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Title: Courts, Criminals and the Camorra

Author: Arthur Cheney Train

Release date: March 16, 2020 [eBook #61628]
                Most recently updated: June 17, 2020

Language: English



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COURTS, CRIMINALS, AND THE CAMORRA


      *      *      *      *      *      *

BOOKS BY ARTHUR TRAIN


  =Courts, Criminals, and the Camorra=                   _net_ =$1.50=
  =The Confessions of Artemas Quibble.= Illustrated      _net_ =$1.30=
  =The Butler’s Story.= Illustrated                            =$1.25=
  =True Stories of Crime.= Illustrated                         =$1.50=
  =McAllister and His Double.= Illustrated                     =$1.50=
  =The Prisoner at the Bar.= New and Enlarged Edition          =$1.50=
  =Mortmain.= Illustrated                                      =$1.50=

      *      *      *      *      *      *


COURTS, CRIMINALS AND THE CAMORRA

by

ARTHUR TRAIN

Formerly Assistant District Attorney, New York County






New York
Charles Scribner’S Sons
1912

Copyright, 1912, by
Charles Scribner’S Sons

Published September, 1912

[Illustration]




  To
  CHARLES ALBERT PERKINS
  OF THE NEW YORK BAR




                 CONTENTS


                I.—COURTS

                                                PAGE

     I. THE PLEASANT FICTION OF THE PRESUMPTION
        OF INNOCENCE                               3

    II. PREPARING A CRIMINAL CASE FOR TRIAL       27

   III. SENSATIONALISM AND JURY TRIALS            53


               II.—CRIMINALS

    IV. WHY DO MEN KILL?                          67

     V. DETECTIVES AND OTHERS                     86

    VI. DETECTIVES WHO DETECT                    112


              III.—THE CAMORRA

   VII. THE CAMORRA IN ITALY                     143

  VIII. AN AMERICAN LAWYER AT VITERBO            184

    IX. THE MALA VITA IN AMERICA                 214




COURTS




CHAPTER I

THE PLEASANT FICTION OF THE PRESUMPTION OF INNOCENCE


THERE was a great to-do some years ago in the city of New York over
an ill-omened young person, Duffy by name, who, falling into the bad
graces of the police, was most incontinently dragged to head-quarters
and “mugged” without so much as “By your leave, sir,” on the part
of the authorities. Having been photographed and measured (in most
humiliating fashion) he was turned loose with a gratuitous warning to
behave himself in the future and see to it that he did nothing which
might gain him even more invidious treatment.

Now, although many thousands of equally harmless persons had been
similarly treated, this particular outrage was made the occasion of a
vehement protest to the mayor of the city by a certain member of the
judiciary, who pointed out that such things in a civilized community
were shocking beyond measure, and called upon the mayor to remove the
commissioner of police and all his staff of deputy commissioners for
openly violating the law which they were sworn to uphold. But, the
commissioner of police, who has sometimes enforced the penal statutes
in a way that has made him unpopular with machine politicians, saw
nothing wrong in what he had done, and, what was more, said so most
outspokenly. The judge said, “You did,” and the commissioner said, “I
didn’t.” Specifically, the judge was complaining of what had been done
to Duffy, but more generally he was charging the police with despotism
and oppression and with systematically disregarding the sacred
liberties of the citizens which it was their duty to protect.

Accordingly the mayor decided to look into the matter for himself, and
after a lengthy investigation came to the alleged conclusion that the
“mugging” of Duffy was a most reprehensible thing and that all those
who were guilty of having any part therein should be instantly removed
from office. He, therefore, issued a pronunciamento to the commissioner
demanding the official heads of several of his subordinates, which
order the commissioner politely declined to obey. The mayor thereupon
removed him and appointed a successor, ostensibly for the purpose of
having in the office a man who should conduct the police business of
the city with more regard for the liberties of the inhabitants thereof.
The judge who had started the rumpus expressed himself as very much
pleased and declared that now at last a new era had dawned wherein the
government was to be administered with a due regard for law.

