Chapter II: Part 2

_CHAPTER X_

_Her Friend (A Chronicle of the Tombs)_

Bridget, alias “The Rummager” (rummager means thief, pickpocket), was incorrigible; had always been so, and there were many reasons for it, such as heredity, environment, opportunity, habit. Bridget had been in the “Pen” (Penitentiary), the work-house, the Tombs. “Had been,” for “The Rummager” was free. She was just leaving the latter prison on the afternoon of Monday, February 24, 1902. There was money in her pocket. She had worked in the laundry doing washing for the aristocrats and millionaires over in the men’s prison.

Freedom and money! This had always before meant a celebration, but to-day Bridget kept on her way towards Chinatown, passing for the first time the side doors of the saloons which had been best loved and most patronized. She did what she had never done before under such circumstances—she hurried home. Bridget was welcomed, was invited to make an occasion of the event. She declined. This behavior caused consternation and criticism in “The Barracks.” Bridget hurried away to the “Bend.” There she haggled with Isaac over the price of a dress—a black dress. Finally it was hers, but it took her last penny—and all her other bills and coins.

Bridget disappeared. This was no novelty, such occurrences were not unusual. No one worried about it. Some hours afterward they learned that she was working. They jeered at and reviled the joker who brought the news. That afternoon, for the first time in her life, Bridget earned an honest dollar. It was perhaps the first money not spent in dissipation.

The next morning was the first time she had ever bought flowers. “The Rummager” laid them upon the coffin of her friend—“The Tombs Angel.”

[NOTE.—Mrs. Salome C. Foster, of blessed memory, for many years
devoted herself to the unfortunates confined in the city prisons.
This valuable and beautiful life was lost in the Park Avenue Hotel
fire, February 22, 1902.]

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_CHAPTER XI_

_Life_

All that is enjoyable; all that one would possess, and do if one could, is summed up in this word—Life!

What is it that the young would see? and the flight of which is regretted by the old? It is Life!

This is the almost universal meaning of the word. You speak it, and think of dance and song, women and wine, sunlight, blue skies, and freedom.

To us it has another meaning—try and imagine it.

Sometimes when an important trial is closing and the jury is out till midnight perhaps, we, the inhabitants of the Tombs, sit up and listen for the little bell which rings in the prison, because one of us is being brought back across the “Bridge of Sighs.”

Here he comes! “What did you get?” calls out a friend from the top tier, and there is a clutch at every heart, a horror that you on the outside will never be able to appreciate, when we hear the answer, the sentence most dreaded—“LIFE.”

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_CHAPTER XII_

_My Friend the Major_

Without exception, the Major is one of the finest men I have ever met. I like him so much that I am willing to tell a truthful story, or rather, tell a story truthfully (which is a very different thing), at my own expense.

It was this way: Benjamin had got religion. Benjamin preached a long sermon to us every single evening; he preached revival sermons, missionary sermons, and obituary ones on all the fellows who had gone through the “little door.” When he had exhausted these—and us, he would say, “Now this is what I am going to say about _you_, Mr. Roland, after you have gone.” What followed would depend on how I had treated him during the day.

Another reason why Ben preached. Benjamin had made me this very handsome proposition: He knew a man in Brooklyn who owned a tent. _I_ was to hire that tent, and sing outside to attract a crowd. We agreed that I could do that successfully. Then _I_ should enter and sing inside, and _he_ would stand at the door and collect ten cents from all who entered (if there were any so foolish). Then _he_ would preach, after which _I_ should sing again while HE took up a collection. I tried to suggest other orders of events, but Ben insisted that this was the _only_ one he could agree to; and as it seemed perfectly fair, I consented. If Ben had only lived, how rich and famous we should have become, and happy, too, for Ben enchanted me with descriptions of all the nice colored girls we should meet. Life was _very_ tempting. On account of this arrangement with me Ben thought it necessary to rehearse his sermons every night, so as to get into practice. He addressed them to “youse poor, mean, miserable, damned sinners in here in the Death-Chamber.” His elocution consisted of main strength.

We were tired of it, so Larry swore out a warrant; Shorty indicted him; Eddy committed him to prison; and finally he was brought to trial. John was the jury. I defended my colored brother, and the Major, who was on duty that evening, prosecuted him. Why did I defend him? Because he sent me three oranges and implored my help. I asked him if these were all he had (this is a lawyer’s first duty toward himself). They were, so I accepted his retainer, and told him not to worry about his affairs—neither did I.

The case came up that evening, and I asked for a postponement, for I have observed that all expensive attorneys do this. No adjournment was allowed, however, so I explained to my client that the District Attorney’s office was trying to “railroad him,” and he must raise more funds. He tendered a paper of State tobacco and three toothpicks. I took the tobacco, but refused to consider the toothpicks as collateral—I had seen newer ones. I demanded more tobacco; he had to borrow another package. Then, knowing I had everything he possessed, I was ready to proceed.

