by W. A. Winter
“And think about this, ladies and gentlemen. Sergeant Anderson had been living with a woman named Lily Kline. But at the time of Teresa Hickman’s murder, their relationship was on the rocks, and shortly afterward Miss Kline, a Jewess, booted Anderson out of their apartment in what must have been an ugly scene. It’s not difficult to imagine what this no doubt painful and embarrassing rejection might have added to the sergeant’s already negative feeling about Jewish people.
“Sergeant Anderson is an angry, bitter, violent man—in police vernacular a thumper—who, our research has determined, is not only feared by private citizens but unpopular among his colleagues as well. You heard, just last week, his partner of the past several years, Detective Melvin Curry, when asked if he trusted Sergeant Anderson, give something less than a ringing endorsement. If his partner doesn’t trust Sergeant Anderson, why should we? Why should you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, when an innocent man’s life hangs in the balance?
“The fact is, Sergeant Anderson, on behalf of the state of Minnesota, had only this sad, stooped, Jewish dentist, with not a single piece of forensic evidence to connect him to Teresa Hickman’s murder. Surely a healthy, young woman, if she were being strangled, would fight back—would bite, scratch, and strike out with her fists—yet when Dr. Rose was examined by the police a day after Mrs. Hickman’s murder he bore no signs of a struggle. What we have instead of evidence—of cold, hard, irrefutable proof—is bigotry, ignorance, superstition, sloth, incompetence, and a half-dozen men far likelier to commit rape and murder than this defendant.
“If all that doesn’t add up to reasonable doubt, ladies and gentlemen, then I don’t know what does. You must do the only right thing and vote to acquit.”
The courtroom is silent for several moments. DeShields’s glowing eyes move from one juror to the next, ending with the second of the two young women seated at the end of the first row. One of them raises her hands to her mouth and begins to sob. Three other women in the box are dabbing at their eyes with tissues. Several of the men, after briefly making eye contact with DeShields, stare at their hands in their laps.
Asked by Judge Nordahl if he wished to rebut the defense’s close, Homer Scofield says nothing. Rudy Blake glances at Scofield, leans toward him, and whispers something that no one, apparently including Scofield, can hear.
Finally, Scofield shakes his head and says something so softly that no one will hear this either, forcing the judge to ask him again. Then Scofield says, in an only slightly louder voice, “I have nothing more, Your Honor.”
It is 4:10 p.m. when bailiffs lead the seven men and five women of the jury out of Courtroom No. 1, down the hallway fifty-odd steps, and into the monastic confines of Jury Room No. 3.
They had a few moments to compose themselves and listen to Dante DeShields ask the judge, first, to dismiss the murder charge against Rose and then, after the judge denied the motion, to require the jury to reach one of only two possible verdicts—guilty of murder in the first degree or acquittal—also denied. Instead, in his instructions, Nordahl told the jury that they must choose among first- and second-degree murder, first- and second-degree manslaughter, not guilty, and not guilty by reason of insanity.
The packed gallery buzzes like a shaken beehive as the jury begins its somber shuffle to the jury room. The reporters flee the press tables, those up against a deadline throwing elbows en route to one of the half-dozen pay phones in the corridor, the others expressing befuddlement at the turn of events. Even Mckenzie, Appel, and Rystrom, with sixty years of reporting experience among them, say they can’t recall a trial closing like this one, with the defense’s virulent ad hominem attack on a police officer and the prosecution’s astonishing unwillingness to rebut.
Pushing toward the exits, the journalists mentally compose their headlines:
ROSE DEFENSE CALLS COPS INCOMPETENT, BIGOTS;PROSECUTION MUM
LAWYER’S ASSAULT ON STATE’S CASE LEAVES ROSE PROSECUTORS SPEECHLESS
Rose remains seated. So do Ruth and his siblings and siblings-in-law. Only Sam’s wife, Noreen, stands and, hands on her hips, stares at the vacated jury box. The Roses look like members of the audience of a long and dizzyingly complex theatrical drama whose sudden ending has left everybody drained and confused.
