The Mad Bomber of New York (33 page)

The
New York Journal-American
kept its word to the Mad Bomber. Within hours of his arrest, the Hearst Corporation had retained, on behalf of George Metesky, the services of the city's foremost authority on workmen's compensation law. Bart J. O'Rourke, a sixty-two-year-old attorney specifically licensed by the state to represent claimants in compensation matters, had pioneered the early development of the field going as far back as the passage of the Workmen's Compensation Act itself in 1914. His knowledge of the law was absolute, and Metesky was overjoyed at news that he had been retained. Finally, Metesky mused, he would get the hearing that had been denied him so long ago.

O'Rourke's first course of action was to review the files of the Workmen's Compensation Board that had been retrieved from Albany upon Metesky's arrest. The board's chairwoman, Angela Parisi, had pledged the full cooperation of her offices and had herself studied Metesky's file and claim history. “[T]here is no question,” Parisi revealed to reporters, “that the previous Board was within the scope of its rights” in denying Metesky's claims. The matter had, in her words, been “properly disallowed” by the one-year statute of limitations that applied at that time. At first blush O'Rourke had to agree with the assessment. For whatever reason, Metesky had delayed in the actual filing of his compensation claim. As O'Rourke probed the files, however, his mind searched for a legal technicality or loophole that could bypass the time restrictions and revive his client's fateful claim.

On the day following Metesky's arrival at Bellevue, O'Rourke paid his client a visit. Still clad in blue pajamas and appearing somewhat less poised than he had during the prior several days, Metesky warmly greeted the lawyer. As the two sat opposite one another outside the doors of ward 2, Metesky recounted, in a torrent of memory, the details of his claim for compensation beginning with his September 5, 1931, accident at the Hell Gate power station. Following the conversation O'Rourke explained that he was still in the process of a complete review of the compensation board files but that he could promise nothing in terms of a result. “I understand,” said Metesky. “[A] man can only do his best. If the
New York Journal-American
sent you, then you must
be
the best.”

Though O'Rourke gave very few details of his intended legal strategy following his meeting with Metesky, he did tell a reporter, “I believe a new claim for compensation may hinge a great deal on the determination in the criminal action and the facts brought out in his trial or at Bellevue.” O'Rourke was clearly hinting that his client's sanity, or lack thereof, may determine whether or not an untimely filing of claim could be excused in the eyes of the law.

James D. C. Murray extracted the black horn-rimmed glasses from his eyes and rubbed his temples, which now throbbed with demonic pain. His typically neatly parted and meticulously combed thinning white hair now hung in tousled shards across his head, disheveled by the desperate passes of his opened and probing fingers. Migraines had plagued him for much of his professional career, and now, as he peered out over the glimmering East River from his upper-floor office of the Woolworth Building, he struggled to regain the poised composure that his standing and responsibility relentlessly demanded. Renowned as a “champion of lost causes,” the brooding and introspective seventy-four-year-old had, during the last half-century, built a reputation as an eloquent and disarming advocate of the law and had become one of New York's most sought-after criminal attorneys.

A product of an all-Irish ethnic upbringing, Murray was known for rich expression and thorough preparation, and though he could boil with rage or ooze with sarcasm, he would always retain a simple and unassuming professional decorum in the face of hardship. “He's very much the fox,” a colleague would later say. “You have to watch him closely every minute or he'll catch you off guard.” In the courtroom, Murray was aided by an incomparable memory for facts and details, seldom resorting to files or notes of any kind and only occasionally even carrying a briefcase.

An incessant smoker and an eloquent orator, Murray had maintained an overriding ethic that emphasized the right of every citizen to a vigorous defense under the law regardless of the charge against him. Despite his representation of some of the city's most abhorrent criminals and the withering disdain of the public that resulted, Murray's genteel demeanor and zealous protection of offenders' rights never faltered for a moment. “I guess I was born with a constitutional pity for those in trouble,” Murray would later tell a writer in a rare interview. “When I go to the grave, ten thousand secrets will be buried with me.”

The fermenting tensions of his calling had taken their grueling toll, and the curse of relentless and ongoing headaches had been the price extracted for a long and often punishing career. On this day, however, as the pounding began to subside and Murray regained his equanimity, he was finally able to lend focus to the primary cause of his most recent bout of pain.