“Judge Sparta,” of Binghamton, presided, and a more learned and impartial jurist never wore “sneaks” (felt-soled slippers). The trial proceeded under his just rulings, and with great decorum. The evidence was so conflicting, that it was agreed between counsel that whoever made the best speech in summing up should win the case. I felt sorry, indeed, for my opponent, for the Major is a silent man. I summed up with all my usual eloquence. Even the judge was affected as I pleaded and threatened. I was humorous and scornful by turns, the jury wept or laughed at my pleasure, and when I spoke of Benjamin, I made a bishop of him, dressed him in episcopal robes, and placed him at the head of a great university (the tent). I showed how his white hair would be loved and venerated at this seat of learning—_if_ he lived. There was not a dry eye in the Death-Chamber when I finished this part of my oration. And when I closed with a scathing arraignment of the Major’s legal methods, the great crowd in the auditorium, who had remained spellbound, prisoners to my eloquence, burst into frantic cheers. During all the time I had been speaking not a single man had left the room. “That speech should be put in the fourth reader,” said the judge. I had a right to think that mine indeed had been a powerful effort—I had made a home run. I was number one. I knew I had the Major licked.

The Major’s speech! Words fail me to describe how, from lofty to still more lofty flights his oratory ascended, climax upon climax and further climaxes still! Even I was thrilled. I forgot my case, my client—everything. I may say it was a long speech—yes, I think I am justified in saying so. First came Henry Ward Beecher’s great abolition sermon, then Ingersoll’s oration at the grave of his brother, next Lincoln’s immortal speech at Gettysburg. Heavens! what a memory that man had. The very bars of our cages melted like wax as he proceeded to declaim his own speech of thanks on the occasion when the Tarrytown Fire Department presented him with a speaking trumpet. Here the enthusiasm of my constituents could be restrained no longer. They cheered the Major. They reviled _me_! I was told to get under the bed. Then followed the Masonic burial service, about our weary feet having come to the end of the toilsome journey before the Great White Throne. When the Major reached this point Benjamin could see, in his mind’s eye, the cemetery, the open grave amid the tombs and monuments; he could see the pall, the coffin under it, and—himself inside the coffin. Blue perspiration exuded from Benjamin’s person. I could plainly hear his teeth chatter as these awful phrases rolled from the Major’s lips as only he can roll them. They made Benjamin sick—I didn’t feel very well myself.

Of course the jury, who was another Mason, convicted Benjamin of the crime of—heresy in the _last_ degree. But Ben maintained to the very day of his death that the Major “conjahed me with churchyard dirt,” and I believe the Major always has a rabbit’s foot concealed about him; at least I hope so, if it brings him good luck.

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_CHAPTER XIII_

_A Dissertation on the Third Degree_

That the present condition of affairs regarding the administration of justice in New York City is unsatisfactory, will hardly be denied, while such glaring instances of recent incompetency are fresh in the public mind. The many comments and editorials appearing in the best metropolitan newspapers attest that our citizens are conscious of the defects in this department, while the press of other cities throughout the country, and even abroad, reminds us in no uncertain tones how we are regarded by our neighbors. This matter has been recognized of recent years, and attention called to it by investigating committees appointed by our Legislature. But the efforts of these committees have been too widely distributed; they have attempted to investigate too many things in general; and the methods of the District Attorney’s office in particular, although regarded with suspicion by a large majority of those who read and think, and with contempt by those who know, remain—unexposed, despite the fact that they demand immediate attention.

It would seem as if some of the strenuous periodicals with which we are blessed, or otherwise, would find here a fruitful field for sensational effort; but it is precisely to “yellow journalism” that the District Attorney’s office caters; and this branch of the press will be unlikely to turn and bite the hand which feeds it so generously. The better type of journalism will have none of these matters. Those of the legal profession who know—the lawyers practising in criminal law courts—must be careful not to offend so powerful an institution, whose disfavor might mean ruin. And the Bar Association ignores or postpones action. No persons in private life care to take the initiative; and perhaps they are right. It is safest not to interfere. Why then should I undertake the task? Simply because I have suffered unjustly, and have seen others suffer injustice. This is my sole warrant and authority. And in this matter I am very much in earnest.

The present state of affairs is the result of previous conditions, older methods of criminal procedure, which have been developed and expanded until at the present time they have overstepped all decency.

Let us begin at the beginning, for what I am about to describe may happen to any one. When a man is arrested the police proceed as follows: Invariably starting with protestations of sympathy and faith in their prisoner’s innocence, they make offers of help and assistance. The suspect is coaxed into a confession if possible; this is the first degree. Let us further suppose that, on his part, all guilt or knowledge is denied. Then the second degree is “worked.” Here traps will be laid for him—he will be lied to, threatened, frightened, it may be. A lawyer may now appear. He says an agonized mother has retained him to take the case; he guarantees immediate release, and is ready to hear the story. But suppose the “agonized mother” to have been dead many years, naturally his services are declined. It is well. The confidence would have been extended to a policeman. I have heard that a cassock sometimes robes the same individual on a similar errand. This “moral suasion” may be extended over even a day or two, reinforced by such pleasantries as being awakened the moment one drops asleep. Meals are “forgotten,” a drink of water is an impossibility; or liquor is plied if that will open lips. In summer a cheerful fire may burn very near the cell door; the windows are closed, one may perspire a trifle. If the season be winter, no inconvenience is felt by reason of superfluous heat. This is not denied by police officials. I believe Superintendent Byrnes describes all these methods in his book, and tells how a suspect is locked up in a cell with the instruments of the crime he is accused of having committed, or even with the “corpus delicti” itself. Proof of this method is found in that atrociously and hideously managed persecution of a young woman, in which evidence collected in this manner was offered in court—and very properly ruled out by the presiding judge. The case is too recent to be forgotten.