Ronnie Oshinsky mumbles something about the judge’s instructions being favorable to the defense, but no one seems to be listening.
DeShields, mopping his face with an enormous checkered handkerchief that might seem comical in other circumstance, tells the Roses they can repair to the room set aside for the defendant and his family or try to enjoy an early dinner at a nearby restaurant, though he says he senses a speedy verdict and advises they stay close by. He gives them no feeling one way or the other as to what he believes the verdict will be.
The defendant says, “I’d prefer to stay pat for a few more minutes.”
He is holding Ruth’s hand, but otherwise reveals no more emotion than he has throughout the trial. His brothers decide they need a drink and excuse themselves, with wife and girlfriend trailing behind them.
Rose looks around for Arne Anderson, whom he hasn’t seen since the detective’s testimony two days ago. He knew that DeShields was going to challenge the investigation, but the personal nature of the attack surprised him. He feels no ill will toward the police, despite the obvious bias of some of the detectives, and thought Sergeant Anderson was a diligent, honest, and likable man.
If Anderson were in the room, Rose would be inclined to walk over and offer an apology for his lawyer—maybe even try to lighten the mood by saying, “Nothing personal, you understand.” But Anderson is nowhere to be seen, and, in any event, Rose is pretty sure there are rules about a defendant speaking to a witness during a trial.
Moments later, Ronnie tells him that Homer Scofield collapsed in the lavatory and was on his way to Hiawatha General Hospital.
To the surprise of nearly everybody, with the possible exception of Dante DeShields, the jury sends word to Judge Nordahl at 5:35, slightly less than an hour and a half after beginning deliberations, that they have reached a verdict.
In another fifteen minutes, everybody who departed the big room has hustled back inside. The more astute observers notice that Private Hickman and Walter Kubicek, who were not present during the closing arguments, are not in the courtroom for the verdict, either. Nor are the victim’s friends, Connie Bannister and Kenny Landa, as though the North Dakotans have finally abandoned Terry to the big city.
When the room is more or less settled, Nordahl asks the foreman if the jury has in fact come to a verdict. The foreman, a sepulchral Northern States Power Company supervisor named Lawrence Hammer, says it has. A bailiff takes the envelope from Hammer and hands it to the judge, who silently reads its contents. The judge then hands it to the clerk of court, who reads the verdict aloud:
“We, the jury in the above entitled action, find the defendant guilty of manslaughter in the first degree.”
Rose blinks, swallows, and purses his lips. Ruth squeezes his arm, closes her eyes, tips back her head, and lets a couple of large tears roll down her lightly rouged cheeks. DeShields immediately begins squaring the papers in front of him as though he must pack up and rush to another trial. Across the table, Rudy Blake stands and nods his head toward the jury. He no doubt wonders if Scofield, whom he last saw flat on his back in a county ambulance, would be available for a congratulatory phone call. Maybe Homer will learn about his first district court victory on the radio.
When the judge gavels the court to order for a final time, he asks the defendant if there is anything he wishes to say.
After a moment of apparent indecision, Rose says he does. The room falls silent. It will be the first time most of the people in the gallery hear his voice since his “Not guilty” declaration a month ago.
“I have always thought of myself as a decent human being who has dedicated himself to reducing or eliminating pain. I still think of myself that way because I have never kno
wingly harmed another person in my life.”
He glances around the room as though he might have forgotten something, and then concludes that he has nothing more he wants to say.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” he adds and sits down.
Judge Nordahl sentences Rose to five to twenty years in the state prison at Stillwater, the standard punishment for first-degree manslaughter in Minnesota.
Then, while family and lawyers gather around the convicted man, the jurors, most of the reporters, and the gallery exit the courtroom like water draining out of a bathtub. A sense of exhaustion, mingled with the stink of perspiration and the dregs of abandoned tuna salad sandwiches, hangs over the chamber. The buzz is subdued. It is not one of anticipation or excitement anymore, but not one of disappointment or outrage, either. The likely truth is that while the brevity of the jurors’ deliberation was surprising, few people are shocked by the verdict. Most are relieved that the drama is finally over.
The jurors have collectively decided not to speak to the press.
