AN AMERICAN LAWYER AT VITERBO
IT is not unnatural that a young, enthusiastic, and self-confident
people should regard with condescension, if not contempt, the
institutions of foreign, if older, societies. Americans very generally
suffer from the illusion that liberty was not discovered prior to 1776,
and that their country enjoys a monopoly of it. Even experienced and
conservative editorial writers sometimes unconsciously fall victims
to the provincial trait of decrying methods, procedures, and systems
simply because they are not our own. Without, the writer believes, a
single exception, the newspapers of the United States have indulged
in torrents of bitter criticism at the manner in which the trial of
the Camorra prisoners at Viterbo is being conducted, and have commonly
compared the court itself to a “bear garden,” a “circus,” or a “cage
of monkeys.” Wherever the matter has been the subject of discussion
or comment, the tone has been always the same, with the implied, if
unexpressed, suggestion that if the prosecution were being conducted
here the world would see how quickly and effectively we would dispose
of the case—and this with the memory of the Thaw and Patterson trials
fresh in our minds. The following editorial from the New York _Times_,
printed in March of this year, is by no means extreme as compared with
the views expressed in other newspapers, and seems to indicate the
popular impression of the manner in which this trial is being carried
on:
Our own methods of criminal procedure have long been the
object of severe and just criticism, and in our exaggerated
and insincere fear of convicting the innocent we have made
the conviction of the guilty always difficult and often
impossible. Quite unknown in our criminal courts, however,
and fortunately, are such strange scenes as are presented
daily at the trial of the Camorrists now going on in Italy.
There the law is so little confident of its own powers that
the accused are herded together in one steel cage, apparently
with the idea of preventing attempts at rescue by a public
largely sympathetic with organized robbery and assassination,
while the witness for the prosecution is secluded in another
cage, lest he be torn to pieces by the prisoners or their
friends. The pleadings on each side seem to consist largely
of denunciations and threats aimed at the other, tears of
rage alternate with shrieks of the same origin, and order is
only occasionally restored, when the din rises too high, by
the curiously gentle expedient of suspending the session of
the court.
How justice is to be the outcome of proceedings such as
these, and thus conducted, may be comprehensible to what is
called—with little reason—the Latin mind, but others are
lost in amazement. It is all highly interesting, no doubt,
but one is no more likely to regret that we do not carry
on our trials in this way than he is to be sorry that our
criminals are not such important and powerful persons as the
members of the Camorra seem to be.
Only one fact stands out clearly at Viterbo—the fact that
the attack on the banded brigands has been so long delayed
that the authority of the law can not now be vindicated
without producing a sort of civil war. Which ought to be
humiliating for somebody.
Only one conclusion could have been reached by the half million readers
of this particular editorial, and that—the immense superiority of our
own legal procedure and method of handling criminal business over those
of Italy.
Yet (to examine the statements in this editorial _seriatim_) it is not
true that scenes similar to those enacted at Viterbo are unknown in
our criminal courts; that the lack of confidence of the authorities
in their own power is the cause of the prisoners being confined in
court in a steel cage; that the public is “largely sympathetic with
organized robbery and assassination”; and that tears and shrieks of
rage alternate to create a pandemonium which can be stilled only by
adjourning court; and, while there is enough justification in fact
to give color to such an editorial, the only extenuation for its
exaggeration and the false impression it creates lies in the charitable
view that the writer had an equally blind confidence in the sincerity
of his resident Italian correspondent and in the latter’s cabled
accounts of what was going on.
Unfortunately, the reporters at Viterbo have sent in only the most
sensational accounts of the proceedings, since, unless their “stuff” is
good copy, the expense of collecting and cabling European news deprives
it of a market. The press men at Viterbo have given the American
editors just what they wanted. Such opportunities occur only once or
twice in a lifetime, and they have fully availed themselves of it.
Then, to the false and exaggerated cable of the correspondent the
“write-up man” lends his imagination; significant and important facts
are omitted altogether, and the public is led to believe that an
Italian criminal trial consists of a yelling bandit in a straitjacket,
with a hysterical judge and frenzied lawyer abusing each other’s
character and ancestry.
Let the writer state, at the outset, that he has never in his legal
experience seen a judge presiding with greater courtesy, patience,
fairness, or ability, or keeping, as a general rule, under all the
circumstances, so perfect a control over his court, as the president of
the assize in which the prosecution of the Camorra is being conducted;
nor is he familiar with any legal procedure better fitted to ascertain
the truth of the charges being tried.
In studying the Camorra trial at Viterbo, or any other Italian or
French criminal proceeding, the reader must bear in mind that there
is a fundamental distinction between them and our own, and that
there are two great and theoretically entirely different systems of
criminal procedure, one of which is the offspring of the Imperial
Roman law and the other entirely Anglo-Saxon. One is the Roman or
inquisitorial system, and the other the English or controversial.
