Haymarket (40 page)

I wanted to stand and cheer, though fully aware that the pugnacity of Foster’s summation will lose us more sympathizers than his irrefutable arguments will gain us friends. In one sense, the most important sense, I suppose, it hardly matters. By this late date, surely most if not all of the jurors have long since made up their minds.

August 15

Yesterday, Foster took me aback with his brash showmanship. Today, Captain Black surprised me in quite an opposite way. The dear man’s appearance alone alarmed me. Though I’ve seen him every day for months, when he stood before the bar this morning I was suddenly aware how much whiter his hair is since first we met and how much more lined his face. Not six months ago, he seemed to personify the handsome, dignified military hero. Now, his figure is slightly stooped and his eyes dart back and forth with uneasy anxiety. An old man stood before us.

And his performance today seemed far off his usual mark. My heart sank. Has Captain Black lost confidence, grown fearful that we’re likely
to be convicted? If so, why? He’s been buoyant throughout, sometimes to the point where he’s had to make a patently obvious effort to modulate his optimism rather than raise our hopes unduly.

Lucy’s been worried for some time that Captain Black’s effectiveness has become compromised by his steadily deepening, and evident, admiration for us.

“He’s lost objectivity,” she said just a few days ago.

“He’s become a friend,” I replied, “and to some extent a political sympathizer, even. Friendship, perhaps, will make him a stronger advocate, will make him more determined to represent us in the most effective way possible.”

“That, surely, would be his wish,” Lucy said. “But admiration can be hazardous. When you think well of a person, you’re mystified at attacks on their character and tend to dismiss them out-of-hand, rather than take pains to
prove
them mistaken”—which is a lawyer’s responsibility.

It was only today that I fully grasped what Lucy meant. At one point Black referred to government, to “all government,” as “resulting ultimately in despotism,” thus making himself sound for all the world like the dedicated anarchist he is not. He then went on to describe us to the court as men of “the broadest feelings of humanity, men who have consecrated their lives to the betterment of their fellows. Is it such a horrible thing,” he asked, “that a man should sympathize with the sufferings of common people, that he should feel his heart respond to the desires of oppressed workingmen? We would, I might suggest, profit from having more such men in our midst.”

That was enough to produce a broad smirk on Grinnell’s face and several titters in the audience. Then came a string of compliments so exorbitant that I felt embarrassed. And concerned. Captain Black’s hyperbole could have serious consequences.

What he did was to compare our “self-sacrificing idealism” with that of John Brown and—Jesus Christ! Black described Jesus as “the great Socialist of Judea,” the man who “first preached the socialism taught by Spies and his other modern apostles.” As for John Brown, Black told the court that Brown’s attack on Harper’s Ferry “might be compared to the Socialists’ attack on modern evils.”

The analogy to John Brown was dangerous enough, since most white people strongly disapprove of his having taken up arms to free black slaves.
But likening us to Jesus Christ was assuredly a blunder; in my view, a serious one, though I don’t doubt for a moment that the good Captain spoke from his heart.

When Grinnell stepped up to deliver his summation, immediately after Black had concluded his, he took shrewd advantage of the Captain’s miscalculations.

“Government is despotism? Does not our splendid nation put the lie to so misguided a statement?” The courtroom resounded with patriotic applause. Smiling, Judge Gary gently tapped his gavel for silence. “Fortunately for the defendants,” Grinnell went on, “one of their counsel, Mr. Foster, is untainted with the perfidious anarchism of his clients.”

Grinnell paused for more applause, but none was forthcoming; the crowd didn’t want Foster praised, not even backhandedly; he had shown far too much biting contempt for the court and its spectators.

Grinnell hurried on. “Mr. Black describes the defendants as humanitarians. Surely the court, unlike Mr. Black, has not forgotten that these men have been openly preaching treason and murder in this city for years. Is the advocacy of murder his definition of
humanitarianism?
Yet Captain Black goes further: he claims for the defendants the similitude and mantle of Christ, of the Savior of mankind! Is the case for the defense descended so low, is it so mean, that he who was for peace should be compared to these wretches here?” Boos and shouts filled the courtroom.