Milt Hickok will later quote an anonymous source, likely an outlying member of the panel, saying that a “significant majority” went into the deliberations primed to vote first-degree murder and its automatic life sentence without parole, but that a few “moderates” argued persuasively for the lesser determination of manslaughter. No one seemed to believe Rose’s “blackout story,” Hickok will report, but no one was convinced that he’d planned to murder Mrs. Hickman.
A few moments after a sheriff’s deputy leads Rose away, in the grand atrium on the courthouse’s first floor, under the blind marble gaze of The Father of Waters, Dante DeShields, with Rose’s family behind him, says that he will appeal his client’s conviction, alleging, though not enumerating, “at least two-dozen reversible errors.” He finally looks as though the process has tired him, if only for the moment.
“Meantime,” he says, with a few degrees less heat than he radiated during the closing, “an innocent man will spend tonight in a jail cell, the victim of religious hatred and official ineptitude, while Teresa Hickman’s killer prowls the streets, seeking his next victim.”
* * *
It’s Augie Fuller’s idea to celebrate Rose’s conviction at Smokey’s. He has managed, with cash from the squad’s slush fund, to secure one of the bar’s back rooms for a cops-only party. Arne comes because he has nowhere better to go and because Mel will probably bring Janine and because the “refreshments” will be on the department’s dime.
After fulsome toasts by Augie and Ed Evangelist, the officers and a few wives, girlfriends, and “dates” spread out among the wobbly tables to eat Smokey’s spaghetti and meatballs and wash it down with pitchers of Gluek’s. Whiskey, club soda, and ginger ale bottles stand open on several tables.
Leaning close to Anderson, Charlie Riemenschneider says, “On the level, Sarge, you think we’d have won this one if Rose wasn’t a Jew?”
Only Charlie, a widower, has chosen to join Arne at his table. The others on the squad are wary of Arne’s disposition in the wake of DeShields’s bruising close and sense something off-kilter about him this evening. Arne, for his part, is trying, unsuccessfully, not to stare at Janine Curry, who is sitting with Mel and the Wrenshalls in the opposite corner of the room. Someone has fed a handful of dimes into the jukebox next to the door; it’s playing “Stranger in Paradise,” and Arne fights off the fantasy of dancing with Janine, who’s exceptionally beautiful tonight in a sleeveless, form-fitting yellow dress.
“Probably not,” Arne says, absently. “And we might not have won if DeShields had found out earlier about the shoe that turned up on Euclid Place.”
Riemenschneider squints through his smudged spectacles at nothing in particular.
“That fuckin’ shoe,” he mutters, draining his lowball glass of the last finger of Canadian Club. “What happened to that shoe anyways?”
Across the room, Janine makes eye contact with Arne, and then turns away when Mel leans close and whispers something to her. Looking over her shoulder, Mel catches Arne’s gaze.
“Damned if I know,” Arne says.
A few minutes later, Rudy Blake joins the party and asks for the group’s attention. His eyes are already rheumy, and he’s unsteady on his feet. Someone pulls the plug on the jukebox, and Blake announces that Homer Scofield has been admitted to Hiawatha General, suffering from dehydration and nervous fatigue. “The good news is he’s expected to return to work after Labor Day.” Three or four people clap halfheartedly.
Rudy smiles weakly, congratulates the detectives on “our shared victory,” and shuffles toward the door. Someone plugs the jukebox back into the wall, and Sid Hessburg, his jacket off and tie undone, starts dancing to “Rock Around the Clock” with an attractive young woman none of the assembled has seen until this evening. Across the room, Mel Curry gets to his feet and walks toward the door.
“Jesus,” Riemenschneider says, “I can’t tell you how much I hate that nigger music.”
Frenchy LeBlanc, in a natty houndstooth sport coat, has grabbed a chair at their table.
“That’s Bill Haley and the Comets, Charlie,” he says. “He’s as white as your ass.”
Riemenschneider raises his empty glass and waves at one of the waitresses.
“Well, fuck ’im,” he says. “He sounds like a nigger.”
