The Murder of Jim Fisk for the Love of Josie Mansfield (10 page)

The Gold Room on Black Friday

The morning after

The Orange Day riot

The Grand Central Hotel

The fatal meeting

Mourning Fisk, after a fashion

The Tombs

Ned Stokes, meantime, sleeps soundly in the Tombs. He
appears to be at peace with himself, greeting his keepers at the New York City jail with a smile as they deliver breakfast and the morning papers. He ignores the stares of the other inmates, who gawk and point at this gentleman among them. He seems unaware of the two hundred extra policemen mustered by the city to guard his cell against the possible wrath of the Ninth Regiment at the assassination of their beloved patron. His brother brings him collars, cuffs, cravats, and socks from the Hoffman House, so that Stokes may be presentable when his lawyers arrive to discuss his case.

A rumor has circulated—apparently as a result of Stokes having been moved from one cell to another, leaving the first empty—that he has committed suicide. Reporters scramble to confirm or refute. “He persists in living, and living very comfortably,” the first with the facts, a
Times
man, explains. “He was taken to cell No. 50, the one assigned to him by Warden Stacom, and which has been handsomely fitted up at the prisoner’s expense. It is richly carpeted, the walls are papered and hung with a few fine pictures, and a new hair mattress and new bed-clothing have been substituted for the coarse prison articles. Altogether, the cell now appears more like a young lady’s boudoir.”

The reporter pays a second visit, arriving just as Stokes returns from a hearing in which his lawyers have unsuccessfully challenged the finding of the coroner’s jury, that Stokes’s shots killed Fisk. “The prisoner’s demeanor after the verdict of the jury was unchanged; indeed, if anything, his spirits were more buoyant. As soon as he left the court room he partook of a hearty dinner.” The prisoner’s confidence is contagious in the close quarters of the Tombs: “Bets of $100 to $50 were freely offered, yesterday, that Stokes will not be hung.”

Stokes remains upbeat days later when a grand jury indicts him for Fisk’s murder. Reporters find him standing in the doorway of his cell, leaning against the wall, unlighted cigar in his mouth, whittling a quill toothpick with a penknife. “You newspapermen are all wrong about my case,” he tells the group. “When it comes to trial you will see I have one of the strongest cases to present you ever heard of.” He smiles winningly, reminding the newsmen what Josie saw in him. “I have no more fears of the result than you have. I am confident I will get out of it. That Erie gang is working against me. It is one of the worst the world ever knew, and the head of it is an astute villain—that little Jay Gould. They seem to have the newspapers, though I don’t know how they can secure their influence.”

But the trial is delayed. Stokes’s lawyers challenge the validity of his indictment, asserting that the grand jury was selected by unconstitutional means. The district attorney’s office defends the indictment and the procedure, to preserve its case against Stokes but also to safeguard indictments it has brought by similar means against the Tweed ring. Stokes discovers, with a pained sense of irony, that winning his own case may jeopardize the people’s case against Boss Tweed, the facilitator of Fisk’s crimes.

The days become weeks, the weeks months, with Stokes still in jail. His spirits sag and his patience grows thin. The papers reveal that he is losing—perhaps has lost—the battle for public opinion. Fisk is remembered with increasing fondness, his financial manipulations now seen as a natural part of the Wall Street game. Stokes is cast as a woman stealer, a blackmailer, a cold-blooded murderer.

Stokes’s patience snaps when he learns of a play being performed at Niblo’s Garden, called
Black Friday
, which recounts the gold conspiracy and concludes with the shooting at the Grand Central Hotel. He has been silent about his case until now, at his lawyers’ insistence, but he can keep quiet no longer. He releases a letter “To the Public,” in which he recounts his travails. “I have suffered physically from unnecessarily close confinement,” he says. “I have suffered more mentally from the repeated and gross misrepresentations in newspapers under the control and influence of my enemies.” He has heard and read the continued allegations that he conspired with Josie Mansfield to extort money from Fisk. “These accusations are unqualifiedly false.” His relations with Miss Mansfield were merely those of a friend, he insists again.

He is outraged that Fisk’s associates are portraying the deceased as the aggrieved party in his dealings with Stokes; the truth, Stokes swears, is entirely the opposite. “I have been in legitimate business for the past ten years. With the exception of a reverse in 1865, I had been generally successful until I was induced to take James Fisk, Jr., as partner in my oil business in Brooklyn.” Fisk soon showed his real character as a swindler and a thug. “By him I was flagrantly robbed and outraged. My refinery was seized at midnight on Sunday by a lawless gang of ruffians, without any process of law, while I was thrown into prison and thereby enjoined from even attempting to proceed to regain my own property.” Litigation eventually yielded a marginally acceptable settlement, but an unscrupulous Erie lawyer and a crooked Tammany judge deprived him even of this.

The production at Niblo’s includes the most egregious falsehoods yet, Stokes says: “The incidents of this libelous play require no denial with them who know me, but 3,000 persons who know nothing of my antecedents or character nightly witness this misrepresentation of me as a gambler, a roué, forger and assassin, and possibly may accept it for truth.” The characterization is monstrously absurd from start to finish. “No man can honestly assert that I knowingly ever wronged anyone, and as for being an adept at cards, I barely know one card from another.” The forgery charge is equally ludicrous; Stokes says he knows nothing about the insidious practice.

As for being an assassin, he will rebut that allegation in court. “When all the facts of this unfortunate affair are developed, and when it shall be proved how infamously the witnesses perjured themselves at the coroner’s inquest, then public opinion, which has been based upon false statements, will set in my favor. I am anxious, and always have been anxious, for a speedy trial by an honest jury of my fellow men.”

