At last I am told to appear before the judge who is to pass sentence on
me. They handcuff me to a negro and we climb into the "Black Maria," an
omnibus with facing seats, tightly locked, and with small holes for
ventilation. A mob collects in the streets to witness our humiliation.
The room in the court house is crowded with people. Several men are
sentenced, one after another, in rotation. I espy some of my loyal
friends there; they look pale and uncomfortable.
My name is called. I am freed of my handcuffs and I stand at the bar,
facing the judge.
Instead of listening to the learned judge deliver his wise sentence, I
am watching intently a lonesome fly buzzing in a vibrating aureole
frantically round the top of his head. I am wondering what the judge had
for luncheon. My absurd cogitations are suddenly interrupted by a phrase
spoken in a louder tone than the rest of the sentence.
" ... Fornaro, that you be imprisoned for one year at hard labor in the
penitentiary...." The fly stopped buzzing as the judge lifted his head
to look at me.
My lawyer, K----, runs out. He is to try to get a certificate of
reasonable doubt, which acts as a stay of sentence; otherwise I would be
taken early in the morning to the penitentiary.
While these proceedings are going on, I am temporarily transferred to
the old prison, which is full of crawling parasites. Luckily, however,
in a few hours I am returned to my cell in the Tombs to wait until the
certificate is either granted or denied. But the certificate is refused,
of course, as I knew it would be, and as I think my lawyer knew it would
be. It was a forlorn hope.
In the evening a letter is brought to me and I am asked to sign for it.
It is written in Spanish and is an attack on Vice-President Corral of
Mexico, who is accused of having furnished me with money to publish
"Diaz, Czar of Mexico," and then of leaving me in the lurch. This piece
of Spanish fiction is inspired by a bitter enemy of Corral in the hope
of eliminating Corral as a Vice-Presidential candidate. But I refuse to
sign the letter.
Another fairy tale comes directly from the District Attorney's office; I
am told that they know that President Cabrera of Guatemala, a bitter
enemy of Porfirio Diaz, has furnished me with $5,000 to publish my
libelous pamphlet.
A friend arrives from Mexico and brings an oral message from Ramon
Corral, who inquires if I have empowered an agent to negotiate the sale
of my book for $50,000, as he doubts the statement. A letter is written
advising the Vice-President that he is right in his surmise, and that
the alleged agent is only trying to get money under false pretences.
A labor leader visits me offering financial help in my fight. As money
will not be needed in the penitentiary, I suggest that an investigation
might be started in Congress into the persecutions of Mexican liberals
by American officials in this country. The promise is made and fulfilled
seven months later.