by John Smolens
Hyde went over and took the receiver; it was heavier than he expected. He leaned toward the telephone, until his mouth nearly touched the cone, and said, “Savin, you there?” The man in the smock looked at Thorpe, alarmed.
“No need to shout, Hyde,” Savin said. His voice seemed to be squeezed out of the receiver. “I can hear you fine.”
“Well, I can hear you, too.”
“That’s better. So you’ve met Thorpe and now you want to tell me something?”
“Auburn, Gimmel’s taken them to Auburn. That’s what Motka’s brother was trying to tell me before he died. Czolgosz will be taken there, and that’s where your Pinkertons will be. Gimmel’s got a lot of dynamite.”
“I see.”
“I’m going there.”
“Yes, all right,” Savin said. “Tell Thorpe I want him back here at headquarters.”
Hyde cleared his throat. “What about Motka?”
“What about her?”
“Is she all right?”
“She comfortable enough.”
“What do you mean ‘enough’?”
Savin didn’t answer immediately and for a moment Hyde wondered if they’d been cut off. But then Savin said, “I mean she’s in a cell by herself and she’s being properly fed. She’s not getting fucked all day long.”
“When will you let her go?”
“That’s a good question, Hyde. Keep in mind that I bought her. I own her. Right now you get to the train station. I’ll meet you there.”
“You don’t own her, Savin.”
“I paid for her. I got her out of Big Maud’s.” There was a pause until Savin said impatiently, “Hyde.”
“What?”
“You can ring off now.”
Hyde turned to Thorpe, who took the receiver away from his ear and hung it on the hook. “Alexander Graham Bell,” Thorpe said, and then he grinned.
THE second day of the trial the defense cross-examined Dr. Matthew Mann, and then several security guards were questioned about the shooting. Again, Czolgosz paid little attention, until one man named Gallaher was asked to produce the handkerchief that had concealed the weapon. The bullet holes and burn marks were clearly evident in the fabric, and the large audience stirred uncomfortably, as though the piece of cloth were itself a dangerous weapon.
Later another guard demonstrated the Iver Johnson revolver that had been used to shoot the president. Penney had a tendency to repeat the same question, as though the witness were holding back some important detail. There were no important details, and no one ever asked how it was possible that a man with a revolver in his hand and held against his chest in full view, merely wrapped in a handkerchief, could file past dozens of security personnel, approach the president of the United States, and fire two shots at close range.
Something else was missing from their stories, and Czolgosz didn’t know what it was, until one of the guards was asked about a man named Parker. He was the Negro who had been standing directly behind Czolgosz in the reception line, and the guard admitted that Parker was the first one to knock the gunman to the floor and keep him from taking more than two shots at the president. But the other witnesses would not even acknowledge that a Negro had been in that line—it seemed they had all agreed in advance to erase Parker from the events in the Temple of Music. The men responsible for the president’s security, though they had failed miserably, had apparently agreed to alter their stories to make it appear that they, and they alone, had restrained the assassin. They were all testifying under oath, and they couldn’t even be honest about this detail.
A man named James Quackenbush was called to the witness stand, and it was established that he had been present when Czolgosz confessed only hours after the shooting. Czolgosz vaguely remembered the man; he was not a member of the police force, apparently, but had something to do with organizing the Pan-American Exposition. Czolgosz thought it curious that Quackenbush, rather than a member of the Buffalo police, was the one who testified about the confession.
When Penney asked Quackenbush, “Can you recall anything he said on the subject of why he killed the president?” Czolgosz turned his head toward the witness stand.
“He said he did not believe in government,” Quackenbush said, “that he thought the president was a tyrant and should be removed. He said that the day before the shooting when he saw the president in the grounds that he thought that no one man should receive such services and all the others regard it as a privilege to stand by and render services. That is the substance, I think, not the words, although he used the word ‘services.’ He said he had for several years been studying the doctrines of anarchy, that he believed in no government, no marriage relation, and that he attended church for some time but they talked nonsense and he discontinued that.”
“He said that, did he—that he did not believe in church or state?” Penney asked.
“Yes,” Quackenbush said, “and that he did not believe in the marriage relation, that he believed in free love. He gave the names of several papers which he had read—Polish names which I cannot recall, four of them—and he mentioned one known as Free Society.”
Penney asked, “He mentioned some places that he had been where he had heard these subjects discussed, didn’t he?”
“Yes, places in Cleveland, Ohio,” Quackenbush said. “He stated before he came to Buffalo he had been in Chicago. He said he had been influenced by the teaching of Emma Goldman.”
Her name caused a murmur to erupt in the courtroom. The judge pounded his gavel, demanding quiet. Czolgosz looked at the floor. He understood then: this trial wasn’t really about him; it was about Emma Goldman. They simply didn’t believe that he could conceive of what he did on his own. He had told them that her ideas had influenced him, but that wasn’t good enough. They needed to prove that Goldman had conspired with him to shoot the president—that it was her idea. All of her speeches, all of her articles, all of the riots that her public appearances had caused—they needed to believe that Emma Goldman was the root of the problem, and that if they could get rid of her the entire anarchist movement would be eradicated.
