Chapter Twenty-Three
Saturday, February 23, 1935
JUDGE HURST WAS RUNNING LATE. It was another nerve-wracking waiting game for everyone—except the defendant, who maintained his usual look of boredom. Although Flint Moss was rested with more sleep than he’d gotten in two weeks, his anxiousness was aimed at the motion for a new trial he’d filed with County Clerk Nora Harshbarger at 1:45 that afternoon. It was now ten minutes after two, and it was possible that the judge was giving serious consideration to the fourteen reasons why his client should receive a new trial. Moss called the verdict “terrible” and declared that it went against all the evidence presented. He was dressed in a black-and-white-checked suit, which he claimed he wore “only when I am mentally low.”
When Judge Hurst did finally appear, he patiently listened to Moss and McCollum argue for a new trial based on faults they found with both him and the prosecution. In typical fashion for the two, their exaggerated indignation was disproportionate to the fourteen errors they called into question.
“I don’t believe there is a reversible error in this lawsuit,” Judge Hurst announced after allowing them to go on for ninety minutes. “If I thought there was, I would not wait for your motion. I would grant a new trial asked on my own motion. I think the defendant has had as fair a trial as could be had.”
After asking for sentence recommendations which ranged from four to ninety-nine years, the minimum and maximum allowed, Judge Hurst bellowed, “The defendant stand up!”
Kennamer took a step forward and, with some military bearing in his stance, he showed, at least physically, he was ready to accept his punishment. The spectators in attendance surpassed any other day during the eleven-day trial, but this time, it was nearly all residents from Pawnee County. The well-dressed, high-society types from Tulsa and Oklahoma City, who always seemed to get the front two bench-rows, were gone. Virginia Wilcox, who had sat with the Kennamer family the last few days, was gone. Judge Franklin Kennamer, who was reportedly too ashamed to be there as his son was sentenced to prison, paced back and forth in the tiny press room, smoking a cigar. Alice Gorrell had finally had enough and stayed home, but her husband occupied his usual seat alongside Anderson, Wallace, and Gilmer.
For most of the trial, reporters ignored the words of Judge Hurst and instead focused their attention on the lawyers—Moss, Gilmer, and King in particular. But now they regarded his statement carefully and printed every word the jurist said.
“The court has tried to be fair throughout this trial. The court has tried to give you every right. As good a jury as could possibly be found tried this case.
“They rejected your pleas of insanity and self-defense. They held that you did not kill Gorrell with a premeditated design. I think it was because you went unarmed and killed him with his own gun. The evidence would have justified the jury in finding premeditation.
“Your act brought heartache to two families, both of them innocent. Throughout the trial, I have observed that while your father was broken-hearted, you have not shown very much concern, and I have been shocked at that. I can’t understand how a boy who has inflicted this misery upon his family could feel as you have seemed to feel.
“It is my duty to assess the punishment that I think society has a right to demand and no more. I ought not to give you one minute more by reason of your father or one minute less. But society has to be paid. A serious offense has been committed. It would be dangerous to society to turn you out too soon.
“You shall receive the punishment that society has the right to demand. It is therefore the judgment of the court that you serve twenty-five years in McAlester prison.”
During his rebuke, Phil stood motionless. His eyes dropped down only when he heard of the pain he caused his father. When the judge declared he was given a fair trial, he swallowed hard and nodded his head. It was a silent confirmation he would soon proclaim his disagreement with.
In light of all the Gorrells had just endured, it was an ironic twist that the state law allowed those convicted of manslaughter to be released on bond, pending appeal of their case. Kennamer was given ten days to come up with the $25,000 bail—$1,000 for each year of his sentence. With four months to prepare his appellate brief, and the typical schedule for the state Criminal Court of Appeals, Kennamer could live as a free man for one year. If the appeals court ruled against him and he served his time wisely, lenient state laws governing the parole process could allow him to get out of prison after serving one-half to three-fifths of his sentence.