Now, curiously enough, although the judge had demanded the removal
of the commissioner on the ground that he had violated the law and
been guilty of tyrannous and despotic conduct, the mayor had ousted
him not for pursuing an illegal course in arresting and “mugging” a
presumptively innocent man (for illegal it most undoubtedly was), but
for inefficiency and maladministration in his department.

Said the mayor in his written opinion:

  “After thinking over this matter with the greatest care, I
  am led to the conclusion that as mayor of the city of New
  York I should not order the police to stop taking photographs
  of people arrested and accused of crime or who have been
  indicted by grand juries. That grave injustice may occur
  the Duffy case has demonstrated, but I feel that it is not
  the taking of the photograph that has given cause to the
  injustice, but the inefficiency and maladministration of the
  police department, etc.”

In other words, the mayor set the seal of his official approval upon
the very practice which caused the injustice to Duffy. “Mugging” was
all right, so long as you “mugged” the right persons.

The situation thus outlined is one of more than passing interest.
Whatever the merely political outcome may be, and it may be
far-reaching, a sensitive point in our governmental nervous system has
been touched and a condition uncovered that sooner or later must be
diagnosed and cured.

For the police _have_ no right to arrest and photograph a citizen
unconvicted of crime, since it is contrary to law. And it is ridiculous
to assert that the very guardians of the law may violate it so long as
they do so judiciously and do not molest the Duffys. The trouble goes
deeper than that.

The truth is that we are up against that most delicate of situations,
the concrete adjustment of a theoretical individual right to a
practical necessity. The same difficulty has always existed and
will always continue to exist whenever emergencies requiring prompt
and decisive action arise or conditions obtain that must be handled
effectively without too much discussion. It is easy while sitting on
a piazza with your cigar to recognize the rights of your fellow-men,
but if you were starving on the high seas in an open boat—! You may
assert most vigorously the right of the citizen to immunity from arrest
without legal cause, but if you saw a seedy character sneaking down a
side street at three o’clock in the morning, his pockets bulging with
jewelry and silver—! _Que voulez vous, m’sieu?_ Would you have the
policeman on post insist on the fact that a burglary had been committed
being established beyond peradventure before arresting the suspect, who
in the meantime would undoubtedly escape? Of course, the worthy officer
sometimes does this, but his conduct in that case becomes the subject
of an investigation on the part of his superiors. In fact, the rules
of the New York police department require him to arrest all persons
carrying bags in the small hours who cannot give a satisfactory account
of themselves. Yet there is no such thing under the laws of the State
as a right “to arrest on suspicion.” No citizen may be arrested under
the statutes unless a crime _has actually been committed_. Thus, the
police regulations deliberately compel every officer either to violate
the law or to be made the subject of charges for dereliction of duty.
A confusing state of things, truly, to a man who wants to do his duty
by himself and by his fellow-citizens!

The present author once wrote a book dealing with the practical
administration of criminal justice, in which the unlawfulness of arrest
on mere “suspicion” was discussed at length and given a prominent
place. But when the time came for publication that portion of it was
omitted at the earnest solicitation of certain of the authorities on
the ground that as such arrests were absolutely necessary for the
enforcement of the criminal law a public exposition of their illegality
would do infinite harm. Now, as it seems, the time has come when the
facts, for one reason or another, must be faced. The difficulty does
not end, however, with “arrest on suspicion,” “the third degree,”
“mugging,” or their allied abuses. It really goes to the root of our
whole theory of the administration of the criminal law. Is it possible
that on final analysis we may find that our enthusiastic insistence
upon certain of the supposedly fundamental liberties of the individual
has led us into a condition of legal hypocrisy vastly less desirable
than the frank attitude of our continental neighbors toward such
subjects?

