In the very heart of Manhattan, right in the centre of the city's most
congested district, an imposing edifice of gray stone, mediæval in its
style of architecture, towered high above all the surrounding dingy
offices and squalid tenements. Its massive construction, steep walls,
pointed turrets, raised parapets and long, narrow, slit-like windows,
heavily barred, gave it the aspect of a feudal fortress incongruously
set down plumb in the midst of twentieth-century New York. The dull roar
of Broadway hummed a couple of blocks away; in the distance loomed the
lofty, graceful spans of Brooklyn Bridge, jammed with its opposing
streams of busy inter-urban traffic. The adjacent streets were filled
with the din of hurrying crowds, the rattle of vehicles, the cries of
vendors, the clang of street cars, the ugh! ugh! of speeding
automobiles. The active, pulsating life of the metropolis surged like a
rising flood about the tall gray walls, yet there was no response
within. Grim, silent, sinister, the City Prison, popularly known as "the
Tombs," seemed to have nothing in common with the daily activities of
the big town in which, notwithstanding, it unhappily played an important
part.
The present prison is a vastly different place to the old jail from
which it got its melancholy cognomen. To-day there is not the slightest
justification for the lugubrious epithet applied to it, but in the old
days, when man's inhumanity to man was less a form of speech than a
cold, merciless fact, the term "Tombs" described an intolerable and
disgraceful condition fairly accurately. Formerly the cells in which the
unfortunate prisoners were confined while awaiting trial were situated
deep under ground and had neither light nor ventilation. A man might be
guiltless of the offense with which he was charged, yet while awaiting
an opportunity to prove his innocence he was condemned to spend days,
sometimes months, in what was little better than a grave. Literally, he
was buried alive. A party of foreigners visiting the prison one day were
startled at seeing human beings confined in such holes. "They look like
tombs!" cried some one. New York was amused at the singularly
appropriate appelative, and it has stuck to the prison ever since.
But times change, and institutions with them. As man becomes more
civilized he treats the law-breaker with more humanity. Probably society
will always need its prisons, but as we become more enlightened we
insist on treating our criminals more from the physiological and
psychological standpoints than in the cruel, brutal, barbarous manner of
the dark ages. In other words the sociologist insists that the
law-breaker has greater need of the physician than he has of the jailer.
To-day the City Prison is a tomb in name only. It is admirably
constructed, commodious, well ventilated. The cells are large and well
lighted, with comfortable cots and all the modern sanitary arrangements.
There are roomy corridors for daily exercise and luxurious shower baths
can be obtained free for the asking. There are chapels for the
religiously inclined and a library for the studious. The food is
wholesome and well prepared in a large, scrupulously clean kitchen
situated on the top floor. Carping critics have, indeed, declared the
Tombs to be too luxurious, declaring that habitual criminals enjoy a
stay at the prison and actually commit crime so that they may enjoy some
of its hotel-like comforts.
It was with a sinking heart and a dull, gnawing sense of apprehension
that Annie descended from a south-bound Madison Avenue car in Centre
Street and approached the small portal under the forbidding gray walls.
She had visited a prison once before, when her father died. She
remembered the depressing ride in the train to Sing Sing, the formidable
steel doors and ponderous bolts, the narrow cells, each with its
involuntary occupant in degrading stripes and closely cropped hair, and
the uniformed guards armed with rifles. She remembered how her mother
wept and how she had wondered why they kept her poor da-da in such an
ugly place. To think that after all these years she was again to go
through a similar experience.
She had nerved herself for this ordeal. Anxious as she was to see Howard
and learn from his lips all that had happened, she feared that she would
never be able to see him behind the bars without breaking down. Yet she
must be strong so she could work to set him free. So much had happened
in the last two days. It seemed a month since the police had sent for
her at midnight to hurry down to the Astruria, yet it was only two days
ago. The morning following her trying interview with Captain Clinton in
the dead man's apartment she had tried to see Howard, but without
success. The police held him a close prisoner, pretending that he might
make an attempt upon his life. There was nothing for her to do but wait.