If the prisoner still remains obstinate, the third degree follows in due course. This is not at all the bloody affair which some fancies have painted it. The appearance of those who have just gone through the ordeal indicates nothing unusual—perhaps a little pallor and a slight derangement of the digestive organs; for to be struck in the stomach with a lusty fist enclosed within a boxing glove or beaten across the kidneys with a piece of rubber garden hose leaves no marks, that is, on the _outside_. No right-minded person who has experienced this will ever complain to the courts; he has no witnesses; “there is more in the closet.” I believe that the “third degree” is very seldom used unless there is almost a moral certainty that the person subjected to it is the proper one to receive this modern torture.

I have never experienced the “third degree.” To me, as to every other good citizen, the term had been a familiar one; but the details never having been made public, my impressions of this ceremony were extremely vague, until a time came when opportunities were frequent to get information regarding this matter at second-hand, decidedly the best way of obtaining it. During the exercise hours in the Tombs prison, I walked with scores of men who have gone through this initiation. For two years I asked questions of those who could not possibly be in collusion to deceive me; and as all their stories agreed, I think I have given a correct description of the three degrees. My little diary, kept all that time, contains my notes and lies before me. There was another place in which I heard about the third degree. On rainy days in the Death-Chamber at Sing Sing prison, when it was too dark to read (and there were many “gloomy” days during those two years), we whispered our experiences to one another. All my companions had been taken to Police Headquarters or to station houses when arrested. I went to the Tombs directly from the Coroner’s Court; across the “Bridge of Sighs,” or, as we call it, “The Suspension of Howls,” and there is no “third degree” practised in the Tombs.

The “third degree” is not a fixed ceremony. It is regulated to suit the individual (I do not mean his taste), and differs with the personality of the grand master. Its object is simply to promote conversation in the hope that something compromising will be said. It is almost always a success; some persons become even garrulous. No excuse or explanation is ever made for the third degree, because its use is vigorously denied by those in authority. But I do make such an excuse; there is much to be said in its favor. Guilt cannot be hunted down by innocence. You must “match cunning with guile,” “you must fight the devil with fire,” and when clubs are trumps—play them.

Take this matter home to yourself; imagine a case in which you are very much interested. Your house has been entered and all your wife’s jewelry stolen; you complain to the police. Of course, having done so, the yellow journals print a full account of the robbery, also more or less flattering fake portraits of yourself and family. Your bath-room, through which the burglar entered, is described in detail; your billiard table, library cuspidor, etc., are photographed and printed life-size in the evening editions. The next day a portrait of the pretty typewriter employed at your office is displayed, whom some lynx-eyed reporter has discovered wearing diamonds. Then everything you _never_ did in your life is disclosed. The “journalists” take possession of your home; an old pair of slippers and a bicycle hat of bygone days are discovered. You stole the jewelry yourself, you know you did! Your hidden sins stand revealed in all their repulsiveness. The finger of sensational journalism has torn the mask of hypocrisy, so long and successfully worn, from your repellant countenance at last. Confess, miserable wretch! Pictures of Judas Iscariot, Captain Kidd, and others of their type appear in the hysterical press. They are all labelled with _your_ name. How you will be roasted! “It is said,” etc., that on dark nights you steal forth to exhume deceased infants from their tombs—and to eat them. Are you ill-advised enough to deny this? Beware! As for the partner of your joys and sorrows, “We have it on undeniable authority,” etc., etc., that she went yachting with that gay club fellow Noah, and has been engaged to each one of his guests in turn. For a penny, “all who run may read” these romances; the only redeeming feature being that those who read do not believe. While this is going on your better half stays in her room and weeps.

The servants leave, and you have to answer the door-bell yourself and be polite(?) to the representatives of the press, who call every few moments for interviews, and who never print a word you say to them. Every tradesman you deal with sends a collector with his bill; your life insurance policies are cancelled.

Then the police captain of the precinct sends for you. You go prepared to be cast into prison. Not so; while the “Journal,” “World,” and “Herald” have been clearing up the mystery of this “inside job,” the police have made an arrest. The prisoner is a well-known burglar. On that night and at the time your house was entered he was seen loitering outside, but just at present he won’t talk. You know that he either robbed you himself, or watched while a confederate did. Do you want your wife’s property? Do you want your character back again? Do you want to get “hunk”? Remember, whoever entered your house came prepared to kill. Perhaps you are a father, and know your conscientious duty towards that eldest son of yours, your own flesh and blood, when he has misbehaved and is sulky. Do you birch him? Do you trounce him, or do you stop to argue? Is it more brutal to inflict corporal punishment upon a man than upon a child?

