dentist. So in art, music is but a little

part of all art, and the violinist but a specialist in music. Industry

classifies into business and agriculture, each in turn susceptible of

innumerable sub-divisions, each a specialty. By this arrangement it is

seen that almost every man is to some degree a specialist, or should be

one; therefore, when particular information is required it must be

sought from the specialist. We seek to appropriate his experience, and

naturally turn in our inquiry to those who seem best qualified to supply

our wants. The true expert should be, then, a very particular

specialist. In the field of industry and art we should require that he

be experienced and successful. In science, that he possess definite

knowledge—exactness.

So far, no complaint whatever can be made against the employment of

experts (specialists). It is a necessary thing; it occurs every day in

everyday life, and their testimony is very properly allowed in criminal

and other court proceedings. But it is undoubtedly wrong when used

unjustly; as, for instance, by the State or a very rich man against an

opponent too poor to protect himself—and the testimony of experts in

handwriting is often so used. It is especially unjust when an expert on

a scientific subject holds no other commission or diploma than one

bestowed upon him by—himself—an expert in handwriting has no other.

No one would employ a self-instructed physician, retain a self-taught

lawyer, or a chemist who never went to school; in fact, the

self-educated are almost excluded from the higher professions.

Consider the formal course of study necessary to become a physician, a

minister, or lawyer—schools and all their examinations, the four years

in college, and all the examinations pertinent thereto, and then the

special post-graduate courses at schools of law, medicine, or divinity.

We trust and respect these professions, because we know of their

preparation; this is their guarantee. They are tested over and over

again to see if they can do their work. Only then do they obtain

diplomas. We require this very thing from our engineers, firemen, coal

miners, and accountants before they are granted a license. But the

handwriting expert passes no examinations, and possesses no diploma. He

need not even procure a license.

The expert in handwriting may have your life, liberty, and fortune in

his hands; but he comes from—where? Who taught him? Who has tested or

examined him as to his knowledge and accuracy? Think of it! The right to

swear away the life, or liberty, or property of another is bestowed upon

this class of “experts” by themselves. And the law permits it. Where do

this class of “experts” study their “science”? What school has classes

or lectures on this subject? What college has a chair for the

instruction of experts in questions of disputed writings? Is there a

university with a department for their training? What does Harvard,

Yale, Princeton, Columbia in America, or Oxford and Cambridge in

England, have to say on this subject? All scientific things are

recognized by these great colleges and universities. The study of

questions arising from disputed handwritings is recognized in none of

them; hence this study is not, at least as yet, a science. Another

reason why this study is not a science, is that it is based on the

theory of probabilities; it is mere speculation. For this reason experts

in handwriting cannot even agree together on their own specialty. They

lack the unity of even a trade. Experts in handwriting have no guild—no

society. Why is this? Because this class of professional witnesses can

never formulate their conflicting theories; they cannot agree on any one

point; they have no common standards, no principles laid down and agreed

to, no mutual foundation or basis for their theories to rest upon. Again

why? Because they would have to violate them in the very next case into

which they might be called. Therefore experts in questions of disputed

handwriting are not scientists.

In courts of justice no experts should be allowed to plead (_ex-parte_)

for the side they espouse. Experts in handwriting are notorious for

this; and their methods and deductions are always according to the

testimony desired by the side retaining them. Their opinions are

tinctured by retainers. In many cases where large sums of money are

involved in litigation, as, for instance, a disputed “will case,”

experts in handwriting appear on each side. The question in such cases

often narrows down to the simple proposition: “Is the signature of the

last will and testament genuine?” It must be either genuine or forged;

and yet we find the phenomena of prominent experts in handwriting

holding diametrically opposite views, and giving reasons under oath in

support of their opinions. Now it naturally follows that if one side is

right, the other side _must_ be wrong, and _vice versa_; the signature

cannot possibly be both genuine and forged. If the testimony of _all_

the experts is in accord with _conscience_, some experts are—to be

charitable—inaccurate.

The expert in handwriting can seldom be coaxed into a position in which

he can be _proved_ wrong. Really it is extremely simple. Is the

signature of the deceased so exact that no one would dare dispute it?

Not he! The expert will declare it a tracing should his retainer

dictate; otherwise _not_; but whichever way he testifies he can never

really be _proved_ wrong, at least in this world, since the one who

could tell has passed away to another. Under the circumstances, no

wonder the expert can afford to be very positive.

In criminal cases these experts affect the side of the prosecution. Is a

conviction secured? It is the result of his skill, while in case of an

acquittal, he protests that justice has been cheated, and the

prosecuting attorney never fails to indorse this view. He dearly loves a

forgery case. If retained by the prosecutor, that official will protect

the expert, and have witnesses to corroborate his opinion; while, should

the defence secure his services, the expert’s opinion will be

corroborated by the defendant himself. The only thing which will _prove_

the expert in error would be a confession—an unlikely occurrence.

But disputed writings, disguised, and anonymous communications are his

joy, and again it is almost impossible to prove him wrong; and again his

work is very simple. In these cases the guilty man, whoever he may be,

never comes forward to admit his crime, so that the expert can blame

whom he pleases or, rather, whom he is paid to blame. It is simplicity

itself—similarities are to be pointed out. It is self-evident that all

writings must contain similarities, for were there no resemblances the

art of writing would be useless. In fact, that one person can read

another person’s writing, is based on this principle. Surely it is just

because we all do make the twenty-six letters of our alphabet more or

less alike, that we can read each other’s writing at all. In such a case

the _dissimilarities_ (and they are in all writing) will be regarded as

attempts at disguise. And, since all writings must consist of

similarities or dissimilarities, either or both will be argued as proof

against a victim of this kind of evidence. To sum up, their art is to

offer a theory favorable to the side retaining them, in such a manner

that it may be believed or doubted, but which cannot be disproved.

Another question regarding this class of experts is, do they keep their

oath, “to tell the truth, the _whole_ truth, and nothing but the truth?”

If engaged by the prosecution do they disclose the points favorable to

the defendant—no matter how apparent? Never. Although under oath to tell

all, they are advocates for one side only. They are always positive,

they swear to their opinions; but are they accurate? Suppose they should

be tested, examined with writings of known and living persons, and knew

nothing of the circumstances of the case, and had no District Attorney

to warn and protect—suppose some one tried to fool them—a child could do

it!

The law limits all opinion evidence. It is not considered as good as

testimony to fact; much has been written on the justice of so doing.

Judge Woodward in “The North American Review” for October, 1902, has

treated the subject from a legal standpoint. In this article referred to

he shows in no uncertain way how the opinions of experts in questions of

disputed handwriting are regarded by bench and bar, especially in the

higher courts. Moreover, he cites many instances of injustice done by

this kind of opinion evidence. Beside this, I believe, there is a justly

popular prejudice against this particular kind of expert testimony.

I have tried to show that this opinion evidence—expert testimony in

regard to questions of disputed handwritings—is less accurate and has

less authority than the opinion of other specialists. If this is true,

should it not be limited to a greater extent than all other kinds of

expert testimony? And to this end I venture to propose the following:

That a commission be appointed to thoroughly and exhaustively examine

all so-called public and official experts in handwriting. No thorough

and conscientious expert would object to being tested as to his

qualifications. Licenses should be issued to the successful candidates.

(Few “sheepskins” would be needed.) Such a license should be required

before the expert can practise in court.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_CHAPTER XVII_

_Prologue to a little Comedy

written in the Death-Chamber, and called_