Murray was a native of Waterbury, Connecticut, and had earlier received a call from another Waterbury attorney by the name of Harry Spellman, who had been retained by none other than Anna and Mae Milauskas on behalf of their beleaguered brother. Though a former New Haven County prosecutor and a respected Connecticut lawyer, Spellman was a bit out of his jurisdiction and comfort zone in the matter of the Mad Bomber, and he asked Murray to join him in the case. He knew that the soft-spoken New York attorney would never turn him down, for his legal philosophy was known to Spellman: “To me, the man on trial is always the underdog, regardless of his background,” Murray had been quoted as saying. “He is but an individual, and opposing him is the organized might of society. The forces of law are set in motion to destroy the defendant; the only one who can stand between him and destruction is his lawyer.”

At Bellevue, Metesky was initially given a complete medical evaluation with particular attention to pulmonary function, and though no evidence of active tuberculosis was found, clear indications of the prior existence of the disease were present. Lab tests were ordered, periodic chest X-rays were recommended, and Metesky was submitted to the care and evaluation of the psychiatric division. “He is as jovial and gay today as he was the day they put him in there,” said Harry Spellman following one of his meetings with Metesky and James Murray at the institution. “He seems to be doing very well.” Metesky's presumed good health, however, would soon come to an end.

As Metesky began a rigorous battery of psychological testing and examination at Bellevue, the district attorney's office, headed by Frank Hogan, another Waterbury native, announced plans to immediately begin presenting evidence to a New York County grand jury in an effort to obtain an indictment against him. Prosecutors had earlier stated that if convicted on each of the thirty-two separate bombings, Metesky faced the prospect of life in prison. He would indeed require the best lawyers available.

As required by the Desmond Act, the director in charge of Bellevue's Psychiatric Division designated three “qualified psychiatrists” to examine and report upon Metesky's mental condition. The question of sanity, as determined by the psychiatrists, was only part of the story; the law in New York at the time would allow a defendant to stand trial
even if insane
if he was nonetheless able to understand the charges against him and assist in his own defense by conferring with his lawyer. But if the defendant's insanity rose to such a level as to prevent such understanding and assistance, he would be found incompetent and thus be committed to a state institution pending any change in mental capacity. The inquiry and assessment were, accordingly, of narrow construction as prescribed by statute.

In the days and weeks following his commitment, Metesky was meticulously observed and exhaustively questioned by doctors John Cassity, Theodore Weiss, and Albert LaVerne in an effort to understand their patient's psychological deficiencies as well as capabilities and to assess his mental capacity to stand trial. Throughout the extensive array of interrogations Metesky was noted by the psychiatrists to be “alert, cooperative, and eager to oblige in answering questions.” His behavior was described as “exemplary.”

Metesky's sisters were interviewed to gain a historical perspective on his life and an understanding of any family issues that may have contributed to his current mental state. Though Anna had staunchly defended her brother in the face of reporters' questioning, she admitted to the psychiatrists that George had “exhibited abnormal thinking and acting since childhood” and described him as “reclusive and aloof” and, even in his early years, “unable to relate to people.” The sisters provided a detailed medical history and described the meager employment record of their brother, all of which was independently investigated, verified, and documented by the Bellevue staff.

Metesky himself provided the psychiatrists with a complete and thorough history of his life, including the specific details of his accident at Hell Gate, his efforts to obtain compensation, and his decision to ultimately resort to a bombing campaign. The psychiatrists were provided with many of the numerous notes and letters written by Metesky through the years to government officials, private concerns, and, of course, Con Ed, together with copies of his more recent dispatches to the
Journal-American.
Metesky seemed particularly angry and vindictive toward the three Con Ed employees who he still maintained had perjured themselves against him in his compensation hearing, and he expressed to the doctors a fantasy in which each of the three employees was murdered by gruesome dismemberment. He voiced his desire to exterminate the president of the company with an explosive bullet, and he revealed his ultimate plan to one day sabotage the power centers of New York, throwing the entire city into darkness.

With regard to the bombings themselves, Metesky cheerfully described each event in detail and seemed to exalt in the grandiosity of it all. “I figured I wasn't the forgotten man,” he told them. With a “glow of ecstatic fervor,” as noted by the psychiatrists, Metesky explained that he had felt absolutely justified in his mission, which he believed saved thousands from the injustices of the evil power company. He seemed utterly proud of what he called his “martyrdom.” “I have performed society a great service,” he said. In a later transcribed exchange with Dr. LaVerne, Metesky's state of mind regarding the bombings was further revealed: