The Murder of Jim Fisk for the Love of Josie Mansfield (16 page)

Stokes’s second trial starts in December 1872. The lawyers
are the same as before, but the judge is different. Douglas Boardman suffers neither fools nor feckless jurors; he is determined that there will be a verdict this time, and he holds the two sides to a swifter selection of a jury and a closer adherence to their central arguments. The testimony recapitulates what has gone before; little new evidence is adduced.

On January 5, 1873, the defense concludes its arguments. Lyman Tremain stresses the doctrine of reasonable doubt. The prosecution summarizes the state’s case, with counsel William Beach asserting that any doubt of Stokes’s guilt is
un
reasonable. Judge Boardman charges the jury. He reminds the members that Stokes, not Fisk, is on trial. He says that Stokes’s testimony, being more directly self-interested than that of other witnesses, must be treated with greater caution. He reiterates that the killing is not at issue, only the degree of culpability. Stokes can be found guilty of murder in the first degree or manslaughter in the third degree, or the homicide can be judged justifiable. In the strongest language he can muster, Judge Boardman urges the jury to reach a verdict. The question, he says, is a simple one to honest men.

The jury retires at ten past eight in the evening. Few in the audience expect a verdict that night, and most go home. The resolute, however, are rewarded. A little past eleven Judge Boardman returns to the courtroom and takes his place at the bench. The prisoner is brought in. The jury is summoned.

“Gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?” the clerk of the court inquires.

“We have,” the foreman answers.

Stokes is ordered to stand. The jury also rises.

“Prisoner, look upon the jury,” the clerk directs. “Jury, look upon the prisoner.”

The twelve jurors gaze at Stokes. He slowly lifts his eyes toward them.

“Gentlemen of the jury, how say you? Do you find Edward S. Stokes, the prisoner at the bar, guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty of murder in the first degree.”

Stokes shudders. His sister shrieks, but as her voice dies away the room is perfectly still.

After a long frozen moment the jurors sit down. Stokes slumps into his chair. Judge Boardman, appearing relieved and not a little surprised, thanks and discharges the jury.

Stokes’s shock gradually turns to anger. He faces the private prosecutor. “Mr. Beach,” he says bitterly, “you have done your work well. I hope you have been paid for it.”

District Attorney Fellows answers Stokes by declaring that Beach has served reluctantly and without any fee from the family or friends of Jim Fisk.

“Not from Jay Gould?” Stokes demands disbelievingly.

He gets no answer from Beach. Fellows, who thanks his associates for their diligence, says he has had enough of the prosecution business and is retiring. The seamy side of human nature has taken its toll.

Stokes is led toward the door, his anger growing by the second. As he passes Beach, he appears about to fly at his nemesis, and Beach’s co-counsel gather around to protect him.

One of the jurors, on exiting, leans over to defense attorney Tremain. “I hope that you do not feel in any way bad against us, as we tried to do our duty,” the juror says. “I am sure you did yours, and worked as hard for Stokes as if he was your own son.”

“I have nothing to say,” Tremain replies. “But how did you stand on the jury?”

“I do not think I have any right to state that, sir,” the juror responds.

“Oh, there is no harm,” District Attorney Fellows interjects. “Now it is all over you may speak your mind.”

“Well, we stood, going out, ten for conviction and two for acquittal.”

A junior counsel on Stokes’s side blurts out: “Yes, and those two gave in like cravens and cowards.”

Tempers flare, and a fistfight seems likely. But Fellows has another purpose. The district attorney approaches Stokes. Tears are seen rolling down the prosecutor’s cheeks. He holds out his hand. “Ned, I hope you have no hard feelings against me,” he says. “I did only my duty, and did not try to exceed it, as God made me.”

Stokes rejects the hand. “I hear all you say, and I suppose you think it’s all right,” he says. “But a verdict given on perjured testimony is a villainy that no one will countenance—never, never, so long as the world stands.”

The news of Stokes’s conviction races ahead of him along
Centre Street as he is walked back to the Tombs. His fellow prisoners fall silent when he passes their cells. The petty offenders observe him with indifference, but several prisoners held on murder charges appear deeply worried. Conventional wisdom among the malefactors of the city is that a New York jury can never agree on a charge as serious as murder. The counterexample of Stokes gives them sobering pause.

He falls asleep quickly in his private cell and is allowed to slumber the next morning till nine. He washes, eats breakfast, and is readied for the return to the courtroom for sentencing.

The crowds outside the court are larger than ever. They have trampled the wet snow in City Hall Park and made the lawn a morass. They discover that entry into the courtroom is hopeless, as elected and appointed officials of the city and county have claimed all the available seats for themselves and their friends. But hundreds cram into the hallways and vestibules, to be out of the snow and somewhat closer to the events.

Stokes enters at half past ten, better dressed than he has been during the argument phase of the trial. A blue overcoat covers a dark suit; black kid gloves encase his hands. He struggles to hide any emotion; he is steeling himself for the worst.

But his brother, who stands beside him, lacks comparable control. Dressed in black, as if already in mourning, he weeps as if at his brother’s funeral. The audience looks on and whispers in amazement.

The entry of Judge Boardman silences the room. The prisoner is asked to stand. “Edward S. Stokes,” the clerk inquires, “what have you to say why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon you?”

Stokes answers clearly and deliberately: “I can only say that I am innocent of the crime of which I now stand convicted. I did not intentionally violate any laws of the land.” He looks around the court. “I know that all the testimony that was given for the defense was viewed lightly by the jury. I feel convinced of that. I know that public clamor has been aroused against me from the frequent murders in New York City. I know that the evidence of Thomas Hart”—the doorman at the Grand Central Hotel—“upon which I have been convicted, is false from beginning to end. I believe that the prosecution knew it.” He speaks directly to the judge: “That is all I have to say. I hope you will make the sentence as brief as possible.”

He turns to sit down, but Tremain touches his elbow to let him know he must continue to stand. Briefly embarrassed, he faces the bench once more.

Judge Boardman looks out on the crowd, the representatives of the people of New York, and then at the prisoner. “You have been defended by the most eminent counsel with extraordinary skill and devotion,” the judge says. “You have been supported and sustained by the sympathy of loving relatives and ardent friends. All that wealth, affection, or industry could render has been cheerfully and well done. A jury, carefully selected, of intelligent and upright gentlemen, have listened patiently and kindly to your own account of this most terrible act, as well as to the other evidence that has been put in in your behalf. They have found you guilty of murder in the first degree—the highest crime known in our law—in having caused the death of James Fisk, Jr., one year ago today.”

The judge says he concurs in the decision of the jury. He asserts that he has made no errors that he is aware of in determining the admissibility of evidence. He states that he has given the prisoner the benefit of the doubt at every turn of the trial.

One responsibility is left for him to fulfill. “To me remains the painful duty of pronouncing the judgment of the law, not alone as a punishment of your crime, but also that, by your example, others may take warning. I am sad over your unhappy fate—so young, so attractive in person, with so many fountains of joy yet untasted. Still greater is my sorrow to realize the unmerited anguish you have brought upon your family and friends. It is a frightful legacy to leave to a family—a specter that death alone can banish.”

The judge speaks very slowly now. “Edward S. Stokes, in obedience to the requirements of the law, this court orders and directs that you be taken hence in the custody of the sheriff of the City and County of New York to the prison from whence you came; that you be there confined in close custody by said sheriff until the 28th day of February, 1873, and that on that day, between the hours of eleven o’clock in the morning and three o’clock in the afternoon, you be hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”

Stokes is stunned. He is led from the courtroom in a daze
and delivered back to the Tombs. The other prisoners avoid him, as though his hopeless condition might be contagious. With the city abuzz at the thought of a hanging, his lawyers’ appeals for writs of error meet one rebuff after another. The corridors of his prison grow darker than ever; the specter of the gallows rises before him. Convinced that the forces of Erie and Tammany still determine justice in New York, Ned Stokes surrenders to his fate.

And then, with the hangman almost readying the noose, the New York Supreme Court finds in Stokes’s favor. The court rules that the jury in the second trial was incorrectly charged. Judge Boardman failed to make clear that murder, under New York statute, requires an explicit intent to kill. Stokes certainly meant to harm Fisk, but whether he sought to kill him remains unproved, the court says. The conviction is voided; Stokes shall have a third trial.

Stokes’s brother carries the glad tidings to the Tombs, wanting to witness and share the emotions of the eleventh-hour rescue. But the jailhouse grapevine relays messages faster than any human courier. A guard tells Stokes he isn’t going to hang. Stokes takes a moment to absorb the guard’s words and nearly faints as the welcome meaning sinks in. He can’t speak, he can’t breathe, he can barely hear or see.

Gradually he recomposes himself. By the time his brother arrives, expecting a joyous reaction, Stokes presents the calm, unconcerned persona he has long preferred to show the world.

Maybe it is a miracle. Maybe it is justice. Or maybe it is
simply coincidence that Stokes’s reprieve comes amid the passing of the Erie and Tweed rings.

Fisk’s death initially relieved Jay Gould of the liabilities attendant upon Fisk’s egregious professional manner and scandalous lifestyle, but it also deprived Gould of his staunchest ally at Erie headquarters. In the year since the murder, several members of the Erie board, in collaboration with dissatisfied shareholders, have mounted a challenge to Gould’s reign. They enlist a Civil War general who leads them on a march to the Opera House, where they physically remove Gould from his lavish offices before voting him out of the corporate presidency.

Gould’s fall, after Fisk’s death, further weakens the third member of their triumvirate, Bill Tweed. Gould furnished the bail that let Tweed sleep at home awaiting his trial on the corruption charges; with Gould’s overthrow from Erie, Tweed has to look to his own devices. His lawyers place one hurdle after another in the path of New York justice, but finally Tweed is convicted and sentenced to twelve years in prison.