The Massachusetts Constitution of 1785 concludes with the now famous
words: “To the end that this may be a government of laws and not of
men.” That is the essence of the spirit of American government. Our
forefathers had arisen and thrown off the yoke of England and her
intolerable system of penal government, in which an accused had no
right to testify in his own behalf and under which he could be hung
for stealing a sheep. “Liberty!” “Liberty or death!” That was the note
ringing in the minds and mouths of the signers of the Declaration and
framers of the Constitution. That is the popular note to-day of the
Fourth of July orator and of the Memorial Day address. This liberty
was to be guaranteed _by laws_ in such a way that it was never to be
curtailed or violated. No mere man was to be given an opportunity to
tamper with it. The individual was to be protected at all costs. No
king, or sheriff, or judge, or officer was to lay his finger on a free
man save at his peril. If he did, the free man might immediately have
his “law”—“have the law on him,” as the good old expression was—for
no king or sheriff was above the law. In fact, we were so energetic
in providing safeguards for the individual, even when a wrong-doer,
that we paid very little attention to the effectiveness of kings or
sheriffs or what we had substituted for them. And so it is to-day.
What candidate for office, what silver-tongued orator or senator, what
demagogue or preacher could hold his audience or capture a vote if,
when it came to a question of liberty, he should lift up his voice in
behalf of the rights of the majority as against the individual? The
Republican party—“The Grand Old Party of Liberty!” The Democratic
party—“The Party of Liberty!” The Socialist-Labor party—“of Liberty.”
“Liberty forever!”

Accordingly in devising our laws we have provided in every possible way
for the freedom of the citizen from all interference on the part of the
authorities. No one may be stopped, interrogated, examined, or arrested
unless a crime has been committed. Every one is presumed to be innocent
until shown to be guilty by the verdict of a jury. No one’s premises
may be entered or searched without a warrant which the law renders it
difficult to obtain. Every accused has the right to testify in his
own behalf, like any other witness. The fact that he has been held
for a crime by a magistrate and indicted by a grand jury places him
at not the slightest disadvantage so far as defending himself against
the charge is concerned, for he must be proven guilty _beyond any
reasonable_ doubt. These illustrations of the jealousy of the _law_ for
the rights of citizens might be multiplied to no inconsiderable extent.
Further, our law allows a defendant convicted of crime to appeal to the
highest courts, whereas if he be acquitted the people or State have no
right of appeal at all.

Without dwelling further on the matter it is enough to say that in
general the State constitutions, their general laws, or penal statutes
provide that a person who is accused or suspected of crime must be
_presumed innocent_ and treated accordingly until his guilt has been
affirmatively established in a jury trial; that meantime he must not
be confined or detained unless a crime has in fact been committed and
there is at least reasonable cause to believe that he has committed
it; and, further, that if arrested he must be given an immediate
opportunity to secure bail, to have the advice of counsel, and must in
no way be compelled to give any evidence against himself. So much for
the _law_. It is as plain as a pikestaff. It is printed in the books in
words of one syllable. So far as the law is concerned we have done our
best to perpetuate the theories of those who, fearing that they might
be arrested without a hearing, transported for trial, and convicted in
a king’s court before a king’s judge for a crime they knew nothing of,
insisted on “liberty or death.” They had had enough of kings and their
ways. Hereafter they were to have “a government of laws and not of men.”

But the unfortunate fact remains that all laws, however perfect, must
in the end be administered by imperfect men. There is, alas! no such
thing as a government of laws and not of men. You may have a government
_more_ of laws and _less_ of men, or vice versa, but you cannot have
an auto-administration of the Golden Rule. Sooner or later you come
to a _man_—in the White House, or on a wool sack, or at a desk in
an office, or in a blue coat and brass buttons—and then, to a very
considerable extent, the question of how far ours is to be a government
of laws or of men depends upon _him_. Generally, so far as he is
concerned, it is going to be of _man_, for every official finds that
the letter of the law works an injustice many times out of a hundred.
If he is worth his salary he will try to temper justice with mercy. If
he is human he will endeavor to accomplish justice _as he sees it_
so long as the law can be stretched to accommodate the case. Thus,
inevitably there is a conflict between the theory of the law and its
application. It is the human element in the administration of the law
that enables lawyers to get a living. It is usually not difficult to
tell what the law is; the puzzle is how it is going to be applied in
any individual case. How it is going to be applied depends very largely
upon the practical side of the matter and the exigencies of existing
conditions.