But you don’t stop now to debate that question. You fling yourself upon your knees, and with tears implore that you be allowed to assist at—“the third degree.” You even offer all the worldly goods you have left for the privilege of plying that garden hose yourself—just once, where it will do the most good. Stop, sir, the law forbids! After a couple of howls the peevishness of your new acquaintance vanishes. He speaks. In a few hours your property is restored, and you are distributing cigars and buying wine for the reporters, in the hope that they will stop lying about you. Your wife condescends to speak to you for the first time in days. If upon his trial the rogue should plead that an illegal confession had been wrung from him, and the police should deny it, would you go to court and corroborate the thief, or would you “lie like a gentleman”?

The question is, Is the “third degree” ever used to compel a confession from an innocent person, or to satisfy a grudge? In either case the abuse, not the use, is to be condemned. Are theories made up without evidence, and some poor victim made to fit the case by means of torture? Was “Frenchy” really innocent and in prison all those years? If not, why was he pardoned a few months ago? Was McAuliffe beaten to death to satisfy a grudge, or for fear of future revelations? It is not my business to find out. I have been informed that at the last election the people selected some one else to do that; and if in theorizing upon these subjects to myself I have come to no conclusion which I care to give here, I am sure I do the “Finest” no injustice, for they have theorized on my case for nearly four years, and have come to no conclusion at all.

The first and second degrees are efforts to outwit a criminal. They would seldom entrap an innocent person. Moreover, the accused need not answer questions, and this should be the course pursued by any one accused of crime, no matter how innocent. The first and second degrees are admitted to exist; the third degree has been described, and, on the whole, I am inclined to approve of it, although unlawful. It has brought many criminals to justice; but I do not defend the _fourth degree_, which is the name I use, for the lack of a better one, to describe the present state of affairs existing in the office of the public prosecutor. It is a continuation of the others, after the affair reaches the hands of an Assistant District Attorney with an ambition for a record for securing convictions—one looking for a reputation. It is made possible by twin evils of recent birth: yellow journalism and expert testimony. Summed up, it is the use of slander and perjury. In the “fourth degree” the pen is mightier than the night stick—the victim is not pounded with the “locust,” but in the press. Like the fourth dimension of space, if there is one, this state of affairs is invisible; but invisible only because we will not observe.

Permit me to prove the existence of this fourth degree. Time was, when trials in the criminal courts of this county were intended to determine the guilt or the innocence of the accused. All this is changed now; convictions must be obtained by every and any means, when money and reputations are to be made; and the secret methods of convicting innocent men constitute the fourth degree. Immediately upon arrest, or even before, public opinion is aroused against the suspect by inflammatory newspaper statements in which the victim is accused of crime; the presumption of innocence is no longer allowed him. His family is branded by the most contemptible calumnies; and the public is assured in every edition that the authorities have ample proof of the accused’s guilt, that new evidence is constantly pouring in, and that conviction is a certainty. During this trial in the newspapers, fake evidence is published; opinions of previous officials not noted for their over-blameless public lives are printed, experts are turned loose—all of them, of course, on one side—and this is kept up until it is believed that public opinion has been swayed against the victim. Eulogies on the generosity and fairness of the assistant prosecutor in charge are printed editorially (making certain the source from whence these articles emanate, for in our day, the District Attorney’s office has become a news agency for sensational journalism). In the manner affected by all savages, this red fire is burnt, tum-tums are beaten, stink-balls thrown to distract public attention from what is about to happen.

Now comes an all important part of the fourth degree. The public prosecutor declares that he has never known a plainer case of guilt; and deprives the accused of the examination before a magistrate, which the law guarantees him, by “railroading” the case before the Grand Jury, which has been prepared and prejudiced by poisoning the wells of information—the press. These proceedings being secret, evidence favorable to the defendant is suppressed; and lies can be manufactured if needed, for no cross-examination of witnesses is permitted. It is the golden opportunity of any secret foe. Of course an indictment can always be secured under such circumstances, the accused branded and thrown into prison, and need never know one word of the evidence against him. Great is the political and legal capital of the Assistant District Attorney who manages a case in this way, especially if the victim be a big fish. He is called a “Fearless Prosecutor”—an “Able Assistant.”

If the accused has money he can appeal to a higher court and have such an illegal indictment set aside, but the prosecuting attorney will make this process long and expensive. The more money the accused spends now, the less he will have for the necessities of the trial, and his wily opponent knows this well. The Able Assistant is not troubled with matters financial. There are fresh bond issues for him, if necessary. Should the Grand Jury refuse to indict and discharge the accused, the “Fearless One” simply arrests him again, and repeats his efforts before another Grand Jury; all the time assuring the public that the prisoner’s millions will not save him, and that the prosecutor can be trusted to drag him to the bar of justice. He does it, too, sooner or later. That is, it is called the “bar of justice.” During this time the people’s counsel makes his grand stand play. He challenges the accused under enormous headlines—“Are you innocent of the crime?” Then produce the culprit, prove his guilt; and this learned and generous gentleman of legal attainments will release you.

