Darrow nodded, slowly; his eyes were moist. “You must learn to reserve the lion’s share of your pity for the living, Nate—the dead have ceased their suffering.”
“What about Horace Ida and his buddies? They’re alive—with that one little exception. Are you going to meet with them, now, finally?”
A pained frown creased his brow. “You know I can’t do that. You know I can’t ever do that.”
It was time for his afternoon nap, and I left him there, and that was the last time I suggested he meet with Ida and the others.
There is a rumor, however—unsubstantiated but persistent to this day—that the old boy and the Ala Moana defendants sat together for dinner in a private alcove at Lau Yee Ching’s; and that the only word spoken of the case, at this unique and singular meeting, was C.D. raising his teacup of oke in a toast to an empty chair at the table.
21
Even in Hawaii, mornings in May came no more beautiful. Sunlight glanced through the fronds of palms and a sublimely sultry breeze riffled lesser leaves as reporters—who the night before had been given the news that the sentencing had been moved up two days—milled about the sidewalk. The only hitch in this perfect day was some grumbling from a surprisingly modest crowd of gawkers, annoyed over Governor Judd’s order banning the public from the courtroom; only those involved in, or reporting, the case would be allowed inside.
It was nearly ten, and I’d been here since nine, accompanying Darrow and Leisure; the old boy had met Kelley here and together they had disappeared into Judge Davis’s chambers, and hadn’t been seen since. Leisure was already at the defense table inside. I was leaning against the base of the King Kamehameha statue, just enjoying the day. Soon enough I’d be back in Chicago, watching spring get bullied aside by a sweltering summer.
Four Navy cars drew up to the sidewalk, armed Marine guards in the first and last, Tommie and Thalia and Mrs. Fortescue in the second, Jones and Lord in the third. Chang Apana met them, and escorted them through the swarming reporters, who were hurling questions that went unanswered.
For defendants in a murder case, they seemed curiously calm, even cheery. The Massie contingent was smiling, not bravely, just smiling; Thalia had traded in her dark colors for a stylish baby blue outfit with matching turban, while Mrs. Fortescue wore dignified black, though trimmed with a gay striped scarf. Tommie looked dapper in a new suit with a gray tie, and Lord and Jones also wore suits and ties; the sailors were laughing, smoking cigarettes.
The fix, after all, was in.
I wandered in and joined Leisure at the defense table. The ceiling-fan whir seemed louder than usual, probably because what had seemed a tiny courtroom when packed with people now felt cavernous, with the spectators limited to that one table of press.
Soon a beaming Darrow and glum Kelley emerged from a door near the bench, their session in the judge’s chambers complete; the lawyers took their positions at their respective tables. Judge Davis entered and took the bench. The clerk called the court to order, and the bailiff called out, “Albert Orrin Jones, stand up.”
Jones did.
Judge Davis said, “In accordance with the verdict of manslaughter returned against you in this case, I hereby sentence you to the term prescribed by law, not more than ten years’ imprisonment at hard labor in Oahu Prison. Is there anything you wish to say?”
“No, Your Honor.”
Jones was grinning. Not the usual response to such a sentence. Darrow seemed suddenly uncomfortable: it would have been nice if this seagoing dolt had had the decency to put on a poker face.
The same sentence was passed on the other defendants, who at least didn’t smile through it, even if they did seem unnaturally calm in the face of ten years’ hard labor.
Kelley rose, smoothed out his white linen suit and said, “Prosecution moves for a writ of mittimus.”
Judge Davis said, “Motion granted, Mr. Kelley, but before turning these defendants over to their warden, I want the bailiffs to clear the courtroom of all except counsel and defendants.”
Now it was the press who were grumbling as the bailiffs herded them out, where they joined other gawkers in the corridor.
As the reporters were leaving, a tall, rather commanding figure moved down the aisle; though he wore a brown suit with a cheerful yellow tie, there was something immediately military about his bearing, this hawkishly handsome man with hard, amused eyes.
“That’s Major Ross,” Leisure said.