It is pretty hard to apply inflexibly laws over a hundred years old.
It is equally hard to police a city of a million or so polyglot
inhabitants with a due regard to their theoretic constitutional rights.
But suppose in addition that these theoretic rights are _entirely_
theoretic and fly in the face of the laws of nature, experience, and
common-sense? What then? As the missionary said, “The cannibals are
coming behind, there is a lion in front, there are sharks in the water,
I can’t swim anyway—what in hell _am_ I to do?” What is a police
commissioner to do who has either got to make an illegal arrest or let
a crook get away, who must violate the rights of men illegally detained
by outrageously “mugging” them or egregiously fail to have a record
of the professional criminals in his bailiwick? He does just what all
of us do when we are “up against it,”—he “takes a chance.” But in
the case of the police the thing is so necessary that there ceases
practically to be any “chance” about it. They have got to prevent crime
and arrest criminals. If they fail they are out of a job, and others
more capable or less scrupulous take their places. The fundamental law
qualifying all systems is that of necessity. You can’t let professional
crooks carry off a voter’s silverware simply because the voter, being
asleep, is unable instantly to demonstrate beyond a reasonable doubt
that his silver has been stolen. You can’t permit burglars to drag
sacks of loot through the streets of the city at 4 A.M. simply because
they are presumed to be innocent until proven guilty. And if “arrest
on suspicion” were not permitted, demanded by the public, and required
by the police ordinances, away would go the crooks and off would go
the silverware, the town would be full of “leather snatchers” and
“strong arm men,” respectable citizens would be afraid to go out o’
nights, and liberty would degenerate into license. That is the point.
We Americans, or at least the newer ones of us, have a fixed idea that
“liberty” means the right to steal apples from our neighbor’s orchard
without interference. Now, somewhere or other, there has got to be a
switch and a strong arm to keep us in order, and the switch and arm
must not wait until the apples are stolen and eaten before getting
busy. If we come climbing over the fence sweating apples at every pore,
is Farmer Jones to go and count his apples before grabbing us?

The most presumptuous of all presumptions is this “presumption of
innocence.” It really doesn’t exist, save in the mouths of judges and
in the pages of law books. Yet as much to-do is made about it as if
it were a living legal principle. Every judge in a criminal case is
required to charge the jury in form or substance somewhat as follows:
“The defendant is presumed to be innocent until that presumption is
removed by competent evidence.”... “This presumption is his property,
remaining with him throughout the trial and until rebutted by the
verdict of the jury.”... “The jury has no right to consider the
fact that the defendant stands at the bar accused of a crime by an
indictment found by the grand jury.” Shades of Sir Henry Hawkins! Does
the judge expect that they are actually to swallow _that_? Here is a
jury sworn “to a true verdict find” in the case of an ugly looking
customer at the bar who is charged with knocking down an old man and
stealing his watch. The old man—an apostolic looking octogenarian—is
sitting right over there where the jury can see him. One look at the
plaintiff and one at the accused and the jury may be heard to mutter,
“He’s _guilty_,—all right!”

“Presumed to be innocent?” Why, may I ask? Don’t the jury and everybody
else know that this good old man would never, save by mistake, accuse
anybody falsely of crime? Innocence! Why, the natural and inevitable
presumption is that the defendant is _guilty_! The human mind works
intuitively by comparison and experience. We assume or presume with
considerable confidence that parents love their children, that all
college presidents are great and good men, and that wild bulls are
dangerous animals. We may be wrong. But it is up to the other fellow
to show us the contrary.

Now, if out of a clear sky Jones accuses Robinson of being a thief we
know by experience that the chances are largely in favor of Jones’s
accusation being well-founded. People as a rule don’t go rushing
around charging each other with being crooks unless they have some
reason for it. Thus, at the very beginning the law flies in the face
of probabilities when it tells us that a man accused of crime must be
presumed to be innocent. In point of fact, whatever presumption there
is (and this varies with the circumstances) is all the other way,
greater or less depending upon the particular attitude of mind and
experience of the individual.

This natural _presumption of guilt_ from the mere fact of the charge is
rendered all the more likely by reason of the uncharitable readiness
with which we believe evil of our fellows. How unctuously we repeat
some hearsay bit of scandal. “I suppose you have heard the report that
Deacon Smith has stolen the church funds?” we say to our friends with
a sententious sigh—the outward sign of an invisible satisfaction.
Deacon Smith after the money-bag? Ha! ha! Of course, he’s guilty!
These deacons are always guilty! And in a few minutes Deacon Smith is
ruined forever, although the fact of the matter is that he was but
counting the money in the collection-plate. This willingness to believe
the worst of others is a matter of common knowledge and of historical
and literary record. “The evil that men do lives after them—” It
might well have been put, “The evil men are said to have done lives
forever.” However unfair, this is a psychologic condition which plays
an important part in rendering the presumption of innocence a gross
absurdity.

But let us press the history of Jones and Robinson a step further.
The next event in the latter’s criminal history is his appearance
in court before a magistrate. Jones produces his evidence and calls
his witnesses. Robinson, through his learned counsel, cross-examines
them and then summons his own witnesses to prove his innocence.
The proceeding may take several days or perhaps weeks. Briefs are
submitted. The magistrate considers the testimony at great length and
finally decides that he believes Robinson guilty and must hold him
for the action of the grand jury. You might now, it would perhaps
seem, have some reason for suspecting that Robinson was not all that
he should be. But no! He is still presumed in the eyes of the law,
and theoretically in the eyes of his fellows, to be as innocent as
a babe unborn. And now the grand jury take up and sift the evidence
that has already been gone over by the police judge. They, too, call
witnesses and take additional testimony. They likewise are convinced
of Robinson’s guilt and straightway hand down an indictment accusing
him of the crime. A bench warrant issues. The defendant is run to
earth and ignominiously haled to court. But he is still presumed to be
innocent! Does not the law say so? And is not this a “government of
laws”? Finally, the district attorney, who is not looking for any more
work than is absolutely necessary, investigates the case and begins to
prepare it for trial. As the facts develop themselves Robinson’s guilt
becomes more and more clear. The unfortunate defendant is given any
opportunity he may desire to explain away the charge, but to no purpose.

The district attorney knows Robinson is guilty, so does everybody else,
including Robinson. At last this presumably innocent man is brought to
the bar for trial. The jury scan his hang-dog countenance upon which
guilt is plainly written. They contrast his appearance with that of
the honest Jones. They know he has been accused, held by a magistrate,
indicted by a grand jury, and that his case, after careful scrutiny,
has been pressed for trial by the public prosecutor. Do they really
presume him innocent? Not much! They presume him _guilty_. And if
by any chance Robinson puts in any defence, they require him, as a
practical matter, to prove himself innocent. “So soon as I see him
come through dot leetle door in the back of the room, then I _know_
he’s guilty!” as the foreman said in the old story. What good does the
presumption of innocence, so-called, do for the miserable Robinson?
None whatever—save perhaps to console him in the long days pending his
trial. But such a legal hypocrisy could never have deceived anybody.
How much better it would be to cast aside all such cant and frankly
admit that the attitude of the continental law toward the man under
arrest is founded upon common-sense and the experience of mankind. If
he is the wrong man it should not be difficult for him to demonstrate
the fact. At any rate circumstances are against him, and he should be
ready to explain them away if he can.

