American Lightning: Terror, Mystery, the Birth of Hollywood, and the Crime of the Century (32 page)

The wind was howling, and Lockwood suggested they could talk more easily in the barn. He led the way, the unanswered question still a wall between them. When Lockwood closed the door, the two men stood facing each other in nearly total darkness.

This could go either way, Franklin realized. But all he could do was wait.

“If I go into this, I want no mistake about the money,” Lockwood said firmly at last. “I want to be sure of it.”

Franklin ignored the challenge in the old cop’s voice and instead celebrated with a silent cheer. Lockwood was hooked. He would be another vote for acquittal.

But there were still the details to agree on, and Franklin had already given them some thought. He proposed to pay $500 down. The remaining $3,500 would be held by Captain White, a county jailer they both knew from their days in the sheriff’s office. After the verdict was announced, Lockwood could collect the money from the captain.

Lockwood didn’t object, and the next afternoon the two friends talked again to finalize the arrangements. They would meet at nine on Tuesday morning on the corner of Third and Los Angeles Street. Captain White would be there, too. The captain would give Lockwood his $500 down payment and a look at the roll of bills he’d be holding until the trial’s end.

On Tuesday, Lockwood took a streetcar into town and arrived promptly at nine at the rendezvous. Captain White was waiting for him. Franklin, though, had gone into a nearby saloon; he needed a shot to wash down his breakfast. And in position on the streets surrounding the busy downtown intersection were six Los Angeles police detectives.

It was a trap. After Franklin’s first visit to his ranch, an indignant Lockwood had rushed to the district attorney’s office. He had been cooperating with them ever since, coolly stringing Franklin along. And now they were going to catch one of Darrow’s men in the act of bribing a potential juror.

Only there was a problem. “Where’s Franklin?” Lockwood asked the captain. He didn’t want to take the money until Franklin was present. He needed the detectives to be able to testify that they had witnessed Darrow’s investigator taking part in the scheme. Lockwood realized that his only hope was to buy time. He didn’t know how long he could delay without the captain growing suspicious. But he was determined to try.

He improvised with frantic invention. First, he insisted the captain re-count the money in the thick roll. Then once he was satisfied the $4,000 was all there, Lockwood began complaining about the denominations of the bills. “It should have been in twos and fives,” he argued. He’d attract too much attention spending big bills. Could the money be exchanged?

The captain had heard enough. He peeled $500 from the roll and handed it to Lockwood.

And as Lockwood took the money, Franklin strolled out of the saloon, walking in a happy tipsy strut toward him.

When he got closer, Franklin was seized with a sudden panic. He had glanced up the block and recognized LAPD Detective George Home. “The sons of bitches,” he cursed. “Let’s get out of here,” he told Lockwood.

Setting a quick pace, he led Lockwood down Third Street, away from the officer.

And straight into Clarence Darrow. The head of the McNamara defense team was walking toward them.

“Wait a minute,” Franklin told Lockwood. “I want to speak to this man.”

He never got the chance. Detective Home rammed his automatic into Franklin’s side and ordered, “Keep your hands in your pockets.” Across the street another detective arrested Captain White.

Darrow stood mute, stunned into silence. His investigator had just been arrested after passing a bribe to a potential juror. And the police had witnessed that he was there, too.

That afternoon extras hit the stands, headlines shouting “Jury Bribery Charged in McNamara Trial.” None of the first stories reported that Darrow had been present when the bribe occurred.

But the attorney knew it would not be long before this became a story. He might even be charged. He now had more reason than ever to push for a settlement. A bribed juror wouldn’t help his clients’ case at all. Nor, for that matter, would the suspicion that the McNamaras’ lead counsel had been part of the scheme.

But it was still another arguably even more memorable occurrence that was to bring the most recalcitrant opponents of a settlement rushing back into the discussion. On October 31—Halloween—the L.A. mayoral primary election was held. Socialist candidate Job Harriman had polled 20,183 votes to 16,790 for the incumbent Alexander and an additional 8,191 for the independent Mushet. The plurality was insufficient to avoid a runoff election. But it was, as the
Los Angeles Citizen
rejoiced, “a momentous spectacle.” And on December 5—just five short weeks—the runoff would be held between Harriman and Alexander. Los Angeles, it was expected, would soon elect a Socialist mayor.

