Seduction of the Innocent (9 page)

No kid under eleven would be able to read this copy-heavy stuff, much less understand it. And those older kids who could read it needed to be smart. You know—literate.

But that wasn’t touched on, not at all. Committee executive director Richard Clendenen—lean, middle-aged, with a square jaw right out of an Americana superhero comic book —narrated the slide show with unctuous pre-judgement: “Typically, these comic books portray almost all kinds of crime, committed through extremely cruel, sadistic and punitive acts.”

At several points, Clendenen singled out particularly violent, disturbing panels as prime examples of the content of comic books published by Entertaining Funnies.

“I mention this,” Clendenen said, “because the publisher of that firm will be appearing before this committee later this morning.”

The implication was that Price had been summoned, when of course he had volunteered.

Following the slide presentation, various documents were introduced as exhibits from assorted government agencies, as well as newspaper and magazine articles criticizing comic books and linking them to juvenile delinquency—the majority written by one Dr. Werner Frederick.

Then the first witness was called, a mental health expert with New York’s so-called “Family Court.” Surprisingly, he did not join in on the anti-comics theme. Some of his colleagues (he said) considered certain comic books potentially worthy of “stronger criticism,” while others found them essentially harmless.

The second witness was a representative of a comic-book association of publishers, printers and distributors that had attempted, without any particular success, to provide the comics business with a self-monitoring group like Hollywood’s Breen Office. This testimony was long-winded and flip-flopped between pandering to the panel, and defending comics as “a great medium.”

But it managed to go on long enough that Bob Price— scheduled for the morning—got bumped to the afternoon. I hauled him off to a deli for lunch, and he had a sandwich and a Coke, just like me. But I passed on dessert—Price’s choice, more Dexies and NoDoz, killed what was left of my appetite.

“You should lay off that stuff,” I said.

“If I do, I’ll fall asleep up there.”

“How long has it been, Bob, since you had a decent night’s sleep?”

“...What day is it?”

The sky was almost black as we walked back. Price didn’t seem to notice. He was smiling. He had bounce in his step.

“I can’t wait to get up there,” he said, raising victory fists to his paunch.

“Just stay cool,” I said.

“You bet, boy. You bet.”

But his eyes were as wild as a zombie’s on an EF cover.

After lunch, however, Price was not (as we both had expected) the first witness up.

Dr. Werner Frederick was.

With his background as a forensic psychiatrist for the city, the doc was an old hand at testifying—he knew it was theater, and had dressed for the occasion: a white jacket over a white shirt with a simple black necktie. As if he’d just arrived from the lab, where he’d found a cure for cancer or, better yet, comic books.

He even turned his chair to the right, a little, so he could face the committee.

Initially he was asked to describe his new book
Ravage the Lambs,
a softball question if ever there was one. He replied by detailing the work with troubled children and adolescents that had gone into this “sober, painstaking, laborious clinical study.”

The S.O.B. was writing his own cover blurbs!

Despite that thick German accent, his tone was clear and piercing, his voice ringing in the room, and he’d have made a great B-movie scientist, particularly a mad one.

When he really wanted to make a point, he slowed things way down, phrasing for effect.

“It is my opinion,” he said, “without any reasonable doubt ...and without any reservation...that comic books...are an important...
contributing
...factor...in
many
cases...of juvenile delinquency.”

“I’ve never seen this guy in person before,” Price whispered to me. His right leg was shaking. “Look at him! He’s so goddamn
smug...
and
sarcastic
.”

“Don’t you be,” I advised.

The committee let Frederick rail on and on. When asked what kind of child was most likely to be affected by crime comic books, he claimed, “Primarily the normal child. The most morbid children are less affected by comic books because they are wrapped up in their own fantasies.”

He was good, he was eloquent, but he was also German, and while the U.S. government loved German scientists, the American public didn’t. That much Price had going for him.

Ironically, prejudice of another sort was what Frederick got into next. He spoke of an EF story that used the word “Spick” and promoted (Frederick claimed) bigotry.

“I think Hitler is a beginner compared to the comic-book industry,” Frederick said. “They get the children much younger, teach them race hatred at the age of four, before they could read.”

From the spectator seats behind us, a voice cried out,
“You’re a liar! You are a goddamn
menace!”

Will Allison again.

I hadn’t seen him come in, yet there he was, not in J.D. drag this time, rather a suit and tie, like a kid heading to prom. But his eyes, his hair, his expression, were those of a wild man.

Hendrickson rapped his gavel.
“Guards!
Escort that man out!”

Allison continued to shout his protests as a pair of uniformed guards yanked him bodily from the audience and hauled him struggling out of the chamber.

Price didn’t have to whisper, because a general murmur of excitement filled the courtroom as he informed me, “Will illustrated the story that creep said was bigoted. It’s an anti-bigotry story, Jack. That bastard Frederick
has
to know that!”

“And misrepresented it, to take a cheap shot.”

“Damn right.” Price’s eyes were tight behind the glasses, and he was shaking that big oblong head. “Well, that’s it— I’m gonna
get
that bastard.”

And Price soon got his chance: he was the next up to testify. Once again, Dr. Frederick had warmed up a chair for him. In his loose-fitting, rather bulky pale gray suit, Price looked even heavier than he was, and he was already sweating. He brought a briefcase to the witness table, removed his prepared speech and other notes, and took his seat.

“Gentleman,” Price said, “I would like to make a short statement.”

This was allowed, and the comic book publisher gave his name and outlined his credentials, including his certification to teach in New York City public high schools. He reminded them that he was there as a voluntary witness.

What followed was an admirably well-written, if haltingly delivered history of his father’s beginnings in “the comic magazine” field, a business which Leo Price had “virtually created,” in so doing fostering an industry that employed thousands and gave entertainment to millions. He moved on to his own involvement, after his father’s passing, which included continuing to publish his father’s beloved Bible stories comics.

(This was something of a white lie: Leo had printed way too many copies of his Bible comics, and all son Bob did was fill from the warehouse the occasional Sunday school orders that came in for them.)

Then Price opened the door: “I also publish horror comics. I was the first publisher in these United States to publish horror comics. I am responsible. I started them. Some may not like them, but that’s a matter of personal taste.”

The boldness of that was appealing. In fact, the whole statement was fine, just swell, only he was just reading it, never looking up, occasionally stumbling over his own words, pausing to dab the sweat from his brow with a hanky, and that leg of his was shaking again. More violently now.

“My father,” he said, “was proud of the comics he published. I am proud of the comics
I
publish. We use the best writers, the finest artists, and spare nothing to make each magazine, each story, each page a work of art.”

Maybe it was a good thing Price was looking down at those typewritten pages: he was spared the skeptical expressions the senators at the bench exchanged, some glancing back at the looming grotesque comic-book cover blow-ups.

“Reading for entertainment has never harmed anyone,” Price was saying. “Our American children are for the most part normal and bright. But those adults who would prohibit comic magazines see our kids as dirty, sneaky, perverted monsters who use the comics as a blueprint for action. Are we afraid of our own children? Are they so evil, so simple-minded, that all it takes is a story of murder to convince them to murder? A story of robbery to inspire them to robbery?”

Finally, he set down his papers and began to speak from his head and his heart—perhaps not a wise move, but even as well-crafted as his prepared statement was, I was pleased to see him stop reading and just talk to the panel.

“I need to point out that when Dr. Frederick spoke of one of our magazines preaching racial intolerance, he was indulging in an outrageous half-truth. Yes, the word ‘Spick’ appears in it. But the doctor neglected to tell you what the plot of the story was—that it was one of a series of stories designed to show the evils of race prejudice and mob violence, in this case against Mexican Catholics. Previous stories have dealt with anti-Semitism, anti-Negro feelings, as well as the evils of dope addiction and the development of juvenile delinquents. And I am very proud of that.”