The fact of the matter is, that in dealing with practical conditions,
police methods differ very little in different countries. The
authorities may perhaps keep considerably more detailed and obvious
“tabs” on us in Germany and Russia than in the United States, but if we
are once caught in a compromising position we experience about the same
treatment wherever we happen to be. In France (and how the apostles
of liberty condemn the iniquity of the administration of criminal
justice in that country!) the suspect or undesirable receives a polite
official call or note, in which he is invited to leave the locality as
soon as convenient. In New York he is arrested by a plain-clothes man,
yanked down to Mulberry Street for the night, and next afternoon is
thrust down the gangplank of a just departing Fall River liner. Many an
inspector (without mentioning names) has earned unstinted praise (even
from the _New York Evening Post_) by “clearing New York of crooks”
or having a sort of “round-up” of suspicious characters whom, after
proper identification, he has ejected from the city by the shortest and
quickest possible route. Yet in the case of every person thus arrested
and driven out of the town he has undoubtedly violated constitutional
rights and taken the law into his own hands. What crimes are committed
in the name of law, O Liberty!

What redress can a penniless tramp secure against a stout inspector of
police able and willing to spend a considerable sum of money in his own
defence, and with the entire force ready and eager to get at the tramp
and put him out of business? He swallows his pride, if he has any, and
ruefully slinks out of town for a period of enforced abstinence from
the joys of metropolitan existence. Yet who shall say that, in spite of
the fact that it is a theoretic outrage upon liberty, this cleaning out
of the city is not highly desirable? One or two comparatively innocent
men may be caught in the ruck, but they generally manage to intimate to
the police that the latter have “got them wrong” and duly make their
escape. The others resume their tramp from city to city, clothed in the
presumption of their innocence.

Since the days of the Doges or of the Spanish Inquisition there has
never been anything like the morning inspection of arrested suspects
at the New York police head-quarters.[1] One by one the unfortunate
persons arrested during the previous night (although not charged with
any crime) are pointed out to the assembled detective force, who scan
them from beneath black velvet masks in order that they themselves may
not be recognized when they meet again on Broadway or the darker side
streets of the city. Each prisoner is described and his character and
past performances are rehearsed by the inspector or head of the bureau.
He is then measured, “mugged,” and, if lucky, turned loose. What
does his liberty amount to or his much-vaunted legal rights if the city
is to be made safe? Yet why does not some apostle of liberty raise his
voice and cry aloud concerning the wrong that has been done? Are not
the rights of a beggar as sacred as those of a bishop? Yea, verily, and
the statutes say plainly and have said plainly for years that no one
shall be arrested _unless a crime has been committed_.

One of the most sacred rights guaranteed to those of us who can afford
to pay for it under the law is that of not being compelled to give
evidence against ourselves or to testify to anything which might
degrade or incriminate us. “I’se not compelled to discriminate against
myself!” as the old darkey, who knew his rights very well, said. Now,
this is all very fine for the chap who has his lawyer at his elbow
or has had some similar previous experience. He may wisely shut up
like a clam and set at defiance the tortures of the third degree. But
how about the poor fellow arrested on suspicion of having committed
a murder, who has never heard of the legal provision in question,
or, if he has, is cajoled or threatened into “answering one or two
questions”? Few police officers take the trouble to warn those whom
they arrest that what they say may be used against them. What is the
use? Of course, when they testify later at the trial they inevitably
begin their testimony with the stereotyped phrase, “I first warned the
defendant that anything which he said would be used against him.” If
they did warn him they probably whispered it or mumbled it so that he
didn’t hear what they said, or, in any event, whether they said it
or not, half a dozen of them probably took him into a back room and,
having set him with his back against the wall, threatened and swore at
him until he told them what he knew, or thought he knew, and perhaps
confessed his crime. When the case comes to trial the police give the
impression that the accused quietly summoned them to his cell to make
a voluntary statement. The defendant denies this, of course, but the
evidence goes in and the harm has been done. No doubt the methods of
the inquisition are in vogue the world over under similar conditions.
Everybody knows that a statement by the accused immediately upon his
arrest is usually the most important evidence that can be secured in
any case. It is a police officer’s _duty_ to secure one if he can do
so by legitimate means. It is his _custom_ to secure one by any means
in his power. As his oath, that such a statement was voluntary, makes
it _ipso facto_ admissible as evidence, the statutes providing that
a defendant cannot be compelled to give evidence against himself are
practically nullified.