John Gorrell’s killer could go free after serving just twelve years.
In spite of this, Dr. Gorrell put on a brave face to reporters. “I am satisfied with the verdict and sentence. The judgment of the court is my judgment, as I said before the verdict came in.”
It was not an easy decision for the jury, foreman Jacob Clark later told reporters. At no time did they consider the first-degree-murder charge, or the insanity claims. While two jurors held out for acquittal until the last hour, their final decision had come through on the twelfth vote.
Back at the sheriff’s office, reporters caught up with Phil, who was ready with a statement in which he demanded to be quoted verbatim. Although he attempted to sound magnanimous, he only proved to everyone who read it that he was a true egotist who needed to get in the last word.
“So far as the closing statement of Judge Thurman Hurst is concerned, it was fair,” Kennamer said after lighting up a cigarette. “He made every effort to conduct the trial in a fair, rigidly impartial manner. That that end was not achieved was no fault of Judge Hurst. I feel, though, that it was not a trial in the ordinary sense of the word, but more approached the semblance of a Roman holiday.
“The clamor set in the press at the outset was of such a nature it was impossible to find twelve men whose minds were free of bias. I think the jury was representative of an intelligent and honest citizenship, but in their subconscious minds had been poured such a stream of virus it was impossible for them to be fair and impartial.
“For Messieurs King, Anderson, Gilmer, and Wallace, I have only the deepest contempt. Those gentlemen engaged in every low practice known to the courts—from intimidation of witnesses to the introduction of extraneous matters which were intended only to prejudice the minds of the jurors.
“In its final analysis, the issues were not drawn between the state and the defendant, but between the corrupt representatives of a certain vicious element and this defendant’s family. The aim was not to destroy me but to destroy my father’s honor. In that, I thank God, they have failed miserably before the eyes of the world.
“What the ultimate result will be as far as I am concerned I do not know, but I feel that whatever comes, strengthened by the knowledge that I acted honorably and from necessity, I cannot fear the future.”
After he made those remarks, an inmate in the county jail revealed to reporters the limitations of Phil Kennamer’s honor. On the day before his sentencing, Phil offered to bet ten dollars to one dollar that no prisoner in the jail could correctly guess how many years he would receive. Clifford Owens bet he would get twenty-five years. Shortly before he was escorted to the courtroom that afternoon, Kennamer canceled the bet.
“I was afraid he’d be right,” he said later.
In spite of his denunciation of the press, the day after his verdict, Kennamer sent a jail trustee out to buy a copy of every newspaper about himself that could be found. “His appetite for journalistic reports upon himself has never diminished,” the World reported. “He read them with the same lack of emotion that characterized his conduct throughout the trial.”
On the day after his sentencing, he sent the trustee out again to buy more newspapers to indulge “his appetite” for reading about himself. And there was plenty to read. Hundreds of large and small daily newspaper throughout the Midwest ran it as their top story with wide headlines below the masthead. In New York, newspapers like the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, the New York Times, and th
e Long Island Daily Press shared the verdict or sentence with their readers from the front page. The same could not be said of West Coast newspapers, where the outcome was often buried inside. But where Kennamer’s story was not front-page news, nearly every paper in the country that subscribed to a wire service did run a small announcement, or a photo with a short caption, that described his fate.
In Tulsa, the news of his sentence was met with general approval. An editorial in the Tulsa World proclaimed the outcome “legally and morally just” and that it “coincided with the public interest.” After Flint Moss had attacked both the World and Tribune in his change-of-venue motion, the editorial pages of those newspapers avoided publishing any opinion of the case during the trial. It was a wise move on their part to avoid being condemned by defense counsel, who would have used anything they wrote against them in either their motion for a new trial or an appeal. But now that it was over, the World’s editorial page had something to say.
There is remarkably little public dissent from the conviction or the sentence.