Intuitively she realized the necessity of immediately securing the
services of an able lawyer. There was no doubt of Howard's innocence,
but she recalled with a shiver that even innocent persons have suffered
capital punishment because they were unable to establish their
innocence, so overwhelming were the appearances against them. He must
have the best lawyer to be had, regardless of expense. Only one name
occurred to her, the name of a man of international reputation, the mere
mention of whose name in a courtroom filled the hearts of the innocent
with hope and the guilty with dread. That man was Judge Brewster. She
hurried downtown to his office and waited an hour before he could see
her. Then he told her politely, but coldly, that he must decline to
take her case. He knew well who she was, and he eyed her with some
curiosity, but his manner was frigid and discouraging. There were plenty
of lawyers in New York, he said. She must go elsewhere. Politely he
bowed her out. Half of a precious day was already lost. Judge Brewster
refused the case. To whom could she turn now? In despair, almost
desperate, she drove up-town to Riverside Drive and forced an entrance
into the Jeffries home. Here, again, she was met with a rebuff. Still
not discouraged, she returned to Judge Brewster's office. He was out and
she sat there an hour waiting to see him. Night came and he did not
return. Almost prostrated with nervous exhaustion, she returned to their
deserted little flat in Harlem.
It was going to be a hard fight, she saw that. But she would keep right
on, no matter at what cost. Howard could not be left alone to perish
without a hand to save him. Judge Brewster must come to his rescue. He
could not refuse. She would return again to his office this afternoon
and sit there all day long, if necessary, until he promised to take the
case. He alone could save him. She would go to the lawyer and beg him
on her knees if necessary, but first she must see Howard and bid him
take courage.
A low doorway from Centre Street gave access to the gray fortress. At
the heavy steel gate stood a portly policeman armed with a big key. Each
time before letting people in or out he inserted this key in the
ponderous lock. The gate would not open merely by turning the handle.
This was to prevent the escape of prisoners, who might possibly succeed
in reaching so far as the door, but could not open the steel gate
without the big key. When once any one entered the prison he was not
permitted to go out again except on a signal from a keeper.
When Annie entered, she found the reception room filled with visitors,
men and women of all ages and nationalities who, like herself, had come
to see some relative or friend in trouble. It was a motley and
interesting crowd. There were fruit peddlers, sweat-shop workers,
sporty-looking men, negroes and flashy-looking women. All seemed callous
and indifferent as if quite at home amid the sinister surroundings of a
prison. One or two others appeared to belong to a more respectable
class, their sober manner and care-worn faces reflecting silently the
humiliation and shame they felt at their kinsman's disgrace.
The small barred windows did not permit of much ventilation and, as the
day was warm, the odor was sickening. Annie looked around fearfully, and
humbly took her place at the end of the long line which slowly worked
its way to the narrow inner grating where credentials were closely
scrutinized. The horror of the place seized upon her. She wondered who
all these poor people were and what the prisoners whom they came to see
had done to offend the majesty of the law. The prison was filled with
policemen and keepers, and running in and out with messages and packages
were a number of men in neat linen suits. She asked a woman who they
were.
"Them's trusties--prisoners that has special privileges in return for
work they does about the prison."
The credentials were passed upon slowly and Annie, being the twentieth
in line, found it a tedious wait. In front of her was a bestial-looking
negro, behind her a woman whose cheap jewelry, rouged face and
extravagant dress proclaimed her profession to be the most ancient in
the world. But at last the gate was reached. As the doorkeeper examined
her ticket he looked up at her with curiosity. A murderer is rare enough
even in the Tombs to excite interest, and as she passed on the
attendants whispered among themselves. She knew they were talking about
her, but she steeled herself not to care. It was only a foretaste of
other humiliations which she must expect.
A keeper now took charge of her and led her to a room where she was
searched by a matron for concealed weapons, a humiliating ordeal to
which even the richest and most influential visitors must submit with as
good grace as possible. The matron was a hard-looking woman of about
fifty years of age, in whom every spark of human pity and sympathy had
been killed during her many years of constant association with
criminals. The word "prison" had lost its meaning to her. She saw
nothing undesirable in jail life, but looked upon the Tombs rather as a
kind of boarding house in which people made short or long sojourns,
according to their luck. She treated Annie unceremoniously, yet not
unkindly.
"So you're the wife of Jeffries, whom they've got for murder, eh?" she
said, as she rapidly ran her hands through the visitor's clothing.
"Yes," faltered Annie, "but it's all a mistake, I assure you. My
husband's perfectly innocent. He wouldn't hurt a fly."
The woman grinned.
"They all say that, m'm." Lugubriously she added: "I hope you'll be more
lucky than some others were."
Annie felt herself grow cold. Was this a sinister prophecy? She
shuddered and, hastily taking a dollar from her purse, slipped it into
the matron's hand.
"May I go now?" she said.
"Yes, my dear; I guess you've got nothing dangerous on you. We have to
be very careful. I remember once when we had that Hoboken murderer here.
He's the feller that cut his wife's head off and stuffed the body in a
barrel. His mother came here to see him one day and what did I find
inside her stocking but an innocent-looking little round pill, and if
you please, it was nothing less than prussic acid. He would have
swallowed it and the electric chair would have been cheated. So you see
how careful we has to be."