Under the former the officers of the state are charged with the duty
of ferreting out and punishing crime wherever found, and the means
placed at their disposal are those likely to be most effective for the
purpose. The theory of the latter is that, to some extent at least,
a criminal trial is the result of a dispute between two persons, one
the accuser and the other the accused, and that the proceeding savors
of a private law-suit. Now, it is obvious that, in principle at
least, the two systems differ materially. In the one, the only thing
originally considered was the best way to find out whether a criminal
were guilty and to lock him up, irrespective of whether or not any
private individual had brought an accusation against him. In the other,
somebody had to make a complaint and “get his law” by going after it
himself to a very considerable extent.
The history of the development of these diverse theories of criminal
procedure is too involved to be discussed here at any length, but
inasmuch as the most natural way of ascertaining whether or not
a person has been guilty of a crime is to question him about it,
the leading feature of the Continental system is the “question,”
or inquisitorial nature of the proceedings, whereby the police
authorities, who are burdened with the discovery and prosecution of
crime, initiate the whole matter and bring the defendant and their
witnesses before an examining magistrate in the first instance. The
_procureur_ (district attorney) in France and the _procuratore del re_
in Italy represent the government and _are part of the magistracy_.
They are actually quasi-judicial in their character, and their powers
are infinitely greater than those of our own prosecutors, who occupy a
rather anomalous position, akin in some ways to that of a _procureur_,
and at the same time, under our controversial practice, acting as
partisan attorneys for the people or the complainant.
The fundamental proposition under the inquisitorial system is that
the proceeding is _the government’s business_, to be conducted by
its officers by means of such investigations and interrogations as
will most likely get at the truth. Obviously, the quickest and surest
means of determining the guilt of a defendant is to put him through
an exhaustive examination as soon as possible after the crime, under
such surroundings that, while his rights will be safeguarded, the
information at his disposal will be elicited for the benefit of the
public. The fact that in the past the Spanish Inquisition made use of
the rack and wheel, or that to-day the “third degree” is freely availed
of by the American police, argues nothing against the desirability
of a public oral examination of a defendant in a criminal case. If
he be given, under our law, the _right_ to testify, why should he be
_privileged_ to remain silent?
The Anglo-Saxon procedure, growing up at a time when death was the
punishment for almost every sort of offence, and when torture was
freely used to extort confessions of guilt, developed an extraordinary
tenderness for accused persons, which has to-day been so refined and
extended by legislation in America that there is a strong feeling among
lawyers (including President Taft) that there is much in our practice
which has outlived its usefulness, and that some elements of Latin
procedure, including the compulsory interrogation of defendants in
criminal cases, have a good deal to recommend them.
A French or Italian criminal trial, therefore, must be approached with
the full understanding that it is a governmental investigation, free
from many of the rules of evidence which Bentham said made the English
procedure “admirably adapted to the exclusion of the truth.” The judge
is charged with the duty of _conducting_ the case. He does all the
questioning. There is no such thing as cross-examination at all in our
sense, that is to say, a partisan examination to show that the witness
is a liar. The judge is there for the purpose of determining that
question so far as he can, and the jury are not compelled to listen to
days of monotonous interrogation during which the witness is obliged
to repeat the same evidence over and over again, and testify as to the
most minute details, under the dawdling of lawyers paid by the day, who
not only “take time, but trespass upon eternity.”
Such a trial is conducted very much as if the judge were a private
individual who had discovered that one of his employees had been guilty
of a theft and was trying to ascertain the identity of the guilty
party. Practically anything tending to shed light upon the matter is
acceptable as evidence, and the suspected person is regarded as the
most important witness that can be procured. Finally, and in natural
course, comes the confronting of accuser and accused.
Then fellow-servant on the one hand, or formal accuser upon the other,
steps forward, and they go at it “hammer and tongs,” revealing to their
master, the public, or the jury, the very bottom of their souls; for no
man, least of all an Italian, can engage an antagonist in debate over
the question of his own guilt without disclosing exactly what manner of
man he is.
With these preliminary considerations upon the fundamental distinction
between the Latin and the Anglo-Saxon criminal procedure, and without
discussing which theory, on general principles, is best calculated to
arrive at a definite and effective conclusion as to the guilt of an
accused, let us enter the ancient Church of San Francesco at Viterbo,
and listen for a moment to the trial of the thirty-six members of the
Neapolitan Camorra.
It is a cool spring morning, and the small crowd which daily gathers
to watch the arrival of the prisoners in their black-covered wagons
has dispersed; the guard of infantry has marched back to the Rocca,
once the castle of the popes and now a barracks; and only a couple of
carabinieri stand before the door, their white-gloved hands clasped
before their belts. Inside, in the extreme rear of the church, you
find yourself in a small inclosure seating a couple of hundred people,
and a foot or so lower than the level of the rest of the building.