The entire case and the revelations it entailed left scars upon the community which only time can heal. Under such mixed and complicated circumstances, some writers and professional observers overreached themselves. A large collection of “outside” writers appeared, people who were looking for special features and who harped with fervor upon certain odd items. There was overplay of emotions; there was phantasy; there was speculation unjustified by facts. That scribes did go beyond their proper professional duties and strained too much for effect is certain.
It has been too freely asserted here and elsewhere that the killing of Gorrell showed a rotten condition of affairs in social and youthful circles. This wholesale condemnation is very unfair. Because a few bad, untoward, dangerous actions and pursuits came into conjunction and resulted in a bitter tragedy, it is not fair to conclude that all Tulsa or any relatively large number of people were involved.
A profound lesson in law and order has been learned. Jurors will convict for crimes [even though] sensationalism may seemingly obscure the deadly facts. It is reassuring to see the law coolly and judiciously applied. It is fine to see public officials and jurors stand up to their duties and opportunities and to see their actions approved by the responsible citizenship.
But in the background there was one authority figure whose actions were not met with approval. Instead of looking for “outside” observers who “strained too much for effect,” the World should have looked closer to home. If anyone was hell-bent on planting the seeds of hysteria, it was Sergeant Maddux, who was up to his old tricks of trying to impress a superior with a sensational new claim. On the day the verdict was announced, Lt. Earl Gardner told the press that “he had been advised by Maddux that Gorrell was killed by bullets from two different guns.” The chief of detectives added that this might mean two persons were involved in the slaying.
Detective George Reif, the secondary on the case, backed up Lt. Gardner’s claim of what the criminologist had said, telling the press, “Maddux tried to bring this out on the stand in Pawnee.” However, he was unable to do so after defense attorneys admitted the two bullets were fired from Gorrell’s gun.
If Maddux had done so, it could have led to a mistrial. When reporters questioned him about it, the police sergeant was visibly surprised. Caught off guard, he refused to comment at that time, and the Tribune noted it was just one of several occasions that Maddux “refused to verify statements attributed to him.”
It was precisely because of stories like that, and many of them traced back to Maddux, that talk of a grand jury investigation into the entire Kennamer-Gorrell case would soon be back on the front pages of Tulsa newspapers. It had been suggested in December, after Born’s suicide, by low-level city employee and self-styled public crusader, Arthur Sweeney.
“I believe that all of the evidence in the case covering both the slayings and the activities of the young people should be aired. I am convinced that there is much being held back,” Sweeney said in December. At that time, Judge Hurst requested he postpone his petition for a grand jury investigation until after the trial.
Sweeney only needed one hundred signatures and, if successful, it would be only the fifth time in Tulsa history a grand jury was convened. To everyone’s surprise, Sweeney’s renewed efforts were met with quiet approval by Gilmer and Anderson, who thought it necessary to force Sergeant Maddux and Commissioner Oscar Hoop to answer for some of the statements they had made.
Even though Kennamer had the opportunity stay out of prison during his appeal, his father didn’t have $25,000 to post his bond—just yet. To save him from embarrassment, Charles Stuart announced to the press two days after sentencing that he had advised the judge to keep his son in prison during the appeal.
“We think it wise not to release the boy from prison,” Stuart professed to reporters. “That was my advice to his father and he has agreed to follow it. We think the boy is better off in prison while the case is being appealed. If he were released, this conviction would be hanging over him while he was out. As it is now, we believe the conviction will be reversed and Phil will walk away from McAlester penitentiary in a few months a free man.”
In truth, there was nothing wise about it. Even after all that Phil had put them through, Judge Kennamer had indulged his youngest son his entire life, and he wasn’t about to stop now. He just needed more time to solicit wealthy, influential friends to pledge property to secure the bond. Phil took the news well and expected as much when reporters asked him about getting out on bail. But there was another, more important question reporters wanted to ask him.
“Have you read of the statement attributed to Sgt. Maddux to the effect that two guns fired the two shots into Gorrell?”