Czolgosz closed his eyes. He was suddenly light-headed, and he felt himself sway in his chair.
What they would never know, what they would never understand, was that shooting the president had really been an act of love.
At noon Judge White declared a recess until two o’clock. Czolgosz, Geary, and Solomon returned to the prison across the street, where they sat at the table down the corridor from the cell and ate cold roast beef, potatoes, and carrots.
“Won’t be long now,” Geary said as he cut up the meat on Czolgosz’s plate. “Another hour or so.”
“You ever seen a murder trial this quick?” Czolgosz asked.
Solomon shook his head. “Never.”
“It’s too long,” Czolgosz said.
“You in some kind of hurry, Leon?” Solomon asked.
“They could take a year and they’d never understand it.”
“That so?” Solomon said. “Well, this afternoon I’m sure they’ll get Chief Bull on the stand because he’s been responsible for holding you.” He looked at Geary. “The old Bull’s got to get his time on the stand because you can see Savin is angling for a piece of the limelight.”
“He’s after his job, he is,” Geary said.
Solomon forked some potatoes into his mouth, and said to Czolgosz, “Then maybe they’ll put some of those alienists up there to talk about whether or not you’re sane.”
“Why don’t they put you on the stand?” Czolgosz asked. “Both of you know how sane I am. And if you can, I’d like you to convince them to let me have a fork to eat with. I hate eating with a spoon.” He smiled, but the two detectives glanced warily at each other, and then resumed eating. “What?” he said.
“Leon?” Geary seemed embarrassed and he didn’t look up from his plate. “I got to ask you. Quackenbush said you don’t believe in marriage. You really believe in this free love busin
ess?”
“If somebody puts his hand on a Bible and says so, I guess it’s got to be true.”
“You practice it?” Solomon asked.
When he finished chewing a piece of roast beef, Czolgosz said, “The idea that it’s ‘free,’ I suppose, isn’t accurate. But that’s what they call it.”
“What do you mean?” Geary asked.
“I’ve never had a woman, you know, free.”
“You pay for it,” Solomon said. “You go to a whorehouse and pay for it?”
Geary added, “Like with that little redhead they brung in yesterday?”
“You never been to a whorehouse?” Czolgosz asked.
Geary laid his fork down and held up both palms. “Whoa, there.”
“Maybe you’re married?” Czolgosz said. “I don’t know, you’ve never mentioned a wife. If you got one, then you don’t need to go whoring.”
“Right,” Solomon said. “We can get it anytime we want. But is there any law that says a married man can’t enter a registered house of assignation?” Geary looked toward his partner uncertainly. “I been to brothels,” Solomon said. “There’s nothing free about it. But a few times it sure was worth it.”
“Where you been?” Geary asked.
“You know there’s dozens of places just off Market Street. I used to work that beat.”
“They do it for free?” Geary asked.
“No, I always insisted on paying,” Solomon said. “Don’t want them to be able to take advantage, right? But being police, they would give me special treatment, if you know what I mean.”
“You dog,” Geary said.
Solomon nodded toward his partner. “You see, Geary’s not only married, he goes to church every damn Sunday.”
Ignoring Solomon, Geary said, “Leon, you never married then, never considered it?”
“No.”
“Well,” Solomon said, “a good whore can help you there.”
“Maybe,” Czolgosz said. He finished the last of his roast beef. When he raised his head, they were still both staring intently at him.
Solomon leaned forward and whispered, “Leon, you ever do it with Red Emma?”
He didn’t answer.
Geary leaned forward, too. “She any good?”
He just stared back at them.
“I’ll bet she’ll take your peter in her mouth,” Geary said. “All them radical women, they’ll suck on it, right?” Czolgosz put down his spoon.
Disappointed, Geary said, “He ain’t gonna tell us nothing.”
“Look at him,” Solomon said. “You can see the killer in him now. He’d like as kill both of us if he had the means to do it. Why, if he had a fork he’d go right for your neck. It’s that Red Emma, that’s what it is. She turned this boy’s head around.”
“I’ll go back to my cell now and rest a bit before the afternoon session.” Czolgosz got up and walked down the corridor.
“They arrested her in Chicago,” Geary said. “Penney tried his damnedest to get her extradited to New York, but they wouldn’t budge, and now she’s off scot-free.”
“Too bad,” Solomon said. “If they got her here, they could’ve tried the two of them together. Like the eight anarchists that were tried for the Haymarket bombing. You know I heard that when the death penalty was handed down one of the defendants was standing by a window, and he tied a little noose in the cord hanging from the shade, and that’s how the crowd outside the courthouse learned the verdict.”
“Leon,” Geary said. “Come on back here. We’re just having a little fun. Leon?”
Czolgosz stepped inside his cell and pulled the heavy door closed.