Annie could not listen to any more. The horror of having Howard classed
with fiends of that description sickened her. To the keeper she said
quickly:
"Please take me to my husband."
Taking another dollar from her purse, she slipped the bill into the
man's hand, feeling that, here as everywhere else, one must pay for
privileges and courtesies. Her guide led the way and ushered her into an
elevator, which, at a signal, started slowly upwards.
The cells in the Tombs are arranged in rows in the form of an ellipse in
the centre of each of the six floors. There is room to accommodate nine
hundred prisoners of both sexes. The men are confined in the new prison;
the women, fewer in number, in what remains of the old building. Only
the centre of each floor being taken up with the rows of narrow cells,
there remains a broad corridor, running all the way round and flanked on
the right by high walls with small barred windows. An observer from the
street glancing up at the windows might conclude that they were those
of the cells in which prisoners were confined. As a matter of fact, the
cells have no windows, only a grating which looks directly out into the
circular corridor.
At the fourth floor the elevator stopped and the heavy iron door swung
back.
"This way," said the keeper, stepping out and quickly walking along the
corridor. "He's in cell No. 456."
A lump rose in Annie's throat. The place was well ventilated, yet she
thought she would faint from a choking feeling of restraint. All along
the corridor to the left were iron doors painted yellow. In the upper
part of the door were half a dozen broad slits through which one could
see what was going on inside.
"Those are the cells," volunteered her guide.
Annie shuddered as, mentally, she pictured Howard locked up in such a
dreadful place. She peered through one of the slits and saw a narrow
cell about ten feet long by six wide. The only furnishings were a
folding cot with blanket, a wash bowl and lavatory. Each cell had its
occupant, men and youths of all ages. Some were reading, some playing
cards. Some were lying asleep on their cots, perhaps dreaming of home,
but most of them leaning dejectedly against the iron bars wondering when
they would regain their liberty.
"Where are the women?" asked Annie, trying to keep down the lump that
rose chokingly in her throat.
"They're in a separate part of the prison," replied the keeper.
"Isn't it dreadful?" she murmured.
"Not at all," he exclaimed cheerfully. "These prisoners fare better in
prison than they do outside. I wager some of them are sorry to leave."
"But it's dreadful to be cooped up in those little cells, isn't it?" she
said.
"Not so bad as it looks," he laughed. "They are allowed to come out in
the corridor to exercise twice a day for an hour and there is a splendid
shower bath they can take."
"Where is my husband's cell?" she whispered, almost dreading to hear the
reply.
"There it is," he said, pointing to a door. "No. 456."
Walking rapidly ahead of her and stopping at one of the cell doors, he
rapped loudly on the iron grating and cried:
"Jeffries, here's a lady come to see you. Wake up there!"
A white, drawn face approached the grating. Annie sprang forward.
"Howard!" she sobbed.
"Is it you, Annie?" came a weak voice through the bars.
"Can't I go in to him?" she asked pleadingly.
The keeper shook his head.
"No, m'm, you must talk through the bars, but I won't disturb you."
He walked away and the husband and wife were left facing each other. The
tears were streaming down Annie's cheeks. It was dreadful to be standing
there so close and yet not be able to throw her arms around him. Her
heart ached as she saw the distress in his wan, pale face.
"Why didn't you come before?" he asked.
"I could not. They wouldn't let me. Oh, Howard," she gasped. "What a
dreadful thing this is! Tell me how you got into such a scrape!"
He put his hand to his head as if it hurt him, and she noticed that his
eyes looked queer. For a moment the agony of a terrible suspicion
crossed her mind. Was it possible that in a moment of drunken
recklessness he had shot Underwood? Quickly, almost breathlessly, she
whispered to him:
"Tell me quickly, 'tis not true, is it? You did not kill Robert
Underwood."
He shook his head.
"No," he said.
"Thank God for that!" she exclaimed. "But your confession--what does
that mean?"
"I do not know. They told me I did it. They insisted I did it. He was
sure I did it. He told me he knew I did it. He showed me the pistol. He
was so insistent that I thought he was right--that I had done it." In a
deep whisper he added earnestly, "But you know I didn't, don't you?"
"Who is _he_?" demanded Annie.
"The police captain."
"Oh, Captain Clinton told you you did it?"
Howard nodded.
"Yes, he told me he _knew_ I did it. He kept me standing there six
hours, questioning and questioning until I was ready to drop. I tried to
sit down; he made me stand up. I did not know what I was saying or
doing. He told me I killed Robert Underwood. He showed me the pistol
under the strong light. The reflection from the polished nickel flashed
into my eyes, everything suddenly became a blank. A few moments later
the coroner came in and Captain Clinton told him I confessed. But it
isn't true, Annie. You know I am as innocent of that murder as you are."
