Two of his partners were also putting in calls to officials downtown. “Mel,” Evan finally said to one of them, “I’m going down there myself. If Garry does get to a phone first, tell him I’ll phone back here at eleven sharp for his message.”
“I’ll go with you,” Melvin Levy said.
“Better not. But line up a bondsman, will you?”
Downstairs, the wide street was brilliant with light and heat, with flags, the navy-blue of sailors, the khaki of soldiers, the sudden brightness of foreign uniforms. Evan half-ran to the subway station on Lexington Avenue; seated in the train, he felt as if he were still racing. He was raw with the news and shock, already taut with delays and setbacks. Is there any message? Information Desk is still busy. Mr. Jones just left for court.
And the actual infringements. Demand a look at the warrant. Wanted to phone his lawyer. He was refused? He never did come inside.
He closed his eyes and was back in San Diego—the bland police, the refusals and evasions, the vigilantes in a ring under the high crescent moon. He wrenched away from the memory, but it held him; his muscles strained again against the country road, he was vowing again to fight them up and down the courts of California and in Washington and at home, he was hearing again the grand jury’s indictment of thirty men, but not one Ernie, not one Herbie, not one Bobbo.
The subway jolted and then stopped. Once more Evan was half-racing through the crowded familiar streets, toward the corner of City Hall Park and the building which housed the offices of the Department of Justice. This was Park Row, not San Diego. This was New York; here in the several buildings clustered together in a vast complex of the machinery of justice, county and state and Federal, he had many times served as counsel in many kinds of crises. Faces and names here were part of his life, city and state district attorneys and assistant district attorneys, judges, commissioners and deputy commissioners and parole officers. His fellow lawyers of the old Free Speech League, and of the new Civil Liberties Bureau, knew them too. This time he wasn’t a stranger on a visit; this time he was in his own proper sphere.
But this time it’s Garry, he thought. And this time we’re in a war.
He pushed open the front door and went to the Information desk. He showed his credentials; waited while a finger ran down a list of names; waited through interruptions and the resumption of the tracing finger down the list. At last he was in the elevator, rising toward the tenth floor; at last he opened a door, saw Garry jump up from a chair at the rear of the room, saw his lips part in the single syllable, “Dad.” Relief seized Evan and an absurd sense of accomplishment. The first step was over.
It was a Detention Room, and it was crowded. About thirty men and a handful of women were there, seated on wooden chairs arranged in loose uneven rows. Garry was in the last row but one, and he must have been watching the door each time it opened. Now he started forward but a policeman standing guard moved and spoke, and Garry sat down again. Evan made for a uniformed guard just inside the entrance.
“I have a client here,” he said, handing over a card. “He is Garrett Paige, and I am his attorney, as well as his father.”
The officer studied the card. “You’re his attorney,” he said as if imparting information. “You got the right.”
“Dad,” Garry said a moment later, and put his arm hard around his father’s shoulders. “How did you find out? Am I glad to see you!”
“And me you. Have you any idea what they’re charging you with?”
“Not one.”
“Is there anything you’ve kept back from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Then start at the beginning.” They told each other what had happened, Evan swiftly, and Garry with the detail his father insisted on. They stood together near the window at the rear of the room, inches away from the armed guard, who showed no interest in their words, though he managed an air of unfading vigilance every time either one took a step to shift from one foot to another.
“And when we got here,” Garry ended, “I asked for a phone again. They said, ‘Sure, but look at all who’s ahead?’ “
“And when you asked for the warrant?”
“Just the same. They sure make you into a zero the minute they arrest you.” He had begun quietly enough, but as he went on with the story of the morning, his control gave way to agitation.
Evan spoke with a legal calm he was far from feeling. “Don’t let yourself get too upset, Garry. We don’t even know yet what this is for. We may need a lot of patience, both of us.”
“I guess so.”
“I’ll see the warrant now,” Evan said. “We’ve got to get to a U. S. Commissioner, or to a judge, to ask him to set bail. There will be some questioning first.” He looked at Garry briefly and said, “I’ll be back.” Then he left. Apprehension had darkened Garry’s eyes, along with the anger of that “zero.” Evan forced it out of his mind for the moment; he had to be steady and clear-headed, and he had to hurry. He knew all too well how minutes could elapse in the preliminaries of any hearing, how half-hours could be lost, hours.
“… the said Garrett Paige is hereby charged, under Section Three, Title One, of the Espionage Act, with willful and repeated attempts to cause insubordination, disloyalty and refusal to serve in the military or naval forces of the United States … with willful and repeated attempts to obstruct the recruiting or enlistment services … with willful and repeated attempts to interfere with the successful functioning of the Selective Service Act…”
Evan’s heart pitched and plunged as he read. No, he thought, no, there’s a mistake, it cannot be. This is a criminal charge; this is ten times worse than anything we ever discussed. Compared to this, his letter is nothing. This could mean prison. It is not possible.
He had to think, but his mind balked. He had been kept waiting an hour before he had had his “turn” with the Assistant U. S. Attorney who was handling Garry’s case, a man named Edmonds, who examined Evan’s card, asked questions about his firm, dwelled on his relationship to “the accused,” as if any man were suspect for being not only father to the accused but also attorney. Then at last Edmonds had handed over the warrant, and he turned aside to read it.
He was still holding it, in hands gone watery at the wrists. What charges had led them to this? What evidence had they gathered, from whom, where, when? He had to think clearly; he had to hurry; the morning was all but gone. Before his turn had come, he had called the office, had heard that a thousand dollars in bail was ready for his signal, and had cautioned everybody there to let no word slip if Alida should happen to call in. He had been logical, effective. He would have to get back to being that.
He turned back to Edmonds, who was busy with another man. The pitching and plunging had halted; the ship of feeling was grounded on a dark reef of necessity. Be his attorney, not his father, he told himself. His attorney, not his father. He stared down at Edmonds’ desk, at the dossiers, documents, folders piled neatly there; they had been there before, but this time he noticed that nearly every one had a copy of a Registration form clipped to it. Garry’s would be there too, with the unadorned phrase, CONSCIENTIOUS OBJECTION.
There was one other thing he had not noticed before. A sheaf of pages, stapled together at the upper left corner, came into view as Edmonds shifted one pile of dossiers. It was several pages in length. It was headed by a single word, ORGANIZATIONS.
The sight of it stiffened Evander Paige’s spirit; it remobilized his forces. This was familiar, increasingly so in recent times. Whereas a man’s attachment to or membership in any club or organization used to be a matter for his private interest alone, in the years since war had begun in Europe, some such handy little compendium had come more and more into favor with the enforcers of anything, in or out of context, in or out of testimony, in or out of a court of law. This was not entirely new in America; before the Civil War, lists of the Abolitionist damned began to crop up in the hands of pro-Slavery groups, but they had been secret guides for secret i
ntelligence, used in stealth. Not right out in public. Not with official approval.
“If possible,” Evan said to Edmonds, as the other glanced up, “I should like to see the charges which caused this action.”
“You’ll hear them when he’s arraigned.”
“Will that be soon? The question of bail—”
“You’ll have to wait your turn.” Edmonds returned to the man seated beside him.
In the smallest matter, Edmonds would be hostile, Evan decided, had been already, would go on being. He already had “testimony” against Garry: his lists doubtless told him that Garry sent in five dollars a year to the Free Speech League, another five to the American Union Against Militarism, perhaps that he went out of his way to travel to New York and attend the Church of the Messiah and listen to the Reverend John Haynes Holmes.
He went back to the Detention Room and told Garry about the warrant. He did not minimize it. “But that’s impossible,” Garry said, and he answered, “I know it is.” He went off to the telephone again, calling his office once more and also the Civil Liberties Bureau, checking up on his right to be shown the actual charges, grateful in each case to hear that judicious attempts would be made to reach people who might ask Edmonds to speed up and loosen up.
At three he went back to Garry once more, and for the first time told him what might he ahead if they were still waiting when the office closed for the night. He saw Garry blink, but neither went on with the subject. Half an hour later Garry was summoned by Edmonds and, with routine formality, put through a preliminary questioning. Whether any outside persuasion had come to bear was not clear. Edmonds still declined to inform “the accused” of the charges leading to the Federal complaint. “He isn’t arraigned as yet,” he said. “At that time, his attorney may see them privately.” Garry went back to the Detention Room, but Edmonds was already dealing with another case. Again Evan waited.
It was ten minutes to five when the arraignment itself occurred, before a U. S. Commissioner, and Evan was at last given a folder, told that it could not be removed from the premises, that it must be read in the presence of a deputy who would see that nothing was mutilated or removed.
Evan began to read; within seconds the pitch and plunge began again. Apart from the usual documentation of Garry’s life, from birth to his arrest that morning, there were four letters accusing him of disloyalty and treachery to the United States in its time of war, letters from four different people, sent at varying times during the three months since April 6th, sent either to the Attorney General in Washington, or to the Department of Justice in New York.
The first was from somebody Evan had never heard of, a Victoria Alston: “… and so I think it my duty to report that Mr. Garrett Paige ridicules our Commander-in-Chief, calls him soapy, and mealy-mouthed for declaring war on Germany, and constantly embarrasses people who are patriotic and proud of it… heard him say that the war is against the word of our Savior, and that the Conscription Act is against all our traditions…”
It ran on for three pages, and Evan hurried through the rest of it and turned to the next. This at least was not signed by an unknown, nor did it startle him as much. It was from Robert Grintzer, whom Garry talked about with irony. “The king and queen of England are self-conscious about Teck and Battenberg, why shouldn’t Grintzer be about Grintzer?”
“… my clear duty, since it goes against the grain of any American with red blood in his veins. Garrett Paige stated, before witnesses, that the Conscription Act ‘got his goat’ and that it was unconstitutional, and that he would not obey it. He ridiculed our hostess’ brother-in-law for enlisting and…”
The letter also told of an evening when “a German-born chemist, Otto Ohrmann, with a constant stream of information from a brother with Krupp in Germany, drew from Paige the avowal that he was a pacifist, and that the war was for big profits, that ‘the Bible permitted killing for profit.’”