I had to smile as I watched the judge issue the writ turning the defendants over to the man whose name Mrs. Fortescue had forged on the summons that had lured Joe Kahahawai into “custody.”
Ross led the defendants out of the courtroom, with Darrow, Leisure, and me close behind. Kelley didn’t come along—my last glimpse had him half-seated on the edge of the prosecution table, arms folded, a sardonic half-smile eloquently expressing his opinion of the proceedings.
In the corridor, the press and a few friends and relatives of the defendants (Isabel among them) joined the parade as we streamed into the streaming sunshine. Passing the statue of King Kamehameha, the group paused for traffic at the curb where Joe Kahahawai had been abducted.
Then Major Ross led the way, across King Street, through an open gate and up the wide walk past manicured grounds, like the Pied Piper leading his rats, on up the steps of the grandly, ridiculously rococo Iolani Palace. The major led the group past the massive throne room with its hanging tapestries, gilt chairs, and framed pompous portraits of Polynesians in European royal drag, and soon the press and other camp followers were deposited in a waiting room, while the rest of us headed up a wide staircase to a large hall, off of which were governmental offices—including the governor’s.
I was walking alongside Jones, who was grinning like a goon (he’d had the decency to discard his cigarette, at least), glancing up at the high ceiling and elaborate woodworking.
“This is a swell jail,” the sailor said. “A lot better than your pal Al Capone’s. Wonder how he’s doin’? I hear they took him to the Atlanta pen the other day by special train.”
“He should’ve had your lawyer,” I said.
The major showed us into the spacious, red-carpeted office where Governor Judd—a pleasant-looking fellow with an oval face and black-rimmed round-lensed glasses—rose politely behind his formidable mahogany desk. He gestured to chairs that had been arranged. We were expected.
“Please sit,” the governor said, and we did. When everyone was settled, Judd sat back down, folding his hands; he seemed more like a justice of the peace than a governor. He said, respectfully, “Mr. Darrow, I understand you have a petition you would like me to hear.”
“I do, sir,” Darrow said. He held out a hand and Leisure, beside him, filled it with a scroll. To me this formality was a little ridiculous, but it fit the surroundings.
“The undersigned defendants,” Darrow read, “in the matter of the Territory of Hawaii versus Grace Fortescue et. al., and their attorneys, do hereby respectfully pray that your Excellency, in the exercise of the power of executive clemency in you vested, and further in view of the recommendation of the jury in said matter, do commute the sentences heretofore pronounced in said matter.”
Darrow rose, stepped forward, and handed the scroll to the governor. The old boy sat down while the governor—who damn well knew every word of the document—held it and read it and pretended to ponder it awhile. Who was he trying to kid?
Finally, Judd said, “Acting upon this petition, and upon the recommendation by the jury of leniency, the sentence of ten years at hard labor is hereby commuted to one hour, to be served in custody of Major Ross.”
Mrs. Fortescue bolted to her feet and clasped her hands like a maiden in a melodrama. “This is the happiest day of my life, Your Excellency. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
Then Judd was subjected to a round of pump-handle handshakes, including Lord and Jones, who said, “Thanks, Guv! You’re okay!”
Eyes tigh
t behind the round lenses, Judd was clearly uncomfortable, if not ashamed of himself, and after some mindless chitchat (Tommie: “I only wish I could be in Kentucky to see the smile on my mother’s face when she hears this!”), Judd checked his watch.
“We’ll, uh, have that hour begin with the approximate time you left Pearl Harbor this morning, which means…well, your time is up. Good luck to you all.”
Before long, our little group (minus the governor) was posing for the press photogs on a balcony of the palace. When the press found out I wasn’t one of the attorneys, just a lowly investigator, I was asked to step outside of the already crowded grouping. That was fine with me, and I stood smiling to myself at the absurdity of these group portraits; it was as if the class honor students had been gathered in all their self-congratulatory glory, not some convicted murderers and their lawyers and the woman who had inspired the crime.