Many powerful people in the city anticipated Harriman’s victory with genuine fear. “Protect Los Angeles Homes!” shouted the
Times.
“Socialism in the saddle will mean less civic and private credit, less building, less industry, and thereby less work and wages.”

Los Angeles had been growing at a gallop, but businessmen worried that Harriman’s election would put a sudden end to the city’s hope to become a metropolis. “Can Los Angeles sell $17,000,000 of its bonds in the next year if Harriman is elected mayor?” the
Times
wondered doubtfully. “If Los Angeles fails to sell bonds in that sum it cannot carry on the great undertakings on the success of which its continued growth and prosperity alike depend.
Failure in those undertakings means municipal disaster!”

But another clique of influential citizens was concerned not just about the effects of Harriman’s election on the city. They knew his victory would cost them millions, perhaps even wipe them out.

For years they had nurtured their scheme. It had been a masterpiece of patience and deliberate misdirection. They had moved to control the water in Owens Valley. They had audaciously persuaded the city taxpayers to build a $23 million aqueduct to bring the water to Los Angeles. They had purchased tens of thousands of seemingly worthless acres in the bleak desert of San Fernando Valley. Now with the completion of the aqueduct, they would siphon off the surplus water and irrigate the valley. A desert would be reclaimed, miraculously transformed into a green suburban paradise. The Los Angeles Suburban Home Company—and its principals, Otis, Chandler, and their circle of wealthy friends—would start building and selling subdivisions. And at last reaping their pile of millions.

But if Harriman was elected, if the Socialists were in control, the scheme would fall apart. The Socialists would insist that city water belonged to the city. They would not allow it to be sold to the Suburban Home Company.

Harriman must not be elected on December 5.

Otis, Chandler, and the other businessmen understood this. Their own fortunes were at stake.

And the only way to put a certain stop to Harriman was to end any talk of vengeance, any talk of a war between capital and labor. The time had come to deal rationally and reasonably, like businessmen, with the fate of the McNamaras.

Darrow had thought it a shrewdness to entwine his defense so tightly with the Socialist candidates. Their popularity, he had reasoned with sly delight, would reflect on his clients. But the attorney had never given any thought to the converse: If the McNamaras went down in defeat, so would the Socialists.

Otis, however, grasped this negative logic. He realized with total certainty that if the McNamaras pleaded guilty, the Socialists would be tarred, too. Harriman would never be elected.

At the start of his investigation, Billy had followed the money, and it had led him to a motive. He had been wrong. Still, his detective’s intuition had perceptively focused on the conspiracy that would ultimately play a role in determining the course of the case.

The McNamara trial had to be settled, Otis decided. It would have been a blessing to see the brothers hang. But business was business, after all.

_____

And so, the product of these different events and sentiments, a firm desire for a settlement took hold. But it was also a race. Everything had to be efficiently resolved before the election on December 5. Or else there might as well be a hanging.

FORTY-ONE

____________________

D
ISTRICT ATTORNEY JOHN FREDERICKS
liked to think of himself as a military man. He had commanded a cavalry troop during the Spanish-American War and had led gallant charges. In civilian life a hard-driving martial spirit continued to infuse all his activities. His hobbies were no exception. He rode with abandon, tearing over the steeplechase and galloping toward every jump. On the golf course—his other passion—he was no less of a phenomenon. Making towering drives at every hole and brisk, mechanical putts, he’d routinely charge through the eighteen holes in a flash.

But today—November 30, 1911, Thanksgiving Day—Fredericks played the course with leisure. For once he was in no rush. He wanted to walk the fairways for hours; and he wanted to be unreachable. He did not want to offer the defense any opportunity to open up new negotiations. He had told Darrow to telephone his home by three. Either the attorney had obtained an acceptable agreement from his clients for a settlement by then, or they had nothing to discuss. The trial would proceed. And in five days so would the election.

As Fredericks enjoyed his day of golf, Darrow and his co-counsels were at the county jail meeting with the McNamaras. The discussion was a misery, both for the brothers and for their lawyers.

Jim was full of calm resolve. “I am willing to go before the court and take the blame. I will plead guilty,” he said.

However, he would not allow J.J. to do the same. In a steady voice he told the lawyers, “I am willing to save my brother for he knew nothing of this, and is as guiltless as you are.”

Joe Scott, the co-counsel who had been brought into the case because of his ties to the Catholic community, interrupted him. “But when J.J. pleads guilty, it may save you from the gallows.”

Jim was unpersuaded. He no longer cared if he died. All he cared about was protecting his older brother’s reputation. He would not cooperate if J.J. had to plead guilty. There were principles worth dying for, he told Darrow.

With the voice of an old man, the lawyer answered, “I understand.”

LeCompte Davis made the three o’clock call to the district attorney.

“The big man” cannot be convinced, he said referring to Jim. Could he call back at nine?

“If you get the consent of both men,” Fredericks insisted. “If you do not, don’t call me up. It is useless to waste time under any circumstances.”

There had been a break for a Thanksgiving meal, but the food brought Darrow no enjoyment. He ate listlessly, as if each swallow were a concession. He returned to the prison but could barely find the strength to talk to his clients. He knew they were making a mistake, yet he respected Jim’s resolve. Tomorrow the trial would resume, and he could not bear the prospect. Or the inevitability of its conclusion.

As Darrow brooded, Davis had a go at persuading the brothers. Reason had failed, so he tried psychology.

“Jim,” he began, “I think you’re right, and we’ve been wrong. It’s best that you hang. It’ll be better for labor.”

Jim did not respond. Perhaps he agreed, or perhaps he was simply beyond listening to further arguments.

But Davis would not stop. “It’s better your brother hangs too,” he said. “Then labor will have two martyrs.”

Suddenly Jim was incredulous. “They’ll hang him, too?”

“That’s the way it looks to me,” said Davis evenly.

The words slammed into Jim. He fell facedown onto his cot as if poleaxed and began to sob.

Darrow looked away, but still the wild animal sound of Jim’s desperate tears filled the small cell.

At last Jim raised his head. “All right. I’m licked.”

Darrow quietly told Davis to call the district attorney.

The next morning when court convened, Fredericks acted with coy drama. The bewildered reporters listened as he requested a continuance until after lunch. There were, he said portentously, “certain grave matters to be considered.”

Like most grave matters, they were played out behind closed doors.

First, Darrow and Davis met with Judge Bordwell. The McNamaras had agreed to the district attorney’s terms, Darrow announced. Both would plead guilty. Jim would receive a life sentence. J.J. would do ten years.

“Ten years isn’t enough for John J. McNamara,” ruled the judge. “He’ll have to take fifteen.”

It was not the deal that had been negotiated, but J.J. did not argue. Things had gotten to the hopeless point where an additional five years in prison loomed as just one more vindictive lash of the whip; there was no choice but to suffer.

After that, Jim wrote his confession. He sat down in his bunk, as both Darrow and Fredericks stood like silent sentinels above him:

“And this is the truth, on the night of September 30, 1910, at 5:45
P.M.
I placed in Ink Alley, a portion of the
Times
Building, a suitcase containing sixteen sticks of 80 per cent dynamite, set to explode at one o’clock the next morning. It was my intention to injure the building and scare the owners. I did not intend to take the life of anyone.”

And suddenly it was two
P.M.

The afternoon sunlight streamed radiantly through the courtroom windows. With a sense of appropriateness, a bailiff drew the heavy brown curtains. The brothers entered a lugubrious room.

Jim went first, walking briskly like a man in a hurry. J.J. followed. He was as neatly dressed as someone going to church.

Fredericks rose from his seat. “J.B. McNamara,” he said in a booming voice, “you have withdrawn your plea of not guilty. Do you wish to plead at this time?”

Jim somehow couldn’t find the words. Davis spoke for him. “Yes, sir.”