For his final effect, the old stager pulled out all the stops. His voice quivered with emotion and tears rolled down his cheeks as he appealed to the tender feelings of the jury:
“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. You of the jury will go home tomorrow, your task completed, to the hearts of your families. This man”—pointing dramatically to Ray Lamphere’s bent head—“this man, if you condemn him, will have nothing before him! Think! Think long and hard, before you seal the doom of a human life!”
The jury was visibly moved.
Wirt Worden followed. Satisfied with the effect of his colleague’s eloquence, he changed pace, starting out with the old homely story of the boy who found a lost horse by using horse sense. The hero of Worden’s version was a tongue-tied boy, which made the anecdote, in Worden’s comical rendition, twice as appealing to the earthy fellows on the jury:
“‘How come, son, you found the horse when nobody else could?’
“‘By uthing horthe thenthe.’
“‘What do you mean, by using horse sense?’
“‘Well, I thought what I would do if I wath a horthe. I thaid to mythelf, if I wath a horthe, I think I’d go to the meadow and eat gwath. Then I’d go to the thade of the big oak twee and woll over. Then I’d go to the bwook to get a dwink. Tho—I went to the meadow, but the horthe wathn’t there. I went to the twee, and the horthe wathn’t there. Tho then I went to the bwook—and there he wath dwinking. Thee? I jutht uthed common horthe thenthe!’
“So I will ask the jury not merely to use common sense, as Mr. Sutherland put it, but just plain common horse sense!
“This case against Ray Lamphere is entirely built up of circumstantial evidence. Therefore you must be satisfied that there is no other reasonable explanation of the evidence than the one presented in the indictment, that Lamphere is guilty. Otherwise he is entitled to be acquitted.
“The state has made an excellent case—against Mrs. Gunness. I used to have some doubt about it, but I believe now that she is alive. She had abundant motive for the commission of this crime, in the questions about her past crimes that were asked of her at Stillwell, and in the coming of Helgelien to find out about his brother. She made preparation for the fire. Even in her will, she made provision for the disposal of her property in the event of the death of all her children.…
“What of the four bodies? I believe it impossible for four bodies to fall from the second story, and still to be found together, laid out in regular rows. The remains of the piano were found on top of the bodies. If we are to believe the state, those bodies falling from the second floor beat the piano to the basement!
“There has been no definite identification of the rings. As to the teeth, Dr. Norton’s testimony is prejudiced. I say to you that these teeth never went through the fire from the manner in which they were found and the condition in which they are now! The head found in the vault had no lawer jaw, and the only portion found in the fire was the supposed jawbone. Is not this significant?
“They say that Lamphere made damaging admissions. Suppose you agree that Lamphere lied to Anstiss, would you hang him for lying? Then we must all prepare for death! But I believe if you act as your conscience dictates and according to the law and the evidence, there will be no question about your verdict!”
As a schoolboy Worden had won medals for oratory. Simple though his words were now, his appeal for Ray’s life carried a deep sincerity that moved his hearers more than his partner’s tears. The Argus reported in ecstasy:
Before a body of his peers a man could have plead for his own life with no greater force and intensity. He fought for the prisoner as though the prisoner was his own brother, desperately, mightily, eloquently, with his whole soul shedding passion and sincerity over his argument; he fought to save a man who he said was innocent from the clutches of a merciless justice. He anticipated the gruelling denunciation of the prosecutor, and left no table unturned to make the jury “fireproof” against the blazing bonfires in the face of Ralph N. Smith. He won the admiration of “every mother’s son of them” in the audience and the undying love of the defendant, his client.
When Ralph N. Smith arose to close for the state, there were no blazing bonfires in his face, and no sign of grueling denunciation. He began chatting easily and familiarly with the jury:
“I am not here to make a political speech. I want to talk to you a little bit about this case. I appreciate the fact that for fourteen or fifteen days you have been closely confined. I am not trying to throw bouquets to you, but merely to express a recognition that is due you. It is sometimes hard to do your duty when you see it. Officers will always have the criticism of people. I shall not be led astray into defending the officers by the attorneys of the other side. I am going to show you beyond a reasonable doubt that Lamphere set fire to the house and burned up those people.
