“These Star stories have whipped the whole damn country into a frenzy,” Ed Sr. told his wife the night before. “We can’t possibly get a fair verdict, even from that no-account jury. They’re all sitting there pious and all, listening to that girl tell about a little daub of tar as if her whole life was on the line. And yesterday that tinhorn lawyer from Atlanta shows up and offers to help McArdle, just so he can get this name in the paper.”
“Calm down, Ed,” Mrs. Garvey said. “You’re not helping matters. Those boys did a terrible thing. And I feel worse for Margaret now than ever.”
“You and every other weak sister in town,” Ed said. “I believe that boy would be better off with the judge than with the jury.”
Mrs. Garvey was at a loss for words. She hadn’t been able to reason with her husband since the trial began. It was better to just be quiet.
“I think the boy should plead guilty and let the judge decide,” Ed said. “I’ve known Judge Crier all my life. He’s a farmer, and he knows how these things happen. Let’s just ask for the mercy of the court.”
“Talk to Mr. Engle, Ed, and see what he says,” Mrs. Garvey said, ending the conversation.
The next morning, all four boys directly involved in the tarring offered a guilty plea. Almost as surprising as the new pleas was Judge Crier’s immediate announcement of a five-hour recess so he could consider the case, and his stated intention to announce a sentence at four o’clock the same day, not only for the four who pled guilty today, but also for Herbert Forchet and Hank Simpson.
“My God,” the man next to Temple Dandridge said as the courtroom leapt to its feet. “The judge is going to sentence even before the trial is over. What about those other guys?”
Dandridge raced for a telephone to call Nate Cabot. “Hold the front page,” he yelled down the wire. “The main guys have pled guilty, and the sentence is coming at four. Today’s the day. I’ll call you back after four.” He hung up the phone and headed for McArdle’s office to find out what the heck was going on.
The Reverend Aaron Langston sank into the family’s Victorian couch and closed his eyes. The couch had long since lost its spring, leaving it the softest and most comfortable seat in the house. He rubbed his temples. He was tired from the courtroom, from worrying about his son, from not knowing what to tell his congregation about the trial. But he knew he had to talk with his family about the day’s events. Jay had pled guilty and Judge Crier had done the unexpected, imposing a stiff sentence of one year in the county jail and a five-hundred-dollar fine, the maximum possible for assault and battery. The courtroom, filled with family of the defendants and mainstays of the town, had responded with shouts and tears. As Judge Crier walked off his dais after sentencing, the audience fell silent and watched the defendants console each other with brave admonitions to “get through this.” The strangers in the room, including the press, were surprised by the stunned reaction of the audience, but immediately began moving for the doors so they could run down the street to a telephone or teletype to report their headlines: “Six Go to Jail, Tar Trial Continues.”
The first journalist through the swinging doors was a reporter for the Salina Journal, who shouted to the crowd in the hallway, “One year in jail.” His words were passed through the crowd and out to the front steps where a stranger cupped his hands over his mouth like a megaphone and repeated the verdict to a front-yard crowd of more than a thousand. Aaron Langston, who was just emerging from the building, was stunned to hear a great shout of celebration rise from the crowd. People could be heard almost screaming, “They got what they deserved. Let ’em rot in jail.” A woman shouted, “That’ll teach ’em.”
As Ivy Langston, Ray, and the girls gathered in their living room, it felt like every stitch in their lives was frayed and breaking. Jay was gone, at least for a year, and they were left with his debt as well.
Ivy examined her husband, slumped on the couch. He seemed unbearably tired. His long white beard hadn’t been trimmed in weeks, and it hung limp upon his vest. Ivy noticed that his hair seemed whiter, at least around the ears where it was beginning to curl, and she worried for his health.
“Ivy, children,” Aaron began, “Jesus taught us there is a time for every season. This is our time of testing, and we must not be found wanting. We must take our direction from the scriptures where God directs his followers not to give up their faith. He rewards those who are loyal to his cause, and he forgives those who trespass against him. Now we must trust in the Lord.”