Finally, the accused is cast into prison, and kept there. He must rely on his friends and his lawyers. This is all very well presuming he has them, but hard indeed for the poor fellow who has none. In other words, a man is put in a position where he cannot defend himself. Perhaps the offence is a bailable one, let bail be offered; it is immediately increased. The unfortunate victim cannot get out on bail. The Able Assistant will see to that. In the meantime, any persons who it seems probable are to be witnesses for the defence are subpœnaed and terrorized, if possible, threatened with arrest, insulted, bullied. The yellow newspapers, hungry for sensation, have put the defendant at the mercy of every blackmailer and crank. Their offers of reward invite all men without principle, but with a price, to make fake identifications which will implicate him. Does the prosecution desire any particular person for a witness? Such persons are simply kidnapped and put in the House of Detention.

Time elapses, perhaps years; all is now ready for the trial in court. No! I have forgotten to mention that the county of New York will give a lawyer five hundred dollars to defend a penniless man accused of murder. This is American, this is fair play, it is a helping hand to the under dog. Under, because the fearless prosecutor can spend, and has often spent, hundreds of thousands of dollars to obtain a conviction. His limit is the sky, for it costs his pocket nothing, and when the prosecution makes the issue on expert testimony, the odds on conviction will be two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which the State may perhaps spend, to this five hundred dollars granted to the defendant.

At the trial, everything the law forbids the police to do, is permitted to the District Attorney. In his opening and closing addresses, he exaggerates shamelessly, and tries to prejudice the jurymen with poison distilled from his own imagination. For three months he will be allowed to pour expert testimony into the jury box. And by the way, if a man is guilty, does it take a matter of a quarter of a million and a quarter of a year to show it? At this trial proper—or rather improper—the caricaturist with drawing-board, the jackal reporters—all the cannibals of Park Row, join in the man hunt. Nothing is sacred. Old age, grief, womanhood, innocence are but so much material for the “story.” The official stenographer’s report is a prosaic thing—away with it. The defendant’s appearance, his conduct—will be indeed a problem for the readers of the penny dreadfuls—for while the “Journal” describes his eyes gleaming in their sockets like an infuriated bull’s, the “World” chronicles the tears which course down his pitiable countenance, and the “Herald” comments on his indifferent and callous demeanor.

But if the State has not proved me guilty? the prisoner may ask. A fallacy, my friend; in these days you must prove your innocence. Of course the accused is convicted. No man, however innocent, can successfully combat the fourth degree. Everything has worked like a charm; but at last, after two years, perhaps, or more, the case reaches the Court of Appeals. Then the master stroke is given, the _finesse_ of which is startling even to old criminal lawyers. That the conviction has been obtained illegally is universally admitted. How will the attorney for the people induce the Court of Appeals to sustain it? Of course, the method will be in the nature of an innovation; for the fourth degree is a new thing, and just as certainly will it be something unjust.

Judging others by himself, the Able Assistant will rely on the use of money. Special counsel is obtained to try to have the illegal conviction sustained in the higher courts. A man of national reputation, the leader of his party, and noted for his political influence and his willingness to use it; who, strangely enough, when high in office appointed some of the judges who are to listen to his argument, may be retained to argue before the Court of Appeals, and beg that it allow the conviction to stand. The honorable special counsel receives a great many thousands of dollars for doing this, and in one case had at last the opportunity of gratifying a little personal grudge of nearly twenty years’ standing. As the epitaph of the Western man read, “He did his damnedest; angels could do no more.”

In one case I have in mind nothing could equal this person’s eloquence when arguing in the higher courts _against_ a new trial for the defendant, unless it was his effort when, a few weeks later, he insisted in a lower court that the defendant _must_ be tried again; thus proving that there are two sides to a case—the inside and outside. Consistency is a jewel, a rare one in the Criminal Court Building, County of New York, for after all this fuss and expenditure, the “good lady” who held the office of District Attorney dared not try the case, but left it to his successor. All this is not an imaginary case; it is my own. I know whereof I speak.

Just consider for a moment another case recently tried. Does it not furnish further proof of the fourth degree?

Two men were involved—one was to be killed in earnest, because he had inherited money; the other was nearly killed with kindness to make the former killing possible. The office had no case against the first man. But they arrested him; nor against the second man, so they arrested him, also. The Assistant District Attorney who prosecuted them had a private practice while holding public office. The charge against these men was, that they had killed a third man, who really died a natural death—an old man who had money. Now began the offers to each prisoner, separately, to inform on the other. This always happens. The result in this case was nil. Both protested their innocence, but the fearless prosecutor found the weaker-natured of the two during these interviews. It was the second man. To him was offered absolute freedom—and what else?—if he would say the other did the murder. He did so. The examination took place. There the other proved the informer’s story a lie; he proved a perfect alibi, which could not be shaken. The legal adviser of the people had employed—perjury. That was the one thing proved. Circumstances were now changed; that story would not work. Remember there were millions at stake, and the Able Assistant had a private practice. So quite a different lie was invented and sworn to by the second man. This was also proved to be a perjury, something for which no prosecutor’s witness is ever prosecuted. Still the first man, the legatee, was held for trial.

