The next thing I remember is being "frisked," as they say in prison
parlance, when the keeper looks through the prisoner's pockets for
contraband.
They lead me to my cell and the iron doors clang behind me. A deep sigh
of relief escapes me. The terrific mental strain of the last ten months,
the long and sleepless nights of vigil, the knowledge of impending
danger, have been blown away like an unhealthy mist, and I feel calm,
secure, safely barred beyond the reach of the Mexican Czar's sicarii and
thugs.
The necessary things for comfort are sent by kind friends, and I inspect
my future abode.
The cell is spacious, enclosed on three sides by solid steel; air, light
and ventilation come through the bars; two iron beds are attached to
chains on one side and let down at night; there is running water for
washing, drinking and sanitary purposes. An electric bulb and a small
wooden bench complete the furniture.
The first thing in the morning I make the acquaintance of a prisoner who
eagerly offers to become my guide and monitor.
We walk around the spacious corridor which surrounds the prison proper
like an ellipse, and by a connecting gallery cuts it in half like number
8. Three tiers of steel cages go up to the ceiling and can be observed
by standing close to the wall opposite our cells.
The men in the tiers above us walk around, some one way, others the
opposite, like restless animals in captivity. Some young prisoners hang
on to the bars and make faces at us downstairs, reminding us of monkeys
in a gigantic cage.
Side by side with tough "mugs" and countenances worthy of the gallows,
we notice the apparently refined and well-mannered aristocrats of crime,
dissipated looking boys, confidence men in pious demeanour, election
repeaters, dandified "cadets" and "sissies." There are also sturdy
looking laborers, a few black handers, a tramp or two, several negroes,
two Chinamen.
A chauffeur with leggings, cap and automobile suit, tramps around with a
dapper young pickpocket. They shout, laugh, talk, sing, whistle; and
above all is heard the shuffling of several hundred feet walking,
walking unceasingly.
A look upward to the superposed steel cages suggests their similarity to
the circles in Dante's Inferno; the picture is completed by comparing my
mentor to Virgil, but the sarcasm is lost on him, as he is only a very
prosaic forger.
He informs me that the circle above contains the murderers, awaiting
trial; higher up those on charges of grand larceny; and then follow the
petty larceny men, and so on.
We who are on the ground floor have more walking space than those above
us. The side walls have four rows of barred windows which give poor
ventilation and poorer light. The air has a pungent, mouldy smell. The
rumbling noise of the city traffic on the Centre Street side is heard
plainly through the din in the prison.
My companion is a voluble and incessant gossip; his knowledge of jails,
penitentiaries, and court procedure is amazing; he is a perfect walking
prison encyclopedia. Nearly forty years old, he has passed twenty years
behind the bars, either in Sing Sing, the Island Penitentiary or the
Tombs. Very pale, clean shaven, rather plump, he speaks in a harsh
whisper which gives a disagreeable impression of his uncanny knowledge;
when he inquires or talks about the outside world he is like a child
seeking knowledge about a strange, far-away land.
My next door neighbor is a southerner. He shot a man who cheated him
out of all his money, and he spent several months in Sing Sing; now he
has been brought back to the Tombs for retrial. Dark, with passionate
eyes, black hair and sallow complexion, thin, calm, deliberate in manner
and speech, he tells me of his case, and what led to his murderous
assault, which he claims was done in self-defense. When I asked if he
was resigned to return to Sing Sing, he answered with gleaming eyes:
"I'll kill myself before I'll go back to that hell hole."
I
As we are forbidden to keep knives or razors in our possession, those
who require a daily shave climb to the circle above to the barber shop.
On the waiting line there is a familiar face, a young man who had been a
waiter in a Broadway café. He has not lost his red cheeks and boyish
manner while awaiting trial on the charge of seduction.
Those who can afford it and cannot eat the common prison fare have their
meals ordered from outside restaurants. A young man with a capacious
basket offers us our breakfast in the shape of bread, pies, coffee; and
he also sells cigars, cigarettes, writing paper, stamps and various
knickknacks.
About nine A. M. we are locked in and are allowed to buy newspapers from
a boy. I scan the daily papers and notice that they are beginning to pay
attention to this libel case. There are several editorials, one signed
by William Randolph Hearst, whose championship in my case was a brave
act, as it endangered his interests in Mexico. The mail is voluminous;
scores of clippings come in from out of town papers. An unknown doctor
in California sends a check, a laboring man in St. Louis sends a dollar
bill, to help in the fight.
My first visitor appeared to me like a vision from a strange planet. I
felt clumsy and impatient behind the cold and angular bars.
I am informed that two witnesses saw the president's brother and a
prominent Mexican lawyer waiting for my verdict on the ground floor of
the Criminal Court building. Those two lawyers were the king pins
working the wires behind the scenes, and when the glad tidings were
brought they hastened to telegraph it to Mexico.
After the visit we are let out of our cells for exercise, which takes
place three times a day, morning, noon and evening.
All visitors are permitted to see the prisoners, but not twice in the
same day. Keepers and matrons search the visitors, and I hear repeated
complaints of the arrogant and rough behaviour of these men who seem to
have no power of discrimination; they treat everybody on equal terms of
brutality and incivility--those found guilty by the courts, those
awaiting trial and the innocent visitors.
Newspapermen are almost daily visitors.
My friend and lawyer, K----, visits me every day in the barred chamber
set apart for that purpose. As I descend to see him some one points out
to me a special room wherein I recognize the banker Morse conferring
with his lawyers. My friends on the _New York World_ send an ambassador,
in the person of a reporter, offering their good will and assistance. I
am touched by their kindness and loyalty.
The days pass swiftly as if on wings while waiting for the sentence. My
trial-lawyer, J----, visits me one evening and informs me that somebody
has told the judge that I had boasted that I would get off with a fine.
A strenuous denial is made, but the futility of the protest is apparent.
The purpose of these underhand tactics is to prevent the imposition of
a fine which could be paid by friends.
Criminal libel is a misdemeanor, and the limit or maximum sentence is
one year in the penitentiary or a fine of $500, or both.
The prosecuting lawyers hope, by the imposition of a prison sentence, to
frighten me into accepting either a pardon or a commutation of the
sentence, thus forcing me to accept their favors and preventing further
investigation into certain proceedings.
A suggestion is made to enter a protest with my ambassador. Such a
procedure would empower the judge to offer me the choice between going
back to Europe or serving one year in the penitentiary. The Mexican
government would prefer to get rid of my agitation in this country and
does not relish the idea of assisting the publicity of a willing martyr.
My suspicion of these tactics is aroused when I learn of the case of a
young cockney valet who stole from his employer, and who was offered
the alternative, when the judge sentenced him, of going back to England
or serving five years in Sing Sing. The young valet took great pains to
inform me of his case and the advantage to be derived from accepting the
lesser of two evils. I mused over the incident, and wondered if the
valet's case was not a gentle hint emanating from the Machiavellian
brains interested in my case. The trial lawyer, J----, suggested the
advisability of appealing to the governor for clemency in case of loss
of the appeal. A protest to the ambassador was also proposed. I declined
both suggestions.