“But the judge was right, Aaron,” Ivy said quietly. “What Jay did was wrong. He must pay for his sins, and we will pray for him. Then we will welcome him home.”
“God bless you, Ivy,” Aaron said. “And may God bless our family.”
Aaron thought maybe that would suffice. His family’s love of God and each other would bring them through this terrible nightmare, but he wasn’t so sure about the community. He couldn’t erase from his mind the sounds of those shouts, those celebrations just outside the courthouse when the people heard the sentences. There was no sympathy for the defendants, only ridicule and derision. It was impossible to know who was in the crowd, but many of them must have been from Nickerly, many of them from his own church. And there were many women among them. One thing was clear, this trial had changed the community, and it wasn’t over yet.
The next day, Judge Crier made it clear that the trial of the nine remaining defendants would continue to its conclusion, and he left it to the prosecuting attorney to clarify the nature of the charges. W.W. McArdle argued with great vigor that a conspiracy to tar and feather was just as damning as committing the act, and that these men were all part of the conspiracy. Three of them took the witness stand and pled their innocence on the basis of nonparticipation. They argued that they only watched, and it was even hard to see anything in the dark. Some of them said they remained in the hedge and saw nothing. Two of them said they were still a mile away from the incident because they were walking and couldn’t get there in time. But all were forced to admit that they knew about the tar party, did nothing to stop it, and probably would have participated if circumstances had not intervened. It was their gamble that no jury would convict on such a flimsy charge as conspiracy, especially when it amounted to nothing more than a few boys showing up to see some excitement.
W.W. McArdle had practiced his final argument at home, pacing across his small living room, reading his longhand words with as much emphasis as he could muster. He changed several of the formulations that seemed too legalistic. He knew this jury well, and they would not listen to lawyer talk. They were propelled through life by a fear of the Lord, and the Lord’s simple words had given their lives meaning. But this morning he would give them another set of moral tenets, the laws of the State of Kansas that embodied the great commandments themselves. And he would deliver those laws with a fervor that courtroom had not heard before.
McArdle seemed to have grown during the trial. His somewhat stiff and formal appearance had given way to a certain nobility, to a sense of correctness, born of the conviction that his argument was strong and his position correct. He knew he was right and that knowledge made his eyes sparkle and his spine stretch straight. He began his closing arguments with an unsparing denunciation of the defendants:
“In my practice I have sent men to the penitentiary for felonies, but I have never had a case that could equal the one before us in the enormity of its cowardice and brutality.
“I regret indeed that our laws are so lame, our legislatures so lax, that we must be content to send the offenders of such a crime to jail or heap upon them an insignificant fine. Certainly an offense of this nature will never be committed again and be subjected to a similar punishment. And yet our legislature, our people, our students of political economy doubtless never dreamed that a law of this nature would be found necessary to put into effect.
“Tar and feathers! A relic of ancient times. Tarring a girl! Think of it. One of our own girls; one of our own ci
tizens; right here in the center of civilization. I have heard of such things taking place in barbaric times, but I never believed it. I have heard that they would sometimes take a man and tar him and ride him on a rail. But did you ever hear of a bunch of men tarring a helpless girl? One who cannot defend herself? It is simply awful. Why, Robin Hood and his gang of desperadoes would start at such a thing. They, who made their livelihood by forage, by highway robbery, would blush to do such a thing as this band of desperadoes did the night of the seventh of August, 1911.
“It has been intimated throughout the conduct of this trial that Miss Chambers is not a girl of good reputation or character. This I would challenge most strenuously, if it were necessary; if her reputation were an issue in this case. But it is not an issue.
“I care not who Miss Chambers is, nor what she is. That matters not. She may be the vilest character on top of the earth, yet she is just as much entitled to the protection of our laws as if she were an angel. No matter how grievously she has broken the moral or legal laws, her punishment is not a coat of tar. If she did that which is improper, let her be brought before this same tribunal that is trying these defendants. There she would get her just punishment, if she deserved it.