"Thank God, thank God!" exclaimed Annie. "I see it all now."
Her tears were dried. Her brain was beginning to work rapidly. She
already saw a possible line of defense.
"I don't know how it all happened," went on Howard. "I don't know any
more about it than you do. I left you to go to Underwood's apartment. On
the way I foolishly took a drink. When I got there I took more whiskey.
Before I knew it I was drunk. While talking I fell asleep. Suddenly I
heard a woman's voice."
"Ah!" interrupted Annie. "You, too, heard a woman's voice. Captain
Clinton said there was a woman in it." Thoughtfully, as if to herself,
she added: "We must find that woman."
"When I woke up," continued Howard, "it was dark. Groping around for the
electric light, I stumbled over something. It was Underwood's dead body.
How he came by his death I have not the slightest idea. I at once
realized the dangerous position I was in and I tried to leave the
apartment unobserved. Just as I was going, Underwood's man-servant
arrived and he handed me over to the police. That's the whole story.
I've been here since yesterday and I'll be devilish glad to get out."
"You will get out," she cried. "I'm doing everything possible to get you
free. I've been trying to get the best lawyer in the country--Richard
Brewster."
"Richard Brewster!" exclaimed Howard. "He's my father's lawyer."
"I saw your father yesterday afternoon," she said quietly.
"You did!" he exclaimed, surprised. "Was he willing to receive you?"
"He had to," she replied. "I gave him a piece of my mind."
Howard looked at her in mingled amazement and admiration. That she
should have dared to confront a man as proud and obstinate as his father
astounded him.
"What did he say?" he asked eagerly.
"I asked him to come publicly to your support and to give you legal
assistance. He refused, saying he could not be placed in a position of
condoning such a crime and that your behavior and your marriage had made
him wash his hands of you forever."
Tears filled Howard's eyes and his mouth quivered.
"Then my father believes me guilty of this horrible crime?" he
exclaimed.
"He insisted that you must be guilty as you had confessed. He offered,
though, to give you legal assistance, but only on one condition."
"What was that condition?" he demanded.
"That I consent to a divorce," replied Annie quietly.
"What did you say?"
"I said I'd consent to anything if it would help you, but when he told
me that even then he would not come personally to your support I told
him we would worry along without his assistance. On that I left him."
"You're a brave little woman!" cried Howard. Noticing her pale, anxious
face, he said:
"You, too, must have suffered."
"Oh, never mind me," she rejoined quickly. "What we must do now is to
get you out of this horrid place and clear your name before the world.
We must show that your alleged confession is untrue; that it was dragged
from you involuntarily. We must find that mysterious woman who came to
Underwood's rooms while you lay on the couch asleep. Do you know what my
theory is, Howard?"
"What?" demanded her husband.
"I believe you were hypnotized into making that confession. I've read of
such things before. You know the boys in college often hypnotized you.
You told me they made you do all kinds of things against your will. That
big brute, Captain Clinton, simply forced his will on yours."
"By Jove--I never thought of that!" he exclaimed. "I know my head ached
terribly after he got through all that questioning. When he made me
look at that pistol I couldn't resist any more. But how are we going to
break through the net which the police have thrown around me?"
"By getting the best lawyer we can procure. I shall insist on Judge
Brewster taking the case. He declines, but I shall go to his office
again this afternoon. He must----"
Howard shook his head.
"You'll not be able to get Brewster. He would never dare offend my
father by taking up my case without his permission. He won't even see
you."
"We'll see," she said quietly. "He'll see me if I have to sit in his
office all day for weeks. I have decided to have Judge Brewster defend
you because I believe it would mean acquittal. He will build up a
defense that will defeat all the lies that the police have concocted.
The police have a strong case because of your alleged confession. It
will take a strong lawyer to fight them." Earnestly she added: "Howard,
if your life is to be saved we must get Judge Brewster."
"All right, dear," he replied. "I can only leave it in your hands. I
know that whatever you do will be for the best. I'll try to be as
patient as I can. My only comfort is thinking of you, dear."
A heavy step resounded in the corridor. The keeper came up.
"Time's up, m'm," he said civilly.
Annie thrust her hand through the bars; Howard carried it reverently to
his lips.
"Good-by, dear," she said. "Keep up your courage. You'll know that I am
working for your release every moment. I won't leave a stone unturned."
"Good-by, darling," he murmured.
He looked at her longingly and there were tears in her eyes as she
turned away.
"I'll be back very soon," she said.
A few minutes later they were in the elevator and she passed through the
big steel gate once more into the sunlit street.