But during the long wait of years in the Tombs for him, how did the second man, the Assistant’s tool, fare? I said he was killed with kindness. Of course that is not literal; but the Fearless Prosecutor took good care of him; he was supplied with every comfort—no key was ever turned on him.

In return he subscribed to any and all statements which were required to kill number one. At the trial he made still a different confession from the two previous ones; the third one was that he himself had committed the murder at the instigation of the defendant. A self-confessed murderer, a triple perjurer, he is now scot-free, and an innocent man is in the Death-Chamber.

These are the methods of the fourth degree. The Court of Appeals does not approve of them; one District Attorney has been removed from office by the Governor; but another, he of the ever-ready biography, has handed them down to his sons as an heritage of fame.

The public has no idea of the enormous number of cases which are reversed by the Court of Appeals. Here is a recent one. A young man was sentenced to imprisonment for twenty-five years by a General Session’s judge. But the Appellate Division of the Supreme Court, when reviewing the case, said: “The defendant’s guilt has not been proven. It is not even proven by the evidence that _any_ crime was committed.” This is a fact, and any one who will take the trouble to read the published decisions will find it and many more such instances.

Of the convictions obtained by the District Attorney in the Court of General Sessions, a small proportion of the convicted men have money to appeal to the higher courts, and the percentage of new trials granted is high. How much higher would it be if _all_ cases were appealed? In other words, think of the poor devils who are in State prison unjustly because of their lack of money.

There is a remedy for this state of affairs. We have a legislature, a bar association, and a legal aid society. Among all these could not some arrangement be made for inspectors, to whom a man unjustly convicted could complain and receive assistance? Is there no relief or redress for the sufferers from the fourth degree, when even the third degree is forbidden by law?

If the third degree is brutal, the fourth is hellish. Call the third illegal assault, and you must name the fourth murder illegally designed. By means of the fourth a gentleman can be hounded to death by his enemies. In the third degree a criminal has his ears boxed.

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_CHAPTER XIV_

_It’s Just Like Her (A Chronicle of the Tombs)_

The missionaries I have met! Mind, I am not speaking of the professional ones, those who are officially connected with the Tombs, or with Sing Sing prison; nor the chaplains. Years of experience have taught them their good work; they do it properly and without the aid of trumpets. Nor do I mean the ladies, who out of the goodness of their hearts, come and sing to us on Sundays. I am referring to those kind creatures who have made it their “life work” to come here _occasionally_ and bestow tracts and cheering words upon us; the kind that carry enormous Bibles, full of colored book marks, pressed against their flat chests, and who punctuate their sentences by rolling their eyes upward. These book marks, I am convinced, are what make them so round-shouldered. They do not come during all the year: with summer they receive calls, doubtless from a celestial source, to “green fields and pastures new”; while the real helpers stay and, with us, bear the heat and burden of the day.

How I have been comforted by the visitations (on _clear_ days during the winter, and _how_ I have prayed for stormy ones) of these devoted and self-appointed examiners of my beliefs, and by a perusal of the literature they thrust upon me, “The Drunkard’s Home” (this to me, who have never tasted liquor in my life); “The Path to Hell” (when I am there already); “A Life of Sin” (I have always lived at home with my parents). Still another piece of literature informs me that I may possibly be a Christian, but _not_ a _clean one_—if I smoke. Oh, the irony of life! with all this abundant and excellent supply, I am not allowed, while in the Tombs, to shave myself!

What a spiritual uplift I experienced by the sudden appearance of a female of uncertain age, who demanded: “Where are you going to spend eternity?” and before I could answer, “Not with _you_ if I can help it,” she put her second question. “Do you pray, brother? Do you get right down on your knees and lift yourself up?” (wouldn’t that be a stunt? it is also a mixed metaphor, but what do missionaries care for rhetoric?)

On the first day of my incarceration a good lady (she is also a type of all the others) introduced herself to me in this manner: Transfixing me with an awful glance she said, “Man’s nature is _three_fold: physical, intellectual, spiritual. I am here to minister to your _spiritual_ necessities.” This she proceeded to do by telling me to “look up, hope on, it is brighter further off”; and that I was in a prison cell—“for a _purpose_.”

Hardly had she passed on and left me happy in my solitude when her place was taken by another, and then another, who gave place to still another, all with the same tracts and expostulations. Not one of them neglected to tell me, that even St. Paul had been put in prison (for a purpose, doubtless), and that John Bunyan, although in a similar state of durance, had written that great and good book, “Pilgrim’s Progress.” Had I ever read it? I pleaded guilty, and was sentenced to read it again for my own good. After several hours of this, I also was in the mood to write—I wrote this and to my mother—begging her to come and sit in front of my cell all day, and to bring a broom; but still they came. My mother’s presence and the absence of the broom but gave them the opportunity to inflict her also.