Judge Gary took his time in restoring order. Grinnell then proceeded to repeat all the accusations made against us over the past weeks about conspiracies and terrorist plots. He then sunk to new depths. Standing directly in front of the jury box for maximum effect, he warned the jurors, his voice heavy with foreboding, that should they vote to acquit, “all the slimy vermin who have taken cover in the holes and byways of the city during this trial, will flock out again like a lot of rats.”

Applause once more filled the courtroom, and the jury members, their bodies tensed with excitement, their eyes glistening with pride, looked for all the world like dedicated troops about to set forth into climactic battle. Grinnell, seasoned veteran that he is, sent them off with a firm set of instructions and a fulsome expression of confidence that they would do their duty.

Where Foster and Black had settled for rather perfunctory thanks to the jurors, Grinnell heaped praise on them for what he called “their selfless,
noble service” and “the kind attention” that they had given him throughout the arduous trial. Then, in a masterstroke, he asserted his certainty that the jurors, as men of the tenderest conscience, would do their duty courageously, “even if that duty is an unpleasant and a severe one.”

Lest the jury, despite its “fine-tuned sensitivity,” somehow be in doubt as to precisely where their duty lay, Grinnell proceeded actually to list us in terms of comparative iniquity, the ranking carrying an automatic implication of what the appropriate amount of punishment should be: Spies, Fischer, Lingg, Engel, Fielden, Parsons, Schwab, and Neebe. Grinnell explicitly severed Neebe from the rest of us. He was declared less than a full partner in the murderous conspiracy that the police had “so timely aborted,” deserving of punishment, to be sure, but of a decidedly lesser magnitude than the rest of us.

Tonight, back in the cellblock, we had some nervous sport speculating on the standards of iniquity Grinnell might have used in ranking us. I took a good deal of kidding for having come off so badly in the competition. Spies made sad-eyed banter with me: “Do visit us from time to time,” he sighed, “if you can tear yourself away, that is, from the beer gardens!” It was not a good joke, but it came from a brave heart …

August 17

Time is hanging much heavier than usual, as we await Judge Gary’s instructions to the jury, due the day after tomorrow. Only Lingg, Fischer, and Engel methodically pursue their usual routines, speaking in firm good spirits about the rightness of our cause. But the rest of us are showing signs of the accumulated strain, from sleeplessness to an inability to concentrate on reading or writing.

I’ve resorted to whittling a second steamboat, this one more elaborate and carved from a single piece of wood. My skills have grown. I’ve even been able to carve a rudder, and two human figures to place in the forecastle. Passing my cell today and seeing my handiwork, Lingg broke into a rare smile and nodded his head approvingly.

I find that the whittling not only diverts my mind from brooding about what lies ahead, but induces a kind of reverie. I move back in time and become a boy again, daydreaming about Aunt Ester cradling me and telling me never to forget the value of every single life, about galloping exuberantly along the banks of the Brazos, my hair flying wildly in the
wind, the sweet smell of jasmine filling my nostrils. How strange life is … who could have guessed that the heedless, happy boy hunting antelope near the riverbank would some day be sitting in a stone-cold Northern jail, denied the right to breathe fresh air or glimpse the sky, awaiting other men’s verdict on the degree of his criminality. How little we can guess, when young, of what lies ahead, how little we bother our heads with so meaningless a topic as “the future.” Yet sitting here now in this cheerless cell, I recognize full well how easily my life could have taken a radically different turn—and how ultimately mysterious is the fact that it did not. This isn’t a matter of regret, but of curiosity. Why was it that I didn’t follow a path similar to William’s, didn’t become a rancher, say, or a cotton factor in Galveston—certainly far more logical and common choices for a lad of my background than defending negroes (let alone marrying one) and joining hands with immigrant workers …

August 18

Nina Van Zandt has become a near-daily visitor—it would be daily, if she could get permission. She came by my cell today to see how I was, and we chatted briefly through the grating. She seemed rather more distracted and her face more strained than usual, the lines around her eyes crinkled with anxiety. When I asked about it, she told me in an agitated voice that a rumor was gaining currency about a new sheriff soon to be appointed, a man named Matson, who had the reputation of being a stickler for discipline. She’s fearful that Matson might curtail her visits to Spies or indeed ban them altogether. I tried to reassure her, but since I had no real grounds for optimism, my words rang hollow.