Darrow was smiling, but there was something weary and forced about it. Major Ross seemed frankly amused. Only George Leisure, arms folded, staring into the distance, seemed to have second thoughts. Playing second chair to the great Clarence Darrow had been an education for him, but maybe he hadn’t got quite the schooling he expected.
Grace Fortescue was flittering and fluttering around, social butterfly that she was, making one silly comment after another. “I will be ever so glad to get back to the United States,” she told a reporter from the Honolulu Advertiser, who did her the courtesy of not reminding her she was already standing on American soil.
But her silliness stopped when a reporter asked her if she would ever come back, under more normal, pleasant circumstances, to enjoy the beauty of the Islands.
The repressed bitterness and anger poured out, as she almost snarled, “When I leave here I will never come back, not as long as I live!”
Then she launched into a trembling-voiced speech of her hope that the “trouble” she’d suffered would result in making Honolulu “a safer place for women.”
Isabel had found her way into this madness, and she grasped my arm and bubbled, “Isn’t it wonderful?”
“I can hardly keep from jumping up and down.”
She pretended to frown. “You’re a grump. I know something that will improve your attitude.”
“What’s that?”
“My friend is gone.”
“What friend?”
“You know—my friend, that friend.”
“Oh? Oh! Well. Want to go back to the hotel and, uh, go swimming or something?”
“Or something,” she said, and hugged my arm.
If she wanted to celebrate this wonderful victory, I was her guy. After all, the job was done, we weren’t sailing for a couple of days, and I didn’t even have a suntan yet.
Not that I planned to get much of a tan pursuing the “or something” Isabel had in mind.
First to leave, with the Navy’s blessing, were the sailors. Deacon Jones and Eddie Lord retained their ranks (Admiral Stirling publicly stated, “We refuse to consider legal either the trial or the conviction”) and were taken by destroyer to San Francisco for routing to the Atlantic Coast via the Panama Canal, where they were transferred to the submarine Bass.
The Navy also smuggled Thalia (and Tommie and Mrs. Fortescue and Isabel) aboard the Malolo via a minesweeper that pulled up along the cargo hold. The summons Kelley had issued for Thalia to appear as complaining witness may have been only for show, but the coppers didn’t know that, and several made a determined effort to serve her.
When Darrow, Leisure, their wives, and I arrived at the dock for a noon sailing, we were pleasantly accosted by Island girls who draped us with leis; and the Royal Hawaiian Band played its traditional “Aloha Oe” as we walked up the gangplank to head for our respective staterooms.
In the corridor, on my way to my cabin, I came upon a shouting match between a plainclothes Hawaiian copper with a round dark face and a shovel-jawed Navy captain in full uniform.
The cop was waving his summons at the captain, who blocked a stateroom door that was apparently the Massies’.
“You can’t give me orders!” the cop was saying.
“Say ‘sir’ when you speak to me,” the naval captain snapped.
The Hawaiian tried to shove the captain aside, and the captain shoved him back, saying, “Don’t lay your hands on me!”
“Don’t lay your hands on me!”
I was wondering if it was my responsibility to try to break up this childish nonsense, when a familiar voice behind me called out: “Detective Mookini! Noble effort goes past reason. Treat captain with respect!”
Then Chang Apana, Panama in hand, was at my side.
“You could always use that blacksnake,” I said, “if they won’t listen.”
Chang smiled gently. “They listen.”
Miraculously, the two men were sheepishly shaking hands, acknowledging that each was only trying to do his job.
“Mookini!” Chang called, and the round-faced cop, two heads taller than Chang, almost ran to him, stood with head bowed. “Too late to dig well when house is on fire. Go back to headquarters.”
“Yes, Detective Apana.”
And the copper and his summons went away.
The captain said, “Thank you, sir.”
Chang nodded.
The stateroom door opened and Tommie poked his head out. “Is everything all right, Captain Wortman?”
“Shipshape, Lieutenant.”
Tommie thanked him, nodded to me, and ducked back inside.
Chang walked me to my cabin.
I said, “Did you come aboard just to make sure that summons didn’t get served?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I come to say aloha to a friend.”