Oh, the missionaries! are there no bandits in America? Why, oh why, do they insist on questioning me about my soul, and offering to wrestle with my most secret sins, when there is a man in the next cell who needs underclothes? After hearing the missionaries and being promised another call on the morrow, I wonder that the men do not rush to the District Attorney’s office and accept “pleas.” Sing Sing would seem preferable to another visitation.

I must not forget Sister “Goo-Goo,” who is so sympathetic. She stands outside, looking into my cell through the barred door; she also looks alluring. She sighs, then whispers, “This may be your door of hope.” “Then why is it kept locked?” I beg to inquire.

Sometimes they come on Sundays with last year’s religious papers and magazines; they come and gossip with the keepers; or they bring a friend to whom they show the sights and point out us poor unfortunates. It is pleasant to watch them as they meet and compare dress goods patterns which they produce from their pocket-books; how briefly the hours go by, what brotherly and sisterly love; how they enjoy themselves; how happy _we_ are while they do _this_.

Of course we exchange experiences when they have departed; and, good souls, their visits often provoke some humor in the gray days of our existence. During the exercise hour one morning I overheard the “hard” man tell another, “her skirts” (that woman) “says she is praying for me, but it won’t hurt me none, for I’ve got an alibi.”

“See what the old ‘four-eyed gent’ just gave me,” said the wooden-legged man. It was a tract on the sin of dancing.

“He’s all right,” cut in another, “the old ‘polar top’s’ going to see the judge about me and I’ll only get two years.”

“Oh,” said the lame man, “that’s what the judge _intends_ to give yer _now_; after ‘the century plant’ talks to him for three or four hours, the judge will give you eighty years.”

How the missionaries love each other! few are on speaking terms; but must they make _me_ their confidant; do I not suffer sufficiently? This is what I must listen to, “That woman over there putting her ‘stuff’ through the bars is one of the very worst liars who comes here; you can’t believe a word she says. You don’t want to have anything to do with her; the less you tell her the better. What do you think, she keeps the money she collects for the poor prisoners.”

My visitor goes and his place is taken by the “friend” he has just eulogized. “Did that man say anything about me? Did you ever hear of his doing any good for any one? He ought to be put out.”

This good lady is followed by another, her sister in the Lord. The second one does not speak to the first; but she does speak of her and imparts her social and financial status. “Oh, yes, she’s very wealthy; she could afford to do _much more_ than she does; she lives in a brownstone house, and keeps three servants; but _I_ have given everything I possess to the Lord.”

Oh, the cant! the cant one hears in the Tombs.

But there is another kind; there are the real workers who bring gladness and help; there _was_ the “Tombs Angel,” there is “Sister Sunshine,” and “Sister ----”; but it is of her I started to tell this story. I heard it from a court officer over in the Criminal Court Building during my examination before the Coroner.

I was in the “box,” which means the “pen,” that is to say, the “stall” in which you wait till you are called before the judge, and my friend the officer said, referring to a very miserable specimen in the opposite “pen,” who was in convulsions by reason of his anger:

“He’s the worst ever; the worst ever I see; the very worst. Why, what do you think? he cursed the Sister—what? did I? Did I call him down?”

The Sister he referred to is one of the black-robed saints, who for the sake of the lowly Nazarene devote their lives to laboring among the sinners and unfortunates in the city prisons. The object of the keeper’s wrath was the toughest man in the Tombs—to have that distinction one must be hard indeed.

The treatment which this particular Sister of whom I speak had received at the hands of the hard citizen was somewhat as follows, according to my informant: First, he had lied to her; then he had asked of her an impossibility. Of course she had attempted to do it. Of course she failed; then he insulted her, and what he said I am ashamed to write; but tears were in her eyes when she turned away. But for all that—wait, I am ahead of my story.

It seems that previous to this he had abused his own lawyer until that worthy would do little or nothing for him. “Let him go. No one will help him, anyhow—there’s no one who would be a witness for him. He has no friends—there’s no evidence that can save him,” said his legal adviser.

At the trial, which took place that day, the day it stormed so, some evidence _did_ appear which proved him absolutely innocent; never was this expected; it came from an old enemy; he had not dreamed this possible.

How did this happen? She (the Sisters hear much that no one else does) had learned of this witness, and in spite of the man himself and her own outraged feelings, had procured his defence and acquittal.

“He didn’t deserve it, but then that is just her way,” said my friend the attendant. “Whose way?” I asked. “Don’t you know? Why, God bless her, I thought every one knew Sister Xavier.”

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_CHAPTER XV_

_“Shorty”_

Had I been the Governor of the State of New York, I would have pardoned “Shorty.” There was universal sorrow in the Death-Chamber when he died, for we knew his story, and every one of us felt that justice might have been satisfied in another way. Each of us had learned to respect this stupid-faced little fellow of five feet one inch; who walked with such heavy feet, and whose stooped shoulders were the result of a long life of excessive hard work, yet Shorty was only twenty-two years old.