“If Matson is appointed,” Nina said, her eyes clouding over, “Mr. Spies and I are discussing some alternative plans …” Her voice trailed off ambiguously. Clearly she regretted having said that much, for when I asked what kind of “alternatives” they had in mind, she evaded my question and soon after bid me a hasty good-bye. How curious … Surely they can’t be planning a jailbreak! That would be suicidal.

August 19

Judge Gary gave his instructions today to the jury and it has now retired to begin deliberations. In essence, he told the jurors, without being able to cite a single legal precedent, that we could be found accessories to
murder even though the identity of the bomb-thrower and the specifics of our relationship to him could not be established, and especially if the jury feels that in print or speech we ever encouraged the commission of murder. Captain Black is furious at the prejudicial nature of Gary’s instructions, yet sees a bright side: should we need to take the case to an appeals court, he feels confident Gary will be reversed and reprimanded for his blatant bias.

The general prediction is that the jury will be out several weeks at least, given the complexity of the issues and the fact that Grinnell, by “ranking” the defendants during his closing remarks has all but mandated gradations of punishments to correspond to the implied gradations in guilt.

We’d been back in our cells but a few hours and were celebrating the joyful news just arrived that Sam Fielden’s wife has given birth to a son, Sam Jr., when Captain Black suddenly reappeared, looking more distraught than I’ve ever seen him. He struggled to regain his composure, but it was only moments before he blurted out the shocking news: the jury has already reached a verdict—after deliberating for a grand total of three hours!

“Can you imagine it?” Black stormed. “Three hours! With two months of complex testimony to sift through, convoluted evidence to evaluate, scores of intricate definitions and rulings to appraise … Why, in three hours they could hardly have
read
the sixty-nine counts of the indictment, let alone considered the surrounding material. Oh gentlemen”—here the good Captain looked as if he might break down—“I must tell you in all frankness that … that this unseemly haste greatly … greatly concerns me. A speedy verdict very likely means that the jury, ignoring Grinnell’s proposal of rankings, has taken the easy way out and opted for a … a uniform verdict. What that verdict is, we will know soon enough … Court has been reconvened for 10:00
A.M
. tomorrow.”

Captain Black begged leave of us almost immediately after delivering the stunning news, saying he had to consult at once with the rest of the legal team. I don’t doubt they’ll be up the entire night. As will we.

August 20

Shortly before ten, they led us into the courtroom. To my amazement, it was nearly empty, the public having been excluded—though judging from the noise coming up from the street below, a large crowd had gathered to await the verdict. The courtroom itself was heavily guarded, and only
immediate family members were present. Lucy was sitting with Spies’s mother and sister; she blew me a kiss and never took her eyes off me thereafter.

The jury entered promptly and took their places. Judge Gary asked if they had reached a verdict. They said yes and handed a piece of paper to the clerk, who read it aloud. The jury has found all but Neebe guilty of murder and has fixed the penalty at death. Neebe is sentenced to fifteen years at hard labor. Schwab’s wife became hysterical and her shrill screams rent the air.

I looked around at my comrades. All appeared calm, though Spies and Schwab had gone notably pale and Neebe appeared dazed—he had felt certain of acquittal. I, too, felt shaken, having foolishly thought that my voluntary surrender would have ruled out the death penalty. But I was determined not to show that I’d been taken by surprise. I put on a smiling face, took my red handkerchief from my pocket and, being near a window, waved it to the crowd below. A guard instantly stopped me, but as soon as he released my arm, I grabbed the curtain cord, rapidly formed it into a noose and dangled it out the window. The crowd below went wild—the verdict pleased them.

Captain Black made a motion for a new trial, but Judge Gary postponed any hearing on it until next month. The guards then immediately led us from the courtroom. Fielden lost his footing and I had to hold him up for support.

6:00
P.M.:
There have been comings and goings all day. Lucy’s anger is holding her together. Captain Black told us he’d heard from a colleague that Grinnell has expressed regret at having “forgotten” to mention in his summation, as he’d intended, that “Parsons was entitled to some consideration for having voluntarily surrendered himself.”