There was a delay at the start of the afternoon session while the lawyers gathered in the front of the room. Czolgosz couldn’t hear what they were saying; several times one of them turned toward Dr. MacDonald and the other alienists, who were seated in the first rows behind the prosecution’s table. Finally, the lawyers took their seats and Chief Bull was the first to take the stand. His testimony merely repeated what had been stated by previous witnesses. At one point the crowded courtroom became particularly quiet when Penney asked if the defendant believed in marriage.
Chief Bull said, “He did not believe in marriage. He was a free lover, and the Free Love Society—as I understand it—this was a Free Love Society.”
After Bull’s testimony, the prosecution rested its case. Czolgosz understood now what the conference at the beginning of the session had been about: the lawyers had decided not to call the alienists to the witness stand.
Lewis looked at Czolgosz and said, “Do you wish to take the stand and testify?”
Czolgosz shook his head.
Slowly, Lewis stood up. “If Your Honor please,” he said, “the defense has no witnesses to call, so that the testimony is closed at the close of the testimony of the People. We are somewhat embarrassed, disappointed, in the People’s testimony closing at this point. My associate and myself have not had very much consultation as to the course to be pursued, but from the slight conversation that we have had we are inclined to ask Your Honor to permit each of us, both of us, to make some remarks to the jury in summing up this case. They will be on my part very brief, and I presume so on the part of my associate.”
Judge White nodded his consent. As Lewis began to speak Czolgosz looked at the clock on the wall. Lewis spoke for nearly half an hour, until his voice broke with emotion, and he said, “Now, gentlemen, I have said about all I care to say about this case. The president of the United States was a man for whom I had the very profoundest respect. I have watched his career from the time he entered Congress—it must be twenty or more years ago—until his last breath here in the city of Buffalo, and every act of the man, so far as I could judge, had been the act of one of the noblest men that God ever made. His policy—we care nothing about that so far as we may differ as to his policy, but his policy has always met with my profoundest admiration in every respect. I have known him not only as a statesman, but I have known him, through the public press and otherwise, as a citizen, a man of irreproachable character, a loving husband, a grand man in every aspect that you could conceive of, and his death has been the saddest blow to me that has occurred in many years.” Lewis sat down, put his handkerchief to his face, and wept.
The other defense attorney, Titus, stood up and said, “If the court please, the remarks of my distinguished associate have so fully and completely covered the ground and so largely anticipated what I intended to present to the jury myself, that it seems entirely unnecessary for me to reiterate what has already been said upon this subject, and we, therefore, rest with the remarks made by Judge Lewis.” Titus sat down but did not have the need of a handkerchief.
Then it was Penney’s turn, and it was clear from the start that he would not be brief. Penney talked a great deal about Czolgosz’s sanity, and at one point asked, “What evidence is there in this case that the man is not sane?” When he concluded, Czolgosz noted that seventeen minutes had passed.
Then Judge White stood up, and told the jury to do the same. Czolgosz hoped that the fact that the old judge was standing meant his comments would be brief. But he spoke for twenty-one minutes. As with the other speeches, there was praise for President McKinley, and considerable discussion of the relationship between sanity and guilt, and with justice as opposed to what he called “lynch law.” When the judge finished, his voice was quivering, and he sat down with tears in his eyes.
Czolgosz thought that that was the end of it, but there was still some discussion between the lawyers and the judge concerning the fine points of the law regarding sanity until, finally, Judge White said to the jury, “You gentlemen may now retire with the officers.”
The jury and the judge left the courtroom at 3:50. At first Czolgosz thought that he would be taken back to his cell, but Solomon and Geary made no move to leave. Everyone else remained in their seats. There was a commotion in the back of the courtroom and Czolgosz looked around: though every seat w
as taken, more people were filing through the doors and standing along the walls.
At 4:17 the tipstaff thumped the floor twice, Judge White returned to the bench, and then the jury filed back to their seats. The judge told Czolgosz to stand up, and he got to his feet. His lawyers remained seated.
The clerk called the names of each juror, and then asked, “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”
The jury foreman stood up and said, “We have.”
“How do you find?” the clerk asked.
A fly landed on Czolgosz’s right cheek, which he brushed off with his hand.
The foreman unfolded a slip of paper and read, “Guilty of murder in the first degree as charged in the indictment.”
The clerk asked, “So say you all?”
The twelve jurors said together, “We do.”
There was silence for a moment, and then a din of voices burst out in the courtroom despite the rapping of the judge’s gavel.
Czolgosz sat down. The trial had taken a little more than eight hours, and the jury had taken less than a half hour to reach its verdict.
NORRIS couldn’t tell how much time had passed. He was in a stall again, curled up on the hard cold ground, tied to the gatepost. His head throbbed and dried blood encrusted his mouth. He was certain his nose was broken. He could barely see out of his left eye. After Feeney’s throat had been cut, they made Norris dig a hole out in the pasture and bury the body. This took a long time and Norris nearly collapsed from the work. It was first light when he was through, and then Gimmel beat him with the monkey fist.