“Yes, I read it,” Kennamer said with a frown. “It’s a damnable falsehood! It’s just another of his efforts to attempt to drag in someone else in this matter. Now that they have me, they will try and get someone else involved—one of my friends. There’s absolutely nothing to it.”
Kennamer may have told a lot of lies, but he was certainly telling the truth now. When the knight needs to slay the dragon to win the heart of the princess and the confidence of the wealthy king, there can’t be two knights in that story. There could only be one, and that was him.
“Personally, I don’t believe in ballistic science,” he went on. “And anyway, I don’t think Maddux is a ballistics expert or ever could be!”
March 4, 1935
SINCE HE WAS GIVEN TEN DAYS to come up with $25,000, Kennamer was obligated to wait out those days in the Pawnee Jail. As he left the jail for the last time, he gave photographers his customary glare. It was the same scowl he’d given them for more than two weeks. They were only doing their jobs and, as much as he disliked them, they were thoroughly tired of him.
But they still had one more photograph that their editors were demanding: a picture of him as he entered the state prison. To get it, they had to follow in their cars behind Sheriff Burkdoll, who was accompanied by “Pawnee Bill,” who toured the world with his “Pawnee Bill’s Historic Wild West Show” that he’d founded in 1888. As the three climbed the one hundred steps to the outer door of the administration building, Kennamer indulged the photographers with a cheerful smile to show how brave he was.
It was just for show. When he got inside, he lost the cool air of indifference he had perfected during his trial. Inside the deputy warden’s office, he looked around with apprehension. He was relieved to learn that his head of curly hair would not be shaved. In a time when men and boys always wore hats outside, Kennamer’s vanity kept him from covering up his crowning glory.
Inside, he was given a rule book and told to familiarize himself with it. From then on, he was prisoner 31-420. As the photographers turned to leave, he gave them one last Phil Kennamer quote.
“I’ll make a good prisoner and don’t intend to break any of the rules,” he declared with bravado. “If all the walls should fall down, I w
ouldn’t try to escape. I’m going to do my time the right way.”
With celebrity criminal Phil Kennamer, the son of a federal judge, tucked away in prison, prosecutors could now turn their attention to two more people who needed to atone for their sins: Edna Mae Harman and Sergeant Henry Bailess Maddux.
Part Four: The Politics of Justice
It is doubtful if any more official, legal, social, or political pressure has ever been used in this country to circumvent justice. There has not been a month since the night of the shooting that powerful friends have not been active, at many times under coercion, in the intercessions for young Kennamer. These consistent efforts were directed toward anyone who in any way might be helpful.
— Tulsa Daily World Editorial
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE COURT ACTION AGAINST EDNA Harman went from a trial to a hearing in ten minutes. Two days after she was arrested for contempt of court, her husband posted bond, and her trial was set for March 11 in Pawnee. When court opened that Monday morning, her lawyer was given the opportunity to plead his client not guilty. William Chase then told the court he intended to prove that Mrs. Harman was not a professional witness, and that she was in genuine fear for her life if she testified. But to Judge Hurst, none of that mattered. He was there. He saw her outburst. She violated the subpoena requiring her to testify, disrupted the proceedings, and nearly caused a mistrial with her behavior.
When Chase was finished, Judge Hurst released a formal finding of fact which established Edna Harman’s guilt. Trial over. The proceedings then became a hearing to determine her punishment, which could include one year in jail and a fine of $1,000.
The story of when Edna Harman first approached the Kennamers, and then the Gorrells, plotted to benefit financially, who she did it with, and how she planned to do it, was one of the most confusing aspects of the entire case. No single newspaper reporter was able to outline her entire saga from beginning to end with enough clarity for it to be entirely understood. Like most unstable individuals who are backed into a corner from a controversy of their own making, Edna Harman sought to free herself from the forces closing in on her by playing the victim to garner sympathy, and obfuscating the truth in order to create confusion.
Deadly Hero: The High Society Murder that Created Hysteria in the Heartland Page 26