A good off-the-cuff response, I thought, but it soon degenerated into a back-and-forth between Price and the committee’s junior counsel over the inconsistency of the publisher claiming comics were merely entertainment that made no impact upon young readers, when these social-comment tales were obviously designed to make just such an impact.

This seemed to rattle Price, who—caught in a defensible inconsistency—just couldn’t handle himself under questioning. He might have, and probably could have, if he hadn’t been fading.

But fading he was.

That Dexie high of his was descending into its inevitable limp-rag aftermath. He just sat there getting pummeled, like a punch-drunk boxer, head down, sweat drops flying, just taking it. At least his leg wasn’t shaking anymore.

Then star performer Kefauver got into the act. The senator was a lanky road company Lincoln with sharp eyes behind tortoise-shell glasses. He was not wearing his famous coonskin hat, if you’re wondering.

“Mr. Price, let me get the limits as far as what you will put in one of your magazines.” He had a cornpone drawl that you mistook for easygoing at your own peril.

“Certainly,” Price said.

“Do you think a child can be hurt by something he reads or sees?”

“I don’t believe so, no.”

“Is the sole test of what you publish, then, based on whether or not it sells? Is there any
limit
to your, ah, entertainment?”

Price’s chin was up, but his eyes looked tired. “My only limits are the bounds of good taste. What I consider good taste.”

“Your own good taste, then, and the sales potential of your product?”

“Yes.”

Kefauver held up a copy of a
Suspense Crime Stories
comic book whose cover depicted a terrified woman in midair, having fallen from a window where the silhouetted hands of her assailant could still be seen in push mode. The woman was screaming, staring wide-eyed at us as she looked through us at the oncoming (off-camera) pavement. Terror-struck, screaming or not, she was very attractive, in a skimpy nightgown, that showed off her shapely legs and, of course, her...headlights.

“Do you think
this
is in good taste, Mr. Price?”

“Yes, sir, I do, for the cover of a crime comic.”

“What might constitute
bad
taste here?”

“Well, we could have depicted her
after
she’d fallen.”

“You mean her body on the pavement?”

“Yes.”

“And that would be worse?”

“Yes. Showing her twisted corpse, blood everywhere, bones sticking out of her shattered limbs, that would be a cover in bad taste.”

Kefauver’s drawl was so folksy, it was like Tennessee Ernie Ford giving you the third degree. “And you decided against that. In a display of eminent good taste, your artist depicted a scantily clad female screaming in terror as she falls from a great height, with her life about to end?”

“Yes.”

Bob Price saw nothing wrong. And the reporters and the cameras saw him seeing that.

Me, I just sat there watching the spectacle of a guy falling from a great height without even screaming. Without even a shove.

He was a shambling wreck when, an hour later, they had finally finished wringing out every ounce of humiliation from him (“So this decapitated head held by a man also holding a bloody axe, that would be in bad taste if you showed
more
blood?”), and sent him along on what they clearly considered to be his vile business. His loose-fitting suit was soaked with sweat now, the flesh on his face hanging like a balloon that had lost maybe a third of its air. He had done everything wrong, stopping short only of rolling ball bearings in his fingers like Captain Queeg.

The reporters were on us like kids swarming Martin and Lewis, only this bunch didn’t want a signed picture. They were yelling questions.

“Hey Bob! Do you really think horror comics are in ‘good taste’?”

“Bob, over here! How much blood
is
okay for a comic cover
?”

“What will you do if Congress bans horror comics?”

I was escorting him through the crowd, grateful that he wasn’t answering any of the questions, keeping his head down. At least he didn’t cover his face like a criminal, though clearly that’s how he was being treated by the press boys.

But then that was how he’d been treated by those patriotic Congressmen as well, hadn’t he?

Suddenly—and whether planned or accidental, I couldn’t tell you—we were facing Dr. Werner Frederick, pristine in his white jacket, like he’d arrived to haul Price and me off to the loony bin. He’d stepped out from behind a pillar like that doctor who shot Huey Long.