The third letter was from Sidney Barclay. Evan paused over the name. Barclay? But Garry had left Aldrich in 1914!
“… and because he was such a radical during the years when he was in our employ, I was interested in his attitude toward the manufacture of vital war materiel now. Under oath, in court, I will supply the names of those I checked with, co-workers in his current employment. He still talks the same way about manufacturing the wherewithal for our victory in the field or on the seas.
“… further suggest examining a fellow chemist, Otto Friederich Ohrmann, still employed by us, a citizen, but with one brother in the German Army and one in the employ of Krupp Munitions. Ohrmann still sees Garrett Paige often, and does not refute statements that Paige is a pacifist to this day…”
Again Ohrmann, Evan thought, again Krupp, tacked on to all the rest. One expects it only of saloon patriots, corner clowns, and one is always wrong. He closed his eyes for an instant, and Woodrow Wilson’s words came to him, offstage, from the wings of memory. “Once lead this people into war and they’ll forget there ever was such a thing as tolerance … the spirit of ruthless brutality will enter the very fiber of our national life, infecting Congress, the Courts, the policeman, the man in the streets.”
The very fiber, Evan thought. He began on the final letter. This was on the stationery of the Department of History of Yale University, and was signed Ronald Yates. Typed under the signature were the words, “Assistant Professor, now on leave for service with the U. S. Navy.”
“… do not imply that he would betray his country in the specific sense, but it is clear that he cannot distinguish between giving an opinion and conducting an insidious campaign of counterpropaganda to the entire war effort … therefore I feel it my duty to suggest that he be directly questioned as to his loyalty to the war effort, and if necessary be kept from further spreading his disloyal and disturbing negatives to dozens of men he works with, most of whom are young enough to be of military age.”
Yates the historian. The Wilson-supporter, the man of liberal views. Yates also wrote of his duty. Each one of the four wrote of his duty to inform; not one spoke of a free man’s right to think and speak.
It’s going to be a dirty case, Evan thought. He wished he could take notes on the letters; he would be stopped if he tried. Quickly he went through them again, memorizing phrases, repeating names. Then he returned the folder and once more went down the hall.
Garry was astounded, then furious. “Who’s Victoria Alston?” Evan asked.
“Vicky—she’s Molloy’s secretary. I hardly know her.”
Evan told him of her letter. How many of her phrases he could repeat, how her whimper came through! “What’s this about calling the President soapy, or mealy-mouthed?”
“I never did,” Garry said flatly. “Oh, God, wait—there was one morning … Some saccharine headline somewhere about fighting the war with love in your heart. It was the paper I called soapy, the headline, I made it clearer than daylight, I—” He broke off and then asked, “Are they all like that? Who else?”
“I’m afraid so. The worst of it is that even under oath, people like this usually will be just as twisted as this.”
Garry said dully, “Who else wrote?”
Swiftly Evan gave him the gist of each letter, and just as swiftly Garry produced at least one point to refute or confound the accuser. Evan pocketed each in his mind; each was a peg to hang later questioning on.
“It’s nasty,” he said, his voice strong. “But given elementary justice, there should be a solid case, and even with all of the delays, there should be complete acquittal.”
Garry looked at him, and Evan said, “I’ll try again, about bail. Remember what I said.”
He hurried back to Edmonds. A man with a pad was asking questions and jotting down replies, another was sorting out the dossiers and folders, restacking them into smaller piles. Evan interrupted.
“There isn’t much time,” he said, “to attend to this matter of bail.”
“It’s way past time,” Edmonds said briefly, looking at
the wall clock and then at his own watch. “No judge is going to hang around waiting until after six. For tonight he’ll be remanded to The Tombs.”
Far off in the blackness, a bell clanged and Garry jumped and woke. There was no stir, no light around him; he had dreamed it. Except at first he had slept only in wisps and tatters; that first hour had been like anesthesia, unqualified, blessed. Then memory jolted back and he had lain on his bunk, staring, as if the air in the cell were a visible thing.
Again he saw his father’s face when he came back from Edmonds for the last time; it told him before words did. For half the afternoon, he had known the day would end in defeat and jail; they had both known it, but neither had wanted to admit it to the other.
“It’s bad news,” his father had said, cursing himself for letting it happen. He turned aside for a moment, whether to hide his face or give Garry a chance to set his own in order, there was no way of knowing.
“Let me have your car keys,” he said then. “I’ll get it tonight and keep it in the garage at home.”
“Read the letter, if you still want. Send it in.” Already the letter seemed another world, another life. He had trouble detaching the two car keys from the others on his key ring. He wanted to ask what it would be like in The Tombs, what they would do, whether they would question him. But he said nothing. Down on the street, an ambulance siren wailed, and the sound engulfed him in melancholy, unlike anything he had ever felt.
“For one day they can put bail off,” his father said, “but not for two. You’ll be out tomorrow. If you can still believe me.”
First Papers Page 58