We shook hands, then we chatted for a while about that big family of his on Punchbowl Hill, and how he had no intention of ever retiring, and finally the “all ashore” call came and he bowed and started back down the corridor, snugging his Panama back on.
“No parting words of wisdom, Chang?”
The little man looked back at me; his eyes damn near twinkled, even the one surrounded by discolored knife-scarred tissue.
“Advice at end of case like medicine at dead man’s funeral,” he said, tipped his Panama, and was gone.
On the second night of the voyage home, leaning against the rail of the Malolo in my white dinner jacket, gazing at the silver shimmer of ocean, my arm around Isabel Bell, her blond wind-stirred hair whispering against my cheek as she snuggled to me, I tried to imagine myself back chasing pickpockets at LaSalle Street Station. I couldn’t quite picture it; but reality would catch up with me, soon enough. It always did.
“I heard you and Mr. Darrow talking,” Isabel said, “about you going to work for him.”
Our entire party—Tommie and Thalia, Mrs. Fortescue, Ruby and C.D., the Leisures, Isabel, and I—took meals together at one table in the ship’s dining room. One big happy family, even though Thalia hadn’t yet spoken to me. Or I to her, for that matter.
I said, “I’m hoping to work for C.D. full-time.”
“You’d leave the police department?”
“Yes.”
She snuggled closer. “That would be nice.”
“You approve of that?”
“Sure. I mean…that’s romantic. Important.”
“What is?”
“Being Clarence Darrow’s chief investigator.”
I didn’t pursue it, but I think she was trying to talk herself into thinking I might be somebody she could consider seeing, back home, at journey’s end, on solid ground. She was kidding herself, of course. I was still a working-class joe, and a working-class Jew, and only under the special circumstances of a shipboard romance could I ever measure up to social standards.
“Why is Thalo mad at you?” she asked.
“Is she?”
“Can’t you tell?”
“I don’t pay much attention to her. I got my eyes on a certain cousin of hers.”
She squeezed my arm. “Silly
. Did something happen back there I don’t know about?”
“Back where?”
“Hawaii! I shouldn’t say this, but…I think she and Tommie are squabbling.”
I shrugged. “After what they been through, bound to be a little tension.”
“They’re in the cabin next to me.”
“And?”
“And I thought I heard things breaking. Like things were being thrown?”
“Ah. Wedded bliss.”
“Don’t you think two people could be happy? Forever, together?”
“Sure. Look out at the ocean. That’s forever, isn’t it?”
“Is it?”
“Forever enough.”
We made love in my cabin morning, noon, and night. I can picture her right now, the smooth contours of her flesh, the supple curves of her body, the small firm breasts, eyes closed, mouth open, lost in ecstasy, washed ivory in moonlight, from a porthole, on a beach.
But I never kidded myself. It was, quite literally, a shipboard romance, and I was telling her what she wanted to hear. Back home, I wasn’t good enough for her. But on this steamer, I was the suave detective on his way home from a distant tropical isle, where I’d been engaged successfully to solve a dastardly crime perpetrated against a lovely innocent white woman by evil dark men.
And a guy like that deserves to get laid.
On February 13, 1933, Prosecutor John Kelley appeared in Judge Davis’s court and moved for no prosecution in the case of the Territory vs. Horace Ida, Ben Ahakuelo, Henry Chang, and David Takai. The judge passed the motion. Sufficient time had passed for the public, both in Hawaii and on the mainland, to greet the shelving of the case with indifference.
This was as close to vindication as the Ala Moana boys ever got, but they did receive the blessing of fading into the obscurity of Island life. Ida became a storekeeper; Ben Ahakuelo a member of a rural fire department on the windward side of Oahu; the others, I understand, drifted into various routine pursuits.
Of course, exoneration of a sort came to them, by way of Thalia Massie, who did enter the limelight from time to time, now and then—most prominently when, two years to the day of Joseph Kahahawai’s murder, she traveled to Reno to divorce Tommie. The evening her divorce became final, Thalia swallowed poison in a nightclub.
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