This is full of visitors from Rome, wives of lawyers, townspeople,
and a scattering of English and American motorists. A rail separates
this—the only provision for spectators—from the real court. (At the
Thaw and Patterson trials the guests of the participants and officials
swarmed all over the court-room, around and beside the jury-box, inside
the rail at which the prisoners were seated, and occasionally even
shared the dais with the judge.)
We will assume that the proceedings have not yet begun, and that
the advocates in their black gowns are chatting among themselves or
conferring with their clients through the bars of the cage, which is
built into the right-hand side of the church and completely fills it.
This cage, by the way, is an absolute necessity where large numbers of
prisoners are tried together. The custom of isolating the defendant in
some such fashion is not peculiar to Italy, but is in use in our own
country as well; and if one attends a criminal trial in the city of
Boston he will see the accused elevated in a kind of temporary cell
in the middle of the court-room, and looking as if he were suspended
in a sort of human bird-cage. Where, as in most jurisdictions of
the United States, every defendant can demand a separate trial as
of right (which he almost inevitably does demand), no inconvenience
is to be anticipated from allowing him his temporary freedom while
in the court-room in the custody of an officer. But there are many
cases, where three or more defendants are tried together, when, even
in New York City, there is considerable danger that the prisoners may
seek the opportunity to carry out a vendetta against the witnesses or
to revenge themselves upon judge or prosecutor. There is much to be
said in favor of isolating defendants in some such way, particularly
where they are on trial for atrocious crimes or are likely to prove
insane. The Camorrists at Viterbo have already been incarcerated for
over four years—one of them died in prison—and were they accessible
in the court-room to their relatives or criminal associates and could
thus procure fire-arms or knives, there is no prophesying what the
result might be to themselves or others. Certain it is that the chief
witness, the informer Abbatemaggio, would have met a speedy death
before any of his testimony had been given.
On the opposite or left side of the church, in an elevated box, sit
the jury, who keep their hats on throughout the proceedings. They are
respectable-looking citizens, rather more prepossessing than one of our
own petit juries and slightly less so than twelve men drawn from one of
the New York City special panels. At the end or apex of the church is
a curved bench or dais with five seats. In the middle, under the dome,
are four rows of desks, with chairs, at which sit the advocates, one
or more for each prisoner. The only gallery, which is above and behind
the jury-box, is given over to the press. At all the doors and the ends
of the aisles, at each side of the judges’ dais, and in front of the
prisoners’ cage stand carabinieri, in their picturesque uniforms and
cocked hats with red and blue cockades, and a captain of carabinieri
stands beside each witness as he gives his testimony. Thus the court,
which is in the form of a cross, is naturally divided into four parts
and a centre: in front the spectators, on the right the prisoners, on
the left the jury, between them the lawyers, and at the end the judges
and officers of the assize. A mellow light filters down from above,
rather trying to the eyes.
The Camorrists, heavily shackled, are brought in from a side entrance,
each in custody of two carabinieri, their chains are removed, the
prisoners are thrust behind the bars, and the guards step to one side
and remain crowded around and behind the cage during the session. In
a separate steel cage sits Abbatemaggio, the informer, at an oblique
distance of about five feet from the other prisoners. A guard stands
between the two cages. If one meets a file of these prisoners in one
of the corridors, he will be surprised, and perhaps embarrassed, to
find that each, as he approaches, will raise his shackled hands to his
head, remove his hat, and bow courteously, with a “_Buon giorno_” or
“_Buona sera_.” While this may be one of the universal customs of a
polite country, one cannot help feeling that it is partly due to an
instinctive desire of the accused for recognition as human beings.
All are scrupulously clean and dressed in the heights of Italian
fashion. In fact, the Camorrists are much the best-dressed persons
in the court-room, and the judicial officials, when off duty and in
fustian, look a shade shabby by contrast. The funds of the Camorrists
seem adequate both for obtaining witnesses and retaining lawyers; and
the difference between one’s mental pictures of a lot of Neapolitan
thieves and cutthroats and the apotheosized defendants on trial is at
first somewhat startling. Looking at them across the court-room, they
give the impression of being exceptionally intelligent and smartly
dressed men—not unlike a section of the grandstand taken haphazard at
a National League game. Closer scrutiny reveals the merciless lines in
most of the faces, and the catlike shiftiness of the eyes.