“I cannot conceive on what theory the defense is trying this case. One moment they say Belle Gunness is alive and the next that she is dead.
“The defense complains about circumstantial evidence, that direct evidence of Lamphere’s movements is lacking. Of course the evidence is circumstantial. When men start out to burn houses or commit crimes, they do not give notice nor go around with a brass band.
“We agree with them that the fire started with the kerosene can. No one knew how to get to it but Mrs. Gunness and Ray Lamphere.
“They cannot paint Mrs. Gunness any too black for me. She was rottener than Hell itself—and Lamphere was going to marry her!
“Where is there any evidence that Dr. Norton told anything but the absolute truth about the teeth? When the dental experts for the defense testified, they stated that the teeth were made for and had been worn in the same mouth, and further that they had been through fire.”
By the time Smith got around to the state’s theory about Ray’s complicity in Belle’s crimes, the easy manner was dropped and the fires had begun to blaze. He brandished his fist under Lamphere’s nose as he thundered out denunciatory questions:
“What did you tell John Rye you would get even with the old woman for?
“And when you were being tried in the justice court at Stillwell, who was it sat beside Attorney Worden and told him to ask Mrs. Gunness whether she had not murdered her husbands?
“‘Where is Schultz?’ they ask. ‘Where is Nigger Liz?’ we ask. Why don’t they establish an alibi by her? What was the defendant doing during the one hour and forty-five minutes which, according to his own statements, was consumed in going a mile and a quarter?
“If the time that has been stated is not correct, why don’t they bring in Nigger Liz? She knows. Why don’t they bring her in?
“They say we have a feeling in this case. We have a feeling when three innocent children are slain by a man who … hides behind towers and slips along and sets a fire with such consequences!
“I say to you that if you don’t believe that Lamphere is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, then don’t bring in a verdict of guilty. I do not ask you to vindicate the bad woman, but I have a right to plead in the name of God in behalf of those three innocent children!”
Smith sat down and Judge Richter gave the jury a chance to cool off while he delivered a long charge. They must, the Judge said, give the defendant the benefit of every reasonable doubt. According to how they viewed the evidence, they could acquit, or bring in a verdict of murder in any degree, or find the defendant guilty of simple arson. Over the legality of the last possibility, a verdict of arson upon an indictment for murder, the defense protested, and the attorneys wrangled, but the state prevailed, and the instruction stood.
At five-thirty on Thanksgiving Eve, the twelve jurors went out and the argument started.
You, the reader, are the thirteenth juror. As the twelve weigh the evidence, how does it look to you?
Is Belle Gunness dead? Is the charred corpse hers? Is it big enough? Where is the head? Could a head have burned away to nothing?
But the teeth are proved hers. Could they
have been removed from her jaws in life, by herself or anybody else, without any signs of damage? Then surely she must be dead.
If Belle Gunness is dead, did Ray Lamphere kill her? Did he set the fire? He had means, motive, and opportunity. Did Mrs. Gunness burn to death in the fire he set?
Wait a minute. Did the dead woman die by fire? What about that strychnine? If the woman died by strychnine, no matter who she was, then Ray Lamhere must be out of it. That house was locked up against him. How could he get in and induce anybody to take poison?
If not Ray, who did administer poison? And to whom?
Had Belle an accomplice besides Ray? Did he secretly gain admittance that night, get ahead of her, perhaps, with poison she meant for him, and fire the house to conceal his crime?
Or was it Mrs. Gunness that administered the strychnine? It wouldn’t be the first time for her. Did she feed it to the unhappy fat girl Anderson saw with her in the buggy three days before the fire? Did she plant the corpse, fire the house, and run away?
Is Belle Gunness alive somewhere, laughing at us all?
Is Ray Lamphere the innocent victim of that wicked, scheming mind? Are we, the jury, to become accomplices in her plot if we condemn Ray to death?
Or did Ray, as wicked as Belle, mete out to her the fate she richly deserved?
Guilty?
Or not guilty?
What is your verdict?
The twelve jurors, weighing such questions, found it difficult to agree. They balloted four times and were still hopelessly divided. As midnight neared, they gave up and went to bed.
They got up on Thanksgiving Day to start the argument anew. They gave up hope of eating Thanksgiving dinner at home as ballot after ballot showed them still divided. As the day passed, some jurors were persuaded to change their minds, until the count stood at ten against two. But the two were stubborn.
Henry Mill, retired farmer, had set his grizzled beard at a stubborn angle. His mind was made up, and nobody was going to budge it. Beside him another farmer had taken his stand. He was Charles Nelson, fortyish, intelligent, dapper, and scrappy.
In a circle around the two, beards wagged and mustaches bristled as the ten tried to swing the stubborn two into line for a verdict before they would have to spend another night on those cots upstairs.
Over at the jail, Ray Lamphere shivered in his chilly cell as the endless hours dragged by. Around the courthouse an impatient crowd milled about under a lowering sky. As the afternoon waned, the lights in the courtroom flashed on, and the mob stormed in. They found nobody but Anstiss, showing some country cousins the sights.
At the nineteenth ballot the long wait came to an end. The lights flashed on again. By the time the Judge mounted the dais, the big courtroom was packed to the doors.
Haggard, eyes downcast, guarded by four men, Ray Lamphere stood to hear his fate. The packed courtroom held its collective breath.
“Gentlement of the jury, have you reached an agreement?”
“We have,” said the foreman, “but I wish to make a statement before I deliver our verdict to the court.”
“I am not at liberty to hear any statement,” said the Judge, “until the verdict has been received and read.”
In painful silence every eye watched the white slip of paper as the bailiff carried it to the Judge and the Judge looked at it. In silence it was copied on the docket. Then the Judge read it out:
“We find the defendant guilty of arson.”
Guilty! Tears sprang into Ray’s eyes, and he turned white. In another moment his color surged back as he realized that his life had been saved.
Wirt Worden had saved him on the turn of the last card, for this was the jury’s rider:
“We hereby say that it was our judgment in the consideration of this case that the adult body found in the ruins of the fire was that of Belle Gunness, and that the case was decided by us on an entirely different proposition.”
The proposition was strychnine. The standout jurymen were convinced that Belle had taken the poison herself. Faced with another night on those cots upstairs, the rest of the jury had accepted this view in a compromise verdict.
At seven-twenty-five P.M. on Thanksgiving night, Ray Lamphere stood up to hear his sentence. He was white as a sheet, and he could not keep his hands from shaking, but otherwise he stood steady. He got two to twenty-one years in the state penitentiary.
Ralph N. Smith was satisfied. He put out a statement thanking everybody, and saying: “While the verdict was in the nature of a compromise, yet we feel that substantial justice has been done.”
But had justice been done?
When Judge Richter put to the prisoner the formal question whether he had any reasons to give why sentence should not be pronounced upon him, Ray gave a strange answer. He said:
“I have none—now.”
When would he speak? Would the whole truth ever be revealed?
Book III: Afterward
12. Over the Road to the Pen
Ray Lamphere walked with his head up. With a steady hand he drew a panatela from his vest pocket, struck a match, drew deep, and blew himself out of the courtroom on a cloud of fragrant smoke.
He had hardly put his foot over the threshold when he was beset by reporters. They did not mean to be put off if they could get him to talk now.
“Is Belle Gunness alive? Did you fire the house?”
Anstiss on one side, Smutzer on the other shouldered Lamphere through the crowd.
In his cell they let him talk. He was quite easy and happy.
“I have no particular complaint to make,” he said to the reporters. “The evidence was pretty strong against me, enough to make the jury believe I was guilty. I’ll take my medicine like a man. My conscience is clear, and that helps some.”
“Do you believe Mrs. Gunness is alive or dead?”
“Oh, she is dead, all right.”
“Then why did you say she was alive?”
“Because of all that money she had. It hasn’t turned up. But after hearing what they said at the trial, it looks to me as if that must have been her body in the fire.”
Ray did not spruce himself up much to go “over the road.” His pants were rumpled, his flannel shirt was tieless, his wrinkled shoes were run down at the heels and turned up at the toes. He pulled his dented derby over his eyes and set out.
Smutzer conducted him, and reporters tagged along. They still hoped he would have some hot copy for them in time for tomorrow’s paper.
They went by the same interurban car the witnesses had talked so much about. As the car clacked along, Ray gazed out at the glass-gray lakes and the leafless trees. At the powerhouse switch he was silent, but presently he began to talk.
“I didn’t do any more than hundreds of other persons would have done in my place.… A preacher came to me and said that whatever I told him would be like telling a priest. From what came out, it seems he wasn’t true to me. I don’t feel kindly toward him now, and I feel that he did me dirt.”
“What was the scene you witnessed that night when you bored a hole through a partition in the Gunness house when you were working for Mrs. Gunness?” prompted one of his companions.
There was a pause.
“I ain’t going to say anything about that,” said Ray.
“Do you think you ever will make any statement about it?”
“No,” said Ray slowly, “I don’t think I ever will.”
He thought a while.
“If I hadn’t been a drinking man, I never would have been at the Gunness place. The old woman drank considerable herself. It was whisky and bad company. But,” he added, “it wasn’t whisky that got me directly into this case.”
“Why did you say after your arrest that you burned the house and would confess before it came time for a trial?” asked a well-informed reporter.
“I didn’t,” said Lamphere without conviction. “I’m going to prison with a clear conscience,” he repeated, like one chanting a litany. “I didn’t
do any more than hundreds of others would have done in my place.”
“Where did all that defense money come from?” somebody asked.
“To tell the truth,” said Ray, “I don’t know where that money came from. I heard some of the boys put up the money.”
As the walls of the penitentiary came in sight, Ray turned to Smutzer.
“I’m lucky to be here,” he murmured. “I’m mighty lucky. Why, I might have been chopped up and put in a hole in Old Woman Gunness’ chicken yard!”
When the prison doors shut on Ray Lamphere, there was little left to be said about the Gunness case.
Fogle settled up the estate. The Norwegian orphanage had declined Belle’s request with horror. Her family was ready to take it. There wasn’t much to take. The insurance company still refused to pay up for the fire. They had to be sued before they would settle. Then Asle came to town and demanded a slice of it, the slice that Belle had murdered Andrew for. A jury awarded it to him, with interest, in ten minutes.
The Rumely Company, plow manufacturers, bought the farm. They intended to use it for experimental plowing.
The cast of characters scattered. With the Gunness case, Dr. Mack had had enough of coronering. He gave up medicine, left town, and became a Swedenborgian divine.
After his one crowded hour as a carnival attraction, Joe Maxson went back to work.
C. C. Fish tried city employ, didn’t like it, and returned to the life of a private eye. He kept in touch with his client Ray Lamphere.
The brother of the late Tonnes Peter Lien came to town and asked for Tonnes Peter’s watch; but somebody had carried it off as a souvenir.
Now that Anstiss had succeeded Smutzer as sheriff, Smutzer was at liberty. The La Porte Herald put up a trial balloon labeled “Smutzer for Mayor,” but it deflated. The resilient ex-undertaker, ex-butcher, ex-sheriff was not deflatable. He bounced right into the infant automobile business.
In November Smutzer and Anstiss led a party on a jaunt to prospect for land in Texas. While there they inspected a woman who some people thought might be Belle. She wasn’t. They came back again.
The Truth about Belle Gunness Page 18