“But where in the name of God and all reason did those men, who on this dark night so desecrated our laws, customs, ethics, get the all-important right to judge her without a trial; to take her ruthlessly and forcibly out of the conveyance in which she was riding and thus chasten her? Why, even a dog deserves better treatment than was given Margaret Chambers that night.
“Gentlemen, this girl is our sister! This girl is one of the daughters of Kansas. This girl calls for the protection of our laws and our state. It is your duty to give it to her. You can if you will. Will you, in your verdict today, blot from the spangled banner the bright star that glitters to the name of Kansas and leave the stripe behind, a fit emblem of her degradation? Or will you, by the word ‘guilty,’ continue to make it one of the brightest stars that shines upon the broad field of our national flag?
“Margaret Chambers was tried, condemned, and punished before a force worse than Pontius Pilate. I hope by your verdict you will triumphantly punish her unjust treatment. I will leave the case in your hands.”
After Judge Crier gave final instructions to the jury, he called for a recess, and Margaret and Temp went down to the basement of the courthouse hoping to find some privacy. Some clerks were working in the file rooms where court records were stacked in wooden cabinets, but the two found a small wood bench in a quiet corner. The stone walls were painted white, as were the iron water pipes coming through the walls from the two wells in the yard, giving the place a hospital feeling, exacerbated by the pervasive smell of Lysol.
Margaret was distinctly nervous, glad to have the arguments over, but worried by the judge’s instructions.
“My God, Temp,” she said. “How can the jury ever find them guilty after hearing those instructions? They were there. They all did it. Why did he go over and over that conspiracy business?”
“It’s the law, Margaret,” Temp began. “He has to tell them the law.”
Judge Crier had delineated fifteen different points of instruction to the jury, which he had written himself in longhand. He checked off each point as he read it, writing “Given” and scratching his initials beside it. Temp had taken notes as fast as he could, figuring he could get the full text later from the clerk, but catching the main points: that no evidence showed the remaining defendants had actually participated in the tarring and feathering; that the mere presence at the crime does not make the defendants participants; that counseling others is not participating; that “reasonable doubt” meant no conviction; that even if the men were on their way to the scene of the crime, they were not guilty, and presumed innocent. Even Temp found it remarkable that the only statement of reason for guilt came in item thirteen. The judge had said, “Although you should believe from the evidence that Margaret Chambers was tarred and feathered, and if you find that these nine defendants did not actually participate in the act, then I instruct you that the defendants cannot be considered parties to said plan or responsible for any assault upon the said Margaret Chambers, and unless you should find and believe beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendants advised and counseled the perpetration of the last named assault, you should acquit them.”
“And even then he went on to emphasize that silence or assent doesn’t mean they approved,” Margaret said with some resignation. “How can this jury, half of whom can’t read or write anyway, possibly convict? The judge gave them every way out.”
“That’s not all true, Margaret,” Temp said. “I’m told the foreman is the smartest man in this county, has written a book, and speaks two languages.”
“He’s still a farmer who thinks these men should be out plowing the north forty,” she said.
“Margaret,” Temp said, switching gears, “you can’t stay here when this is over. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe go to Kansas City. Maybe join the suffrage movement.”
Temp rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He would like to have Margaret in Kansas City, but those suffragettes were not his cup of tea.
“Temp,” Margaret said pleadingly. “Why do women get so little respect? Why aren’t there any women in that courtroom? They don’t even think they have the right to come. Even Mrs. Garvey isn’t here, and her son’s on trial. Why do we leave everything to the men?”
Temp was looking for a way out of this conversation when W.W. McArdle came clattering down the steps to join them.
“I was told you two had slipped down here,” he said. “Now people will be talking about that. At least you’re sitting out here in the hallway.”
“Oh, Mr. McArdle,” Margaret said with a smile, “I can’t take another scandal.”