As for the lawyers,—the _avvocati_,—they seem very much like any
group of American civil lawyers and distinctly superior to the
practitioners in our criminal courts. Many are young and hope to win
their spurs in this celebrated case. Others are old warhorses whose
fortunes are tied up with those of the Camorra. At least one such,
Avvocato Lioy, is of necessity giving his services for nothing. But it
is when the _avvocato_ rises to address the court that the distinction
between him and his American brother becomes obvious; for he is an
expert speaker, trained in diction, enunciation, and delivery, and
rarely in our own country (save on the stage or in the pulpit) will
one hear such uniform fluency and eloquence. Nor is the speech of the
advocate less convincing for its excellence, for these young men put a
fire and zeal into what they say that compel attention.
Now, if the prisoners are all seated, the captain of carabinieri raps
upon the floor with his scabbard, and the occupants of the room,
prisoners, advocates, jury, and spectators, rise as the president,
vice-president, prosecutor, vice-prosecutor, and _cancelliere_ enter in
their robes. The president makes a bow, the others bow a little, the
lawyers bow, and everybody sits down—that is to say, everybody who has
arisen; for Don Ciro Vitozzi and “Professor” Rapi, who sit outside and
in front of the cage (the “professor” has already been confined longer
than any term to which he could be sentenced, and both have pleaded
sickness as an excuse for leniency), make a point of showing their
superiority to the vulgar herd by waiting until the last moment and
then giving a partial but ineffectual motion as if to stand.
The five men upon the dais are, however, worthy of considerable
attention. The president, who occupies the centre seat, is a stout,
heavily built, “stocky” man with a brownish-gray beard. In his robes
he is an imposing and dignified figure, in spite of his lack of
height. All wear gowns with red and gold braid and tassels, and little
round caps with red “topknots” and gold bands. This last ornament is
omitted from the uniform of the _cancelliere_, who is the official
scribe or recorder of the court. And just here is noticeable a feature
which tends to accelerate the proceedings, for there are no shorthand
minutes of the testimony, and only a rough digest of what goes on is
made. This is, for the most part, dictated by the president, under
the correction of the advocates and the officers of the court, who
courteously interrupt if the record appears to them inaccurate. If they
raise no objection the record stands as given. Thus thousands of pages
of generally useless matter are done away with, and the record remains
more like the “notes” of a careful and painstaking English judge. Any
particular bit of testimony or the gist of it can usually be found very
quickly, without (as in our own courts of law) the stenographer having
to wade through hundreds of pages of questions and answers before the
matter wanted can be unearthed, buried, like as not, under an avalanche
of objections, exceptions, wrangles of counsel, and irrelevant or
“stricken out” testimony.
At the left of the semicircle sits the acting _procuratore del
re_—another small man who, on the bench, makes a wonderfully
dignified impression. He plays almost as important a part in the
proceedings as the president himself, and is treated with almost equal
consideration. This is Cavaliere Santaro, one of the most learned and
eloquent lawyers in Italy. To hear him argue a point in his crisp,
clean-cut, melodious voice is to realize how far superior Italian
public speaking is to the kind of oratory prevalent in our courts,
and national legislature, and on most public occasions throughout the
United States. Beside both the president and the _procuratore del re_
sits a “vice,” or assistant, to each, to take his place when absent and
to act as associate at other times. The _cancelliere_ occupies the seat
upon the right nearest the prisoners’ cage.
The president having taken his place, the first order of the day is
the reading or revision of all or part of the record of the preceding
session. This is done by the _cancelliere_ who, from time to time,
is interrupted by the lawyers, Abbatemaggio, or the prisoners. These
interruptions are usually to the point, and are quickly disposed
of by the judge, although he may allow an argument thereon at some
length from one of the advocates. The court then proceeds with the
introduction of evidence, documentary or otherwise, the examination of
the witnesses, or the confronting of the prisoners with their accusers.
Now is immediately observable for the first time the characteristic
of Italian criminal procedure which has been so much misrepresented
and has been the cause of such adverse criticism in the United States
and England—namely, the constant interruption of the proceedings by
argument or comment from the lawyers, and by remarks and contradictions
from the prisoners and witnesses. These occasionally degenerate into
altercations of a more or less personal nature; but they are generally
stilled at a single word of caution from the judge, and serve to bring
out and accentuate the different points at issue and to make clear the
position of the different parties. When such interruptions occur, the
proceedings ordinarily resemble a joint discussion going on among a
fairly large gathering of people presided over by a skilful moderator.
A witness is testifying. In the middle of it (and “it” consists of not
only what the witness has seen, but what he has been told and believes)
one of the prisoners rises and cries out:
“That is not so! He is a liar! Abbatemaggio swore thus and so.”
“Nothing of the kind!” retorts the witness impatiently.
“Yes! Yes!” or “No! No!” chime in the advocates.
“Excellency! Excellency!” exclaims Abbatemaggio himself, jumping to his
feet in his cage. “I said in my testimony that Cuocolo _did_ accuse
Erricone,” etc. And he goes on for two or three minutes, explaining
just what he did or did not say or mean, while the president listens
until he has had sufficient enlightenment, and stops him with a sharp
“_Basta!_” (“Enough!”).