On arriving among us, there was something very like an animal about him. He could not read or write; he learned to do both while there. Larry, an Italian member of our guild, taught him. At that time, when he was not drawing pictures for “The Murderers’ Home Journal,” which the editor had to suppress, he was catching flies; he did this almost as well as a monkey—and why not? How the flies loved Shorty! But this was at first. So was his feud with our colored brother, Benjamin, which was renewed daily. Every morning Shorty told Benjamin that his face was black, and urged him to wash it. Benjamin replied; Shorty responded; Benjamin observed, and then the keeper would interfere.

What trivial things bring about misunderstandings among friends. A mere nothing at all will start a quarrel in the Death-Chamber. We had cookies for Sunday dinner, “the kind mother used to make,” all dotted over with dried currants. She gave them to me when I was a good boy: she gave them to me incessantly. Shorty replaced the currants with dried flies, and sent them in the twilight to Benjamin with his compliments.

Benjamin was in a dark cell, it was a dark day; Benjamin—my pen refuses to write it. I shall never be hungry again as long as I live, when I think of what happened.

“I doan think much of dem currants,” said Ben.

Shorty replied, “No-a-currant—heap a—” My pen again refuses its task. No; I cannot tolerate the thought, can you? Don’t ask me to write that word, and then I need not repeat Benjamin’s reply, for Ben’s reply was _awful_ to hear.

This started the feud, and a little pleasantry of Ben’s not long afterwards added kerosene to the flame. Benjamin bided his time. One evening he challenged Shorty to a game of checkers, for a paper of chewing tobacco a side; best two games in three, the winner to take all. Now in the Death-Chamber each of us had made a checker-board, and the squares of each board were numbered alike; so, when an important match is made, we can follow the game as the combatants call off the moves by numbers to each other. It is just like a chess match “by cable,” and we are almost as far away from each other, although in the same room. The stakes were put up in the keeper’s hands. Shorty won the first game, Benjamin the second, Shorty the third, and took the tobacco. Shorty was jubilant; he declared that “Ben knew nothing from the game what he is about.”

It became strangely silent in Benjamin’s cell. Benjamin was waiting until Shorty should regale himself with the victor’s spoils. For worlds Ben would not have lost a word of Shorty’s remarks. The noises which proceeded from “little Italy” later were worth waiting for. There were two dead mice hidden away in the interior of that package of tobacco.

“How does yer like dem kurrents?” asked Ben. “Doan yer be afeared to chaw dem, dey’s perfectly ripe.”

They were.

No more presents were exchanged after that. It is sad when friends lose confidence in each other.

Shorty spoke a language of his own. It was English in sound and accent, but the grouping of the words was according to his own sweet will. For Shorty the rules of syntax had no terrors.

One day he told me his story. “I did was from Italy six year. All the time mostly work the railroad on. So much big, heavy carry ties. That don’t make me any never mind. I get the mon. Ah! that is altogether something—three hundred dollar. I will go home. Ah! a prettyful of a girls is there to marry.”

Then Shorty told me how he came to New York to take the steamer. Here he met some friend who invited him to the Italian colony across the river in Jersey.

“He did went.” Every one said how foolish he was. “Such a nonsense. You don’t know what’s no good. You talk like a nanny goat.” Why not marry the beautiful daughter of the house at which they were calling, “ain’t yer”?

The mother slipped away while the father and friends argued with Shorty; they were all so kind and convivial. Yes, their new friend must marry Agnes. The three hundred dollars should set them up in housekeeping, the prospective father-in-law, who was in “publitics,” would obtain a brilliant position for Shorty; only a fool would do anything else. And then the mother brought in the girl, dressed as every mother’s heart would prompt for the occasion. Shorty looked into her eyes; at the borrowed plumage; he had, alas, already looked into the cup.

“Ah,” said he to me, overcome by the mere remembrance; “Ah, there was something not to believe it.”

“Did you like her?” I asked.

“You have good to talk, the same thing is to me,” said Shorty, and there was a sob in his voice.

Then he went on to tell how the mother took care of the three hundred dollars; how they, Shorty and the girl, signed a paper; this made them man and wife, he explained, and then they celebrated—“Maka th’ congratulate.”

Then came the tragedy. “It was one o’clock after twelve—I feel awfully worse—I don’t know what isn’t—I want my wife,” explained Shorty.

“You must be drink,” said the mother.

“Why don’t you say what you are telling about?” cried the father.

“I want de mon!” demanded Shorty.

“Lie business!” screamed the father.

“Throw away! No believe!” said the friends.

Shorty was trembling as he went on with the story.

“That’s a fearful, what I see? A sharpa wire (stiletto). Ah, that is a _different_ something!”

Shorty was magnificent now; no words were necessary to tell the story, his face and gestures showed me all that happened. Tearing back his shirt, he showed me a long, jagged scar from shoulder to waist.

“Quicker, quick into hall. Light no more. What you have? It is to fight. Right away quick off. Bigger man throw down on me. They kill. I shoot—just the same like this—_Dio! Madre de Dio!_—on the floor, the mother! So, little, small hole in face. I do be arrested.”

As the French say, figure for yourself what justice poor Shorty received at his trial against these witnesses and without his money—a paper man in hell would get a fairer chance. So it came to pass that Shorty arrived in the Death-Chamber at Sing Sing, and deported himself at first as I have described.