Stokes’s trial comes, but not speedily. The summer of 1872
has almost reached New York by the time the murder trial begins, in the New York Court of Oyer and Terminer. Defendants in Judge D. P. Ingraham’s court are rarely as well represented as Ned Stokes is today, and the prosecutors never deploy more legal firepower than the district attorney now does against Stokes. Indeed, John McKeon, heading the Stokes side, immediately questions the presence of William Beach, Fisk’s lawyer in Josie’s libel suit, and William Fullerton, his associate, at the side of District Attorney Samuel Garvin. “These gentlemen now employed have the gold of private individuals in their pockets,” McKeon declares. “These gentlemen were hired for the purpose of producing a conviction.” He looks at Beach and Fullerton and then at his client. “It is a terrible spectacle to see private counsel arranging themselves on the side of the prosecution, and with blood-hound perseverance hound this man.” Judge Ingraham accepts McKeon’s question and says he’ll rule on it tomorrow. For now Beach and Fullerton stay.

The examination of prospective jurors commences promisingly. Myer Homburger, who identifies himself as a merchant and importer, says that he has never had any business dealings with Messrs. Fisk, Gould, or Tweed; has never held a paid position with the Erie Railroad or the City of New York; has read various accounts of the shooting but has formed no opinion in the matter; does not remember reading of any particular expressions uttered by Mr. Fisk just before his death; has a general impression that Mr. Stokes shot Mr. Fisk but if placed on the jury would have no bias against the prisoner and would render a verdict based entirely on the evidence adduced in the trial. Myer Homburger is accepted as a juror.

But things soon slow down. William Russell, hardware dealer, is rejected for having done business with the Opera House. Louis Slocum, oculist, admits to having an opinion that will be hard to alter and is rejected. Jacob Davidson, shoe dealer, professes scruples about the death penalty and is rejected.

Then Roderick Hogan, hatter, though having gained an initial impression regarding the guilt of the defendant, says he has modified this impression lately and will have no difficulty rendering a decision based on the evidence. Hatter Hogan is accepted and sworn in.

The two jurors turn out to be the day’s total yield. Judge Ingraham orders them sequestered and rules that the fifteen persons who failed to answer the jury summons will be fined one hundred dollars each.

On the morning of the second day, Ingraham delivers his decision that Beach and Fullerton will be allowed to assist the prosecution. He doesn’t require them to reveal who is compensating them, and they don’t volunteer. But the unrebutted assumption is that they are in the pay of Jay Gould, Bill Tweed, or both. Beach, however, remarks that previously he has represented Stokes. “During some two years when I have acted as his counsel, and knew him in social life, there never has been the least unpleasantness between us, and not for a single moment have I entertained a single sentiment of hostility against him.” He turns to Stokes, smiles, and says, “That is right, Ed, is it not?” Stokes grimaces but nods.

Completing the jury takes several more days. One man is rejected for knowing Tweed, another for having made a wager on whether Stokes will hang (he doesn’t say which way he bet), a third for residing in New Jersey (how he received a summons is unclear), a fourth for not being a citizen, a fifth for having enjoyed the play
Black Friday
, and dozens, then scores, and finally hundreds of others for similar reasons. Judge Ingraham gets testy. “No man except a fool could read newspaper accounts of the shooting and not form an opinion on the subject,” he says, after the defense cites such opinion, for perhaps the 150th time, as grounds for rejection. “If he could, he would have no mind at all.” The judge tells the two sides to get serious, and after one further day of procrastination, during which not a single juror is accepted from a hundred prospects, the twelfth juror is at last impaneled.

District Attorney Garvin opens for the prosecution. The essence of the case is premeditation, he tells the court and the jury. “The law is that if the life of Colonel Fisk was taken by design and premeditation with intent so to do at the time when the transaction took place, then the prisoner is guilty of murder in the first degree, and you are bound so to find. There are no refinements about this case, no doubts about the question involved, no trouble surrounding it. It is a plain straightforward case, either one way or the other, and you will have no trouble coming to a conclusion.”

He lays out the people’s case. “We shall prove that about four o’clock on the afternoon of the 6th of January, 1872, the prisoner was on Broadway, nearly opposite his hotel. Next the prisoner was seen passing the Grand Opera House a few minutes thereafter. As he passed he looked directly into the window where Colonel Fisk stood. In a very short period of time subsequently he was seen again in Broadway, above the Grand Central Hotel. He was seen to enter that hotel in a hurry, go up the stairway, stand at the head of the stairs, laying in wait and watching as if for the appearance of someone who, at that time, nobody but the spirit who sits before you today knew. Not less than five minutes afterward Colonel Fisk stepped out of his carriage and walked up that stairway. At the head of the stairs stood the accused, pistol in hand. He fired the first and mortal wound upon Colonel Fisk. Then to make sure, he fired a second shot. The first shot was embedded in his bowels, and he died the following day.

“Now, gentlemen, if that is true, if these facts are proven in evidence, if he did lie in wait for Colonel Fisk and shot, and that was a mortal wound, and he died, I shall ask you, as good men, to render a verdict of premeditated murder against this prisoner, and let him take the consequences of his crime. If, on the other hand, there is any evidence produced by him which relieves him from this responsibility, then it will be for you to listen to him, hear it, give it such consideration as it shall be entitled to, and, if he is not guilty, so pronounce and let him go free. If, again, it turns out that the evidence we present is true, then under all the considerations which operate upon man, you are bound to pronounce him guilty and let the law of God and man take its course.”