Anderson is on his feet now and makes his way toward the door. After a moment of indecision, he’s decided to follow Curry instead of wandering across the room, sitting down beside Janine, and draping an arm around her naked shoulders. In the hallway outside the party room, he sees Rudy Blake sitting on the linoleum floor with his back against the wall, his head lolling on his chest, the silver hairpiece sliding over his right eye. A tiny white-haired woman Anderson assumes is Rudy’s wife stands beside him, apparently waiting for him to get up.
“Need help, ma’am?” Arne asks.
The woman shakes her head as though her husband slumped semiconscious in the hallway of a saloon is nothing to be concerned about. She smiles at Arne.
“He’s only resting,” she says. “It’s been a long day.”
Arne, bumping against the wall, walks down the hall, pushes open the screen door, and steps into the alley, where he knows Curry is waiting.
Mel is leaning against the building’s brick wall, on the other side of a half-dozen garbage cans, smoking a filter-tipped cigarette. Unusual for this time of night, they have this stretch of alleyway to themselves.
Arne lights a Camel. His hands shake, but he tells himself it’s the booze and the stress of the trial. Like the lady said, it’s been a long day.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
Curry looks at him without replying for a moment.
“She says she’s sorry, too,” Mel says at last. He flicks his glowing cigarette butt into the alley.
He is quiet again for a moment, and then says softly, “What kind of man fucks his partner’s wife? What kind of woman fucks her husband’s best friend? She says it’s over, but she calls your name in her sleep.”
Arne takes a deep breath and says, “Mel”—but even after weeks of rehearsing his exit line the words aren’t there when he wants them.
That doesn’t matter because Curry has drawn a short-barreled Smith & Wesson revolver from the holster inside his jacket and thrusts it out toward Anderson like an accusation. He fires three shots that form a tight scalene triangle in the center of Arne’s chest, and then watches his partner—wide-eyed and mouth open—sit down in the alley and die.
WINTER 1956
CHAPTER 15
Pity the city editor who had to deal with the events of August 24, 1955.
If his responsibility was one of the morning papers, the Minneapolis Tribune or St. Paul’s Pioneer Press, he had just approved the front page with its Second Coming type along the banner—QUICK DECISION: ROSE GUILTY! in the Tribune, DENTIST DRAWS MANSLAUGHTER SENTENCE in the Pioneer Press—accompanied by photos of the Roses, pale and pokerfaced, leaving th
e courtroom, one of the young jurors weeping in the arms of an older woman, Rudy Blake and Dante DeShields in separate conversations with reporters on the courthouse steps, and the familiar yearbook photo of Teresa Kubicek Hickman.
In both papers the trial coverage and jury verdict filled two-thirds of the next day’s front page, plus most of three pages inside.
Then, less than an hour before the late edition went to press, the city room phones began ringing off the hook and the first breathless word arrived of the murder of MPD Detective Sergeant Arne Anderson and the attempted murder of the wife of Detective Melvin Curry at Smokey’s Bar on South Fourth Street. Several of the journalists who weren’t back at their desks banging out trial coverage were within feet of the carnage when all hell broke loose at the bar.
Meghan Mckenzie was the lone representative of the local United Press bureau on the premises. Still only a UP stringer, with no specific assignment, she and her husband were celebrating their five-year wedding anniversary with lawyer friends in Smokey’s main room. She was on her way to the toilet when, after nearly stumbling over Rudy Blake outside the men’s john, she was pushed aside by Mel Curry, who strode in purposefully from the alley. She saw a pistol in Curry’s hand and figured the detective was rushing toward trouble inside.
She turned and followed Curry the few steps into the party room where the murder squad had been celebrating and watched him walk toward his wife, who was dancing with one of the younger detectives—Reynard LeBlanc, she learned his name was—and without a word fired three shots in the woman’s direction. The cop she was dancing with flinched and staggered backward, tipping over a table covered with half-finished food and drinks. As the woman, in a gorgeous sleeveless dress, screamed and fainted, several cops lurched to their feet, a few of them shouting at Curry while most of the rest of them sat back down again, too drunk to do anything but fumble for their holstered weapons.