The Valentino Affair (28 page)

The courtroom artists quickly got to work with their chalks and pencils. Elsewhere, an army of “sob sisters,”
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—regular fixtures now at every major trial—began recording Blanca’s dress, expressions, and hand gestures, trying to read her soul, to probe beneath the facade, to discover what drove such a fragrant young woman to the ultimate act of violence on the night of August 3. At a time when millions were dying in trenches on the Western Front, some found their presence ghoulish and repugnant. “The sob squad had gathered, not as you might suppose at the bunting draped mounds of the heroes,” one sarcastic newspaper editorial began, “but at the Mineola courthouse where Blanca De Saulles, otherwise Blanquita De Saulles, the ‘Fragile Flower of Far Off Chile,’ the ‘Vision of Loveliness,’ the ‘White Widow,’ the ‘Dainty Little Child Wife Who Is More Beautiful Than a Picture,’ and, incidentally, the murderess, is on trial for her life.”
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A few rows behind her sat Amalia and Guillermo. Although ill health had absented their mother, her presence was still felt, thanks to rumors that she was prepared to spend her entire fortune, “estimated at $20,000,000,”
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to free her daughter and secure custody of Jack Jr. With numbers like that in play, the press was forecasting “the world’s most expensive murder trial.”
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Amalia and Guillermo sat imperious and stoic. They offered no obvious words of encouragement to the prisoner, who, if she noticed them at all, didn’t show it. Across from them, on the other side of the gangway that divided the spectator seating, the de Saulles clan sat in icy silence. All wore deep mourning, and none spared Blanca as much as a sidelong glance when she entered. Deacon Murphy, a former district attorney of New York County and a reputed expert on jury selection, was protecting their interests.

At 10:00 a.m. Justice Manning took his place on the bench before an enormous American flag that covered the wall behind him, and the business of jury selection got under way, a process expected to take two days. As both sides began quizzing the panel of 150 prospective jurors, it became clear from Uterhart’s questions that insanity would figure prominently in the defense strategy. Justice Manning caught the drift and reminded the court that, if this were the case, the onus would fall on the state to prove the prisoner sane.

One by one the veniremen took the stand. Many excused themselves on conscientious grounds, citing an opposition to the death penalty. Those who cleared this first hurdle then had their their prejudices and bias exposed to public view. The case already had polarized opinion among potential jurors. One Oyster Bay resident, John Rader, said he was convinced of Blanca’s innocence, and when asked by the judge if any evidence could change that impression, he replied, “There’s no evidence that can wipe it out.”
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At the other end of the spectrum, Charles W. Smith of Great Neck said, “According to what I have read in the papers, there is no question about her guilt.”
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And so it went. By lunchtime, not a single juror had been empanelled.

In the early afternoon, at the fourteenth time of asking, they finally found a juror acceptable to both sides. By virtue of being chosen first, John C. Bucken, a sixty-one-year-old bookkeeper for the banking house of J. P. Morgan & Co., automatically became jury foreman. Asked if he had any objection to the death penalty, the square-jawed Bucken replied, “None whatever!”
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Later that afternoon the pace picked up somewhat as Bucken was joined by Philip H. Ohm, fifty-three, a retired grocer; Edward K. Pietsch, sixty-eight, an electrical engineer with an enormous white beard; and Louis J. Comellas, a Freeport realtor, just one year shy of his fiftieth birthday.

When Justice Manning closed proceedings for the day, the state had used seven peremptories, the defense three. The four chosen jurors were placed under the guard of Sheriff Seaman and driven to the Garden City Hotel
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—a couple of miles south of the courthouse—where the jury would be sequestered until the trial ended. Outside, on the courthouse steps, Uterhart refused to disclose his strategy, other than to forecast some “emotional testimony.”
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That night Blanca ate a light supper and retired at nine o’clock. According to Mrs. Seaman, she slept like “a tired little child.”
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T
HE
T
RIAL,
D
AY 2

When Blanca walked into court on the second day, journalists noted that she was wearing the same outfit as the day before. A few smiled and exchanged knowing winks. Uterhart didn’t want his client turning up each day in some brand new haute couture masterpiece from Paris; keep it classy, but keep it quiet. As for Blanca herself, she looked a little brighter than the previous day.

Just putting on a brave face, said Uterhart, in reality she was yearning to see her boy. To help resolve the impasse, Uterhart and Weeks put their heads together. Their discussion ended with the DA consenting to Jack Jr. being brought into court the next day. Justice Manning immediately called a sidebar. Citing the inflammatory effect such a move might have on potential jurors—and mindful of any possible future appeal—he overruled Weeks’s concession. In the middle of this legal horse-trading, Blanca remained “the quietest, most dispassionate person in the Mineola courtroom.”
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At other times, especially during Weeks’s questioning of potential jurors, she showed signs of displeasure, pouting when referred to as “the defendant.” In a flabby climbdown that would characterize his trial conduct, Weeks agreed to soften his reference to “this young woman,”
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which appeared agreeable to Blanca. The questioning continued.

As the morning dragged on, the soporific atmosphere was briefly electrified when Dr. Wight spotted that one of the reporters had smuggled a camera into court and had focused it on the prisoner. He signaled to Sheriff Seaman, who grabbed the culprit by the collar and hauled him from the court. In their wake, Manning warned the remaining reporters of the risks of violating the rules he had laid down. Blanca watched without any obvious interest. At lunch, she restricted herself to one glass of hot milk, on doctor’s orders.