“I just wanted to let you know that the jury may be out for a while,” W.W. said. “They have asked to see the handkerchief and the can of tar they found at the mill. Don’t leave the courthouse without checking with me. I still think this may be over tonight.”
McArdle turned and trotted back up the steps.
“My mother went on home, Temp,” Margaret said. “She was so upset by all of this, but now I think she wants it to happen.”
“You mean the verdict?”
“Yes, I think she has come to see this as her trial, and she’s been the victim a lot longer than I have.”
“I’ll have to go back to Kansas City soon,” Temp offered. “I hate to leave you.”
“You’ll be fine, Temp,” Margaret said. “I’ll come see you. I’m almost famous now. Maybe I can travel. At least I know I’m not going back to that school.”
“Six men are in jail already,” Temp said, bringing the conversation back to the trial. “Herbie, Garvey, Langston, Wilson, Simpson, and Woods. The maximum penalty. How do you feel about that?”
“The only one I feel sorry for is the one who did the most harm to me, Easy Tucker,” she said. “At least he knew it was wrong. And his guilt killed him. These others still think they were railroaded.”
Margaret’s hair was beginning to droop under the strain of the day. A handful of pins and clips were unable to hold the weight of her curls, and perspiration undermined the strength of their construction. She rubbed her forehead, wanting to let her hair down. Even her corset began to pinch and itch, and she rubbed her sides for relief, but she knew it was a weariness of the mind that took her strength, so she excused herself to go home. Temp offered to walk her, but she declined, asking him to stay at the courthouse and call when the jury came in.
When the jury convened at nine o’clock the next morning, after deliberating until past one o’clock the night before, it took them another seventeen ballots to reach a final verdict on all nine of the defendants. They had taken a total of forty-two ballots in two days of arguing about the conspiratorial role of each man, with over two hours of debate just on the subject of the can of tar found at Ga
rvey’s Mill. Since six men had already pled guilty to assault and battery, it wasn’t clear to the jury that this evidence was relevant. And none of the conspirators had been directly connected to the physical evidence. It all depended on their intentions, and the jury was reluctant to put men in jail for that. The part that stuck in their minds was the testimony by Herbie Forchet that these men just stood around and watched. They had indulged in a kind of voyeurism particularly repulsive to practicing Presbyterians, as most of the jury were, and a sexual sin of far worse proportions than tarring and feathering. The act of watching was indeed a form of participation. The jury also called for two readings of the testimony by Margaret Chambers about her clothes being torn and her body exposed. Once the jury consensus formed that these men were involved for reasons of sexual stimulation, rather than moral convictions, the verdicts were much easier. Thus the jury spent a great deal of time reviewing the testimony to figure out where each man was standing and what he was trying to see.
Rumors started flying about two o’clock in the afternoon that a verdict was coming, and spectators began pouring in from every corner of the county. It was a clear, early winter day when sweaters were adequate against the chill, and the sun gave a bright sheen to the grass. The crowd outside was larger than ever, swelling to well over two thousand. The trial regulars, including the press, had never left the courthouse, and they took their seats in the courtroom at once.
The earlier guilty pleas had come in such a way that they had deprived the crowd of any surprise. The spectators had not witnessed the blunt force and finality of a jury decision, and they seemed to ignore the fact that these remaining verdicts were about conspiracy, not the actual assault. The boys at the Adeline Hotel were giving ten-to-one odds that all would be found innocent.
The one difference in today’s crowd was the presence of the wives and children of the defendants and a large group of Civic Improvement Association members. The latter bustled up the sidewalk like a gaggle of geese, dressed in their finest overcoats, a black hat on every head, and a certain lockstep gait that suggested days of marching practice in the church basement, although that seemed unlikely. Mrs. Club Wilson was in the lead, perhaps realizing that with her husband in jail for a year, the association members might be her only companions. She had asked Tiny Tucker to lead the group, but Tiny had declined, even saying she might not want to meet with the group again. Her reasons were not clear, but Mrs. Wilson assumed she was overcome with grief and did not pester her further.
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