The incident (whatever its nature) usually tends to elucidate the
matter, and while to an outsider, especially one not familiar with
Italian dialects, the effect may be one of temporary confusion, it is
nevertheless not as disorderly as it seems, and the president rarely
(so far as the writer could see during many days of observation) loses
complete command of his court, or permits any one to go on talking
unless for a clear and useful purpose. At times, when everybody
seemed to be talking at once, and several lawyers, Abbatemaggio, and
one or two prisoners were on their feet together, his handling of
the situation was little short of marvellous, for he would almost
simultaneously silence one with a sharp “S-s-s!” shake his head at
another, direct a third to sit down, and listen to a fourth until
he stilled him with a well-directed “_Basta_!” When the shouting is
over, one usually finds that who is the liar has been pretty clearly
demonstrated.
In this connection, however, it should be said that the writer was
perhaps fortunate (or unfortunate, as the reader may prefer) in not
being present on those days when the scenes of greatest excitement
and confusion occurred. Several times, it is true, President Bianchi
has preferred to adjourn court entirely on account of the uproar,
rather than take extreme measures against individual defendants or
witnesses. Thus, during the entire conduct of the case and in spite
of the grossest provocation, he has ordered the forcible removal of
only three defendants—that of Morro on June 21, 1911, and of Alfano
and Abbatemaggio on July 21, 1911. On several other occasions he
has adopted the more gentle expedient of adjourning the proceedings
and clearing the court, and this has resulted in a certain amount of
criticism from the Italian bar, which otherwise regards his presiding
as a model of efficiency. The only adverse comment that the writer has
heard in Italy, either of the president or the _procuratore del re_, is
that both are somewhat lenient toward the conduct of the prisoners and
their advocates, and lack strength in dealing with exigencies of the
character just described. In the long run, however, if such criticism
be just, such an attitude is bound to be in favor of justice, and will
irresistibly convince the public and the world at large that this is no
attempt on the part of the government to “railroad” a lot of suspected
undesirables at any cost, whatever the evidence may be.
Before commenting too harshly upon this mote in the eye of Italian
procedure, it may not be unwise to consider whether any similar
beam exists in our own. Certainly there is a deal of interruption,
contradiction, and disputation in our own criminal courts which
sometimes is not only undignified, but frequently ends in an unseemly
dispute between judge and lawyers. Contempt of court is very general
in the United States, and we have practically no means for punishing
it. Moreover, these scenes in our own courts do not usually assist
in getting at the truth. With us, once a witness has spoken and his
testimony has become a matter of record, whether he has said what he
meant to say or not (under the complicated questions put in examination
and cross-examination), or whether or not he has succeeded in giving
an accurate impression of what he saw or knows, he is hustled out of
the way and made to keep silence. He has little, if any, chance to
explain or annotate his testimony. A defendant may go to jail or be
turned loose on the community because the witness really didn’t get a
chance to tell his own story in his own way. Now, the witness’s own
story in precisely his own way is just what they are looking for under
the inquisitorial procedure, and if he is misinterpreted they want
to know it. The process may take longer, but it makes for getting at
the truth, and the Italians regard a criminal trial as of even more
importance than do some of our judges, who often seem more anxious to
get through a record-breaking calendar and “dispose of” a huge batch
of cases than to get at the exact facts in any particular one. There
is nothing “hit or miss” about the Continental method. Whatever its
shortcomings, whatever its limitations to the cold Anglo-Saxon mind,
it brings out all the details and the witness’s reasons. At an Italian
trial a witness might testify (and his evidence be considered as
important) that he heard sounds of a scuffle and a man’s voice exclaim,
“You have stabbed me, Adolfo!” that somebody darted across the street
and into an alley, that an old woman whom he identifies in court as the
deceased’s mother, and who was standing beside him, cried out, “That is
my son’s voice!” and that three or four persons came running up from
several different locations, each of whom described, circumstantially
and independently, a murder which he had seen perpetrated, identifying
the assassin by name.
In America it is doubtful whether in most jurisdictions the witness
would be permitted to testify to anything except that he heard a
scuffle, saw a man run away, and that an old woman and several other
people thereupon said _something_.
It must not be supposed that the trial of the Camorra is being
conducted with the calm of a New England Sabbath service; but the
writer wishes to emphasize the fact that the confusion, such as it
is, serves a certain purpose, and that the yellings and heartrending
outcries described by the newspaper correspondents are only occasional
and much exaggerated—except in so far as they might occur at an
Italian trial in America. Any one who has been present at many murder
trials in New York knows that outbreaks on the part of Italian
prisoners are to be anticipated and are frequent if not customary.
The writer recalls more than one case where the defendant shrieked
and rolled on the floor, clutching at the legs of tables, chairs, and
officers, until dragged by main force from the court-room. And at
Viterbo they are trying thirty-six Italians at the same time; and every
person participating in or connected with the affair is an Italian,
sharing in the excitability and emotional temperament of his fellows.
A noteworthy feature of this particular prosecution is that (due
doubtless to the strength and ability of the presiding judge), in
spite of all interruptions and the freedom of discussion, the taking
of evidence proceeds with a rapidity greater than in America, for
the reason that there are no objections or exceptions, or attendant
argument, and, above all, no cross-examination, except such questions
as are put by the judge himself at the request of the advocates.
Finally, the system of the _confronto_, or confronting of the accused
by his accuser, deserves a word of commendation, for no method could
possibly be devised whereby the real character and comparative
truthfulness of each would be so readily disclosed. The defendant is
given on this occasion free scope to cross-examine the witness and
deny or refute what he says, and it takes ordinarily but a few minutes
before the mask is torn aside and each pictures himself in his true
colors. Our procedure tends to deprive the witnesses of personality
and to reduce them all to a row of preternaturally solemn and formal
puppets. It is probably true that in most criminal cases in America
the defendant is convicted or acquitted without the jury having any
very clear idea of what sort of person he really is. On the day of
his trial the prisoner makes a careful toilet, is cleanly shaved, and
dons a new suit of clothes and fresh linen. The chances are that, as
he sits at the bar of justice, he will make at least as good and very
possibly a more favorable impression upon the jury than the witnesses
against him, who have far less at stake than he. Each takes the stand
and is sworn to tell the truth, so far as they will be permitted to do
so under our rules of evidence. Then the district attorney proceeds to
try to extract their story of the crime under a storm of objections,
exceptions, and hasty rulings from the judge. Then the prisoner’s
lawyer (who can take all the liberties he wants, as the State has no
appeal in case of an acquittal) proceeds to mix things up generally
by an unfair and confusing cross-examination. At last the defendant
is called, and marches to the stand, looking like an early Christian
martyr. He is carefully interrogated by his lawyer, who permits him (if
he be wise) to do nothing but deny the salient facts against him. The
district attorney, to be sure, has the right of cross-examination, but
a skilful criminal lawyer has plenty of opportunities to “nurse” his
client along and guide him over pitfalls; and when all is over the jury
have formed no valuable or accurate impression of the defendant’s real
character and personality—whether or not, in other words, he is the
kind of man who _would have done_ such a thing.
In Italy (to use vulgar English) they “sic” them at each other and
let them fight it out, and while the language of the participants is
often not parliamentary, the knowledge that they are being watched
by the judge and jury has a restraining effect, and the presence of
the carabinieri makes violence no more likely than in our own courts.
Occasionally, in America, where a prisoner insists on conducting his
own defence, a similar scene may be witnessed—always, it may be
affirmed, to the enlightenment of the jury. On the other hand, most
confrontations are attended with few sensational incidents or emotional
outbreaks.
The writer was fortunate enough to be present when “Professor”
Rapi was confronted by Gennaro Abbatemaggio, and, to his surprise,
found that the proceeding, instead of being interspersed with yells
of rage and vehement invocations to Heaven, closely resembled a
somewhat personal argument between two highly intelligent and deeply
interested men of affairs. Whatever may be Rapi’s real character (and
he is said to supply a large part of the brains of the Camorra, as
well as handling all its funds), he is, as he stands up in court, a
fine-looking, elegantly dressed man, of polished manners and speech.
If the evidence against him is to be believed, however, his mask of
gentility covers a heart of mediæval cruelty and cunning, for he is
alleged to have made the plans and given the final directions to
Sortino for the murder of the Cuocolos. Rapi is a celebrated gambler,
and as such may have had the acquaintance of some decadent members of
the Italian aristocracy, who not only knew him in the betting ring at
the races, but frequented his establishment in Naples, which he called
the “Southern Italy Club.” In 1875, at the age of eighteen, he won
against four hundred candidates the position of instructor in classical
languages in the municipality of Naples. Some ten years later, in 1884,
he moved with his parents to France. At this time he was suspected of
having something to do with the murder of a Camorrist youth, named
Giacomo Pasquino, who, in fact, was killed in a duel with a fellow
member of the society.
From that time on Rapi became a professional gambler, and as such was
expelled from France in 1902. Later he returned to Naples and opened
a sort of “Canfield’s” there. At any rate, he boasts that it was the
centre of attraction for dukes and princes. That he had any sort of
acquaintance with or admission to aristocratic circles is entirely
untrue; but he certainly was a figure in the fast life of the town, and
used what position he had to further the ends of the Camorra. It is
alleged that he was the actual treasurer of the Camorra, and disbursed
the funds of its central organization, apportioning the proceeds of
robberies and burglaries among the participants, and acting as head
receiver for all stolen goods. Certainly he was a friend of “Erricone”
and an associate of well-known Camorrists, and he was one of the
five arrested immediately after the Cuocolo murders on suspicion of
complicity, because of his known presence on the night of the crime at
Torre del Greco, not far from the place where the murder of Gennaro
Cuocolo was perpetrated. For fifty-two days he remained in prison, and
was then set at liberty through the efforts of Father Ciro Vitozzi.
He continued to reside in Naples until April, 1908, when the French
decree against him was cancelled and he returned to Paris, after
holding a sort of informal levee at the Naples railroad station, where
many persons of local distinction, journalists, and others came to see
him off. It was in the following June that he says he read in a Paris
paper that his departure from Naples was regarded as a flight. He
wired to the _procuratore del re_ at Naples, offering to place himself
absolutely at the disposition of the authorities; but, receiving no
response, he returned by train to Naples to present himself before the
magistrates. He was promptly arrested _en route_, and for four years
has been in jail, being questioned by the authorities on only three
occasions during that period. He claims that at the time of the murder
he was living in England, and his elaborate alibi is supported by a
number of witnesses whose testimony is more or less relevant.
Without dilating on the individual history of this sleek gentleman, be
he merely gambler or full-fledged accomplice in many murders, it is
enough to say that when confronted by Abbatemaggio he conducted himself
with the most suave and courteous moderation. Alternately he would
politely engage the informer in argument or ask him a question or two,
and then in polished sentences would address the jury and spectators.
He is the antithesis of Abbatemaggio, who has an insolent confidence
and braggadocio about him that carry with them a certain first-hand
impression of sincerity. In fact, the fiery little black-haired
coachman has proved so convincing to the public that the Camorrists
have been driven to allege that he is mad. He gives no indication
of madness, however, although the government, to refute any such
contention, has an alienist, Professor Otto Lenghi, in court to
keep him under constant surveillance. His memory is astonishing and
uncannily accurate. His mind works with marvellous rapidity, and had
he been born in a different environment he would have made his mark in
almost any line that he might have chosen. He has all the instincts
and tricks of the actor, is a master of repartee, extremely witty, with
a tongue like a razor, and delights the spectators with his sallies
and impertinences. Altogether Abbatemaggio is the centre of attraction
at Viterbo—and knows it. He makes the court wait on his health and
convenience, and has evidently made up his mind that, if his life is to
be short, he will at least make it as merry as possible. Naturally he
is a sort of popular idol, and a _confronto_ in which he is one of the
participants draws a crowd of the townspeople, who applaud his gibes
and epigrams and jeer at his Camorrist opponent.
On the afternoon of the Rapi-Abbatemaggio _confronto_ the “Professor”
arose with great dignity, bowed low to the court and jury, folded his
hands over his stomach, and faced the audience with an air of patient
resignation. Then the captain of carabinieri unlocked Abbatemaggio’s
cage, and the little coachman sprang to his feet, gave a twirl to his
moustache and a contemptuous glance at Rapi as if to say, “Look at the
old faker! See how I shall show him up!”
With an attitude respectful toward the court and scornful toward
Rapi, he takes his stand by the _procuratore del re_ and awaits his
antagonist’s attack. The “Professor” accosts him gently, almost
pathetically. Abbatemaggio answers in cold, unsympathetic tones that
tell the spectators that they must not be deceived by the oily address
of this arch-conspirator. But Rapi, with his magnificent voice, is a
foe to be reckoned with, and presently he enters upon a denunciation of
the informer that is distinctly eloquent and full of vehement sarcasm.
Abbatemaggio flushes and interrupts him, the “Professor” attempts to
proceed, but the little coachman sweeps him out of the way and pours
forth a rapid-fire volley of Neapolitan dialect in which he accuses
Rapi of being a hypocrite and a liar and a man who lives on the
criminality of others, referring specifically to various enterprises in
which they have both been engaged as partners. He pauses for breath,
and Rapi plunges in, contradicting, denouncing, and accusing in turn.
The prisoners by interjectory exclamations show their approval.
“Sh-sh-sh!” remarks _il presidente_, raising a finger.
“Excellency! Excellency!” exclaims Abbatemaggio deprecatingly, as if
pained that the judge should be compelled to listen to such an outburst.
Presently he can restrain himself no longer, and both he and Rapi
begin simultaneously to harangue the court, until the president orders
Abbatemaggio to stop and the captain of carabinieri touches Rapi on the
shoulder. The latter is now reduced to tears and wrings his hands as
he calls his aged mother to witness that he is an innocent man! Soon
order is restored, and the _confronto_ concludes with a sort of summing
up of his defence on the part of the “Professor.” It is a model of
rhetoric, rather too carefully calculated to appear as sincere as his
previous outbursts. He calls down the curses of God upon Abbatemaggio,
who listens contemptuously; he protests the purity of his life and
motives; he weeps at the irony of fate that keeps him—the merest
object of suspicion—confined in a loathsome prison. Then he bows and
resumes his seat by the side of Father Ciro Vitozzi, to whom, amid the
laughter of the spectators, he has referred as “that holy man there.”
And, apart from the argument between him and Abbatemaggio, there has
really been no more denunciation, no more emotion, no more tears, than
if an ordinary criminal attorney in a New York City court were summing
up an important case.
Court adjourns. No sooner has the judge departed than an outcry is
heard from the cage.
“I am tired—_tired_—_tired_!” exclaims an agonized voice. “I have
been in prison for five years! Everybody else talks and I have to
listen. I am not allowed to speak, and nothing ever happens! It is
interminable! I cannot stand it!”
It is “Erricone” having one of his periodical moments of relief. After
all, one is not inclined to blame him very much, for there is a good
deal of truth in what he says—owing to the way the case was bungled
in its earlier stages. The carabinieri rush up, “Erricone” is pacified
by his fellow Camorrists, and quiet is restored. One inquires if there
is generally any more excitement than has just occurred, and is told
that it has been quite a sensational day, but then—that “Erricone” is
always “yelling.” A good many defendants make a noise and carry on—and
so do their relatives—after court has adjourned, in America.
One is in doubt whether to believe Abbatemaggio on the one hand or
Rapi on the other, and ends by concluding that it would be utterly
impossible to believe either. Both were acting, both playing to the
gallery. You know Rapi is a crook, and—well you wouldn’t trust
Abbatemaggio, either, around the corner. And, after all, it is the word
of the one against that of the other so far as any particular defendant
is concerned. But one fixed impression remains—that of the aplomb,
intelligence, and cleverness of these men, and the danger to a society
in which they and their associates follow crime as a profession. Once
more you study the faces of the well-dressed prisoners in the cage,
of the four alleged assassins of Cuocolo—Morra, Sortino, de Gennaro,
and Cerrato; of Giuseppe Salvi, the murderer of Maria Cutinelli; of
Luigi Fucci, the dummy head of the Camorra; of “Erricone” Alfano, the
wolfish supreme chief and dictator of the society; of Luigi Arena, the
captain of the Neapolitan burglars; of that mediæval rascal, “Father”
Ciro Vitozzi, the most picturesque figure of the lot; of Desiderio,
head of petty blackmailing and tribute-levying industry; of Maria
Stendardo, whose house was a Camorrist hell; and of Rapi, the gambling
“professor” and “Moriarty” of Naples—and you know instinctively that,
whether as an abstract proposition Abbatemaggio conveys an impression
of absolute honesty or not, what he has said is true and that this is
the Camorra—the real Camorra, vile, heartless, treacherous!
Then, if you were asked to give your impressions of the way the
trial was being carried on, you would probably say that, considering
the magnitude of the task involved, the mass of evidence (there are
forty volumes of the preliminary examinations), the great number of
prisoners and the multitude of witnesses, and the latitude allowed
under the Italian law in the matter of taking testimony, the trial
was being conducted considerably faster than would be probable in
America under like conditions; that the methods followed are admirably
calculated to ascertain the truth or falsity of the charges; that the
judge presides with extreme fairness, courtesy, and ability; that, all
things considered, there is, as a rule, less confusion or disorder than
would be naturally expected—that, in a word, the Italian government is
making a good job of it, and deserves to be congratulated.
Indeed, so far as the procedure is concerned, it is not so very
different from our own, and, were it not for the presence of the
uniforms of the carabinieri and the officers of infantry in the
court-room, and the huge cage in which the prisoners are confined, one
could easily imagine one’s self in a court in America. The conduct
of the trial is far more free, far less formal, than with us—a fact
which, the writer believes, makes in the end for effectiveness,
although the excitability of the Italian temperament occasionally
creates something of an uproar, which calls for a suspension of
proceedings. Doubtless the prisoners give vent to cries of rage and
humiliation; perhaps one or two of them in the course of the trial may
faint or have fits (such things happen with us); the judge and lawyers
may squabble, and accuser and accused roundly curse each other. Such
things could hardly help occurring in a trial lasting, perhaps, a year.
In fact, deaths and births have occurred among them during this period,
for Ciro Alfano has passed away and Maria Stendardo has given birth to
a child; but, on the whole, there is probably no more excitement, no
more confusion, no more bombast, and vastly less sensationalism than if
thirty-six members of the Black Hand were being tried _en masse_ in one
of our own criminal courts for a double murder, involving the existence
of a criminal society whose ramifications extended into the national
legislature and whose affiliations embraced the leaders of a local
political organization and many officials and members of the New York
police.