Another flurry of excitement came during the break when a woman brought a young boy into court. Excited reporters swarmed, thinking that Jack Jr. had indeed arrived, only to back away when they realized that the newcomer was the son of an unrelated family. Their disappointment didn’t last long. Just before the afternoon session commenced, Señora Errázuriz-Vergara swept into court. She looked both regal and intimidating. Over a black tailor-made suit she wore a cloak of the same somber hue, buttoned to the neck, with a fur collar. A black silk mushroom hat and matching spotted veil rounded off the ensemble. Reporters reached for superlatives. One overawed observer wrote that she was “remarkably young looking and distinctly handsome. Her regular features, her radiant hair and supple figure prove at first glance that the classic beauty of the daughter was the child’s born heritage.”
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Alongside the señora sat the Chilean consul general at New York, Carlos Castro-Ruiz, and Dr. Wight. When one of her attorneys informed Blanca, who didn’t see her mother enter, “a ghost of a smile stole across her pale features.”
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Before entering the court the señora had complained to reporters that she had been permitted to see her grandson only once and only in the presence of two servants. Now she was escorted to the front row of the spectators’ seats, a few feet directly behind her daughter. One row farther back sat Amalia and Guillermo. At no point did Blanca turn around to acknowledge any family member; she maintained the same dull, glazed look that had been her default expression since voir dire began.

The only note of animation in an otherwise tedious afternoon came at two o’clock when Señora Errázuriz-Vergara suddenly swooned while a potential juror was airing his views on capital punishment. Dr. Wight rushed forward to administer smelling salts, and, under his guidance, Señora Errázuriz-Vergara was removed to the judge’s chambers and given a cup of tea. Taken to the sheriff’s quarters, she was allowed to rest on a bed.

In the meantime, Justice Manning’s famed temper was getting shorter with each rejected juror. “I could go into the courtroom and find twelve men without trouble,”
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he barked and ordered both sides to cut back on unnecessary objections. His admonition had some effect. By the end of proceedings, four more men had joined the panel: William P. Jones, a sixty-year-old realtor; John A. Ellard, fifty, a superintendent; and two retirees, Herman H. Beers, fifty-four, and William H. Jones, sixty.

At the conclusion of the day’s business, Blanca met her mother briefly in the sheriff’s quarters. She seemed brighter, cheered up by news that she would be allowed to see her son. Uterhart boasted that he had “forced”
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this concession from relatives of the dead man. Nonsense, the de Saulles family retaliated, their actions had been entirely voluntary and with the best interests of Jack Jr. in mind. Justice Manning, still wary of possible attempts to influence the jury, reiterated his order that under no circumstances would the boy be allowed into court.

As the courtroom slowly emptied, Sheriff Seaman was frowning heavily. The pressmen gathered around him. In an announcement that showed just how much he had allowed personal attachment to cloud professional responsibilities, the sheriff expressed bemusement at just having learned that the prosecution planned to call him as a witness.

T
HE
T
RIAL,
D
AY 3

The promise of a visit from her son at day’s end seemed to buoy Blanca on the third day of jury selection. When she entered the court, followed by Amalia and Seaman, her cheeks showed a tinge of color previously absent. She also had made her first fashion change of the trial, a cream-colored crepe de chine waist open at the throat. Amalia, too, appeared more animated. Not quite as tall as Blanca, she wore a black turban with a bow of black ribbon at the side and a dark blue coat with a wide rolling collar and white cuffs. Like Blanca, she shied away from any jewelry.

Earlier that day, the already selected jury members went for a long walk that took them close to The Box, and in the afternoon they enjoyed an automobile ride. To a man, they seemed delighted with the way the state was accommodating them. Upon their return to their hotel, they found that their numbers had been swollen by two. Harry Livingstone, a forty-nine-year-old railroad superintendent, and Nicholas Schneider had satisfied both sides. At age thirty-seven, Schneider was the youngest person selected thus far.

As soon as court adjourned at 4:00 p.m., rumors that little Jack was en route emptied the press box. A quarter of an hour later, an open-topped gray auto belonging to Mrs. August Heckscher pulled up outside the jail, and Harry Dougherty emerged, carrying the chubby youngster in his arms. A volley of flashbulbs lit Dougherty’s path as he carried Jack through the small courtyard and up to the main gate. “They’re all after me for my picture,”
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the youngster cried delightedly as Dougherty set him down in the jail corridor. For most it was the first time they had heard the youngster speak and they were surprised that, like his mother, he had an English accent.

Inside the sheriff’s quarters, Blanca and her son played together for two hours. As the visit drew to a close, Jack was brought a cup of chocolate that he gulped down. At 6:15 p.m., after he had hugged his mother good-bye, Amalia led him to another vehicle from the Heckscher fleet, a closed sedan. He shouted back, “Goodbye; I’m coming back Saturday and then I’m going to stay all the time.”
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Another barrage of flashbulbs temporarily blinded the child, who needed help getting into the auto. Amalia lingered for a moment, hands deep in the pockets of her belted, blue box coat, and chatted comfortably with the press. She said that little Jack’s visit had greatly cheered his mother. “Of course, we are all confident she will be acquitted.”
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Like the rest of her family, she, too, had an impeccable English accent, and she knew how to push all the right buttons. “We are all very grateful to all the dear people who have been so kind to us. You know, you can just feel that everyone is sympathetic. . . . When the truth is told no one will ever hold my sister guilty.”
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More good news came on another front. Friends of Blanca were said to be “jubilant”
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over news that an investigation launched by the de Saulles family into Blanca’s private life had failed to unearth any skeletons. The inquiry had focused especially on the time that Blanca checked into the Majestic Hotel under an assumed name, when it was rumored that she had found comfort in the arms of a certain cabaret dancer.