The beneficent provisions to be found in most codes of criminal
procedure, and particularly in that of the State of New York, while
highly valuable under some circumstances, are of no avail to a
defendant who has never heard of them. These are to the effect that the
police must convey a message free of charge to the family or lawyer of
every person arrested, that each prisoner is entitled as matter of law
to a reasonable delay before being compelled to submit to a hearing,
that he has the right to the services of counsel, and the further
right to have a stenographic report of the evidence taken before the
magistrate. The ordinary petty criminal is arrested without a warrant,
often illegally, hustled to the nearest police court, put through a
species of examination composed largely of invective and assertion on
the part of the officer, found guilty, and “sent away” to the Island,
without lawyer, adjournment, or notice to his family. “Off with his
head!”—just like that! He isn’t presumed to be innocent at all. The
“cop” tells him “to shut his mouth or he will knock his block off.” “I
caught this feller doin’ so-and-so! He’s a lazy loafer, judge,” he says
to the magistrate. The latter takes a look at the defendant, concludes
that the officer is right, and off goes the prisoner to the workhouse.

When it comes to the more important cases the accused is usually put
through some sort of an inquisitorial process by the captain at the
station-house. If he is not very successful at getting anything out of
the prisoner the latter is turned over to the sergeant and a couple
of officers who can use methods of a more urgent character. If the
prisoner is arrested by head-quarters detectives, various efficient
devices to compel him to “give up what he knows” may be used—such
as depriving him of food and sleep, placing him in a cell with a
“stool-pigeon” who will try to worm a confession out of him, and the
usual moral suasion of a heart-to-heart(!) talk in the back room with
the inspector.

This is the darker side of the picture of practical government. It is
needless to say that the police do not usually suggest the various
safeguards and privileges which the law accords to defendants thus
arrested, but the writer is free to confess that, save in exceptional
cases, he believes the rigors of the so-called third degree to be
greatly exaggerated. Frequently in dealing with rough men rough methods
are used, but considering the multitude of offenders, and the thousands
of police officers, none of whom have been trained in a school of
gentleness, it is surprising that severer treatment is not met with on
the part of those who run foul of the criminal law. The ordinary “cop”
tries to do his duty as effectively as he can. With the average citizen
gruffness and roughness go a long way in the assertion of authority.
Policemen cannot have the manners of dancing-masters. The writer is
not quarrelling with the conduct of police officers. On the contrary,
the point he is trying to make is that in the task of policing a big
city, the rights of the individual must indubitably suffer to a certain
extent if the rights of the multitude are to be properly protected. We
can make too much of small injustices and petty incivilities. Police
business is not gentle business. The officers are trying to prevent
you and me from being knocked on the head some dark night or from
being chloroformed in our beds. Ten thousand men are trying to do a
thirty-thousand-man job.

The struggle to keep the peace and put down crime is a hard one
anywhere. It requires a strong arm that cannot show too punctilious
a regard for theoretical rights when prompt decisions have to be made
and equally prompt action taken. The thieves and gun men have got to
be driven out. Suspicious characters have got to be locked up. Somehow
or other a record must be kept of professional criminals and persons
likely to be active in law-breaking. These are necessities in every
civilized country. They are necessities here. Society employs the same
methods of self-protection the world over. No one presumes a person
charged with crime to be innocent, either in Delhi, Pekin, Moscow,
or New York. Under proper circumstances we believe him guilty. When
he comes to be tried the jury consider the evidence, and if they are
pretty sure he is guilty they convict him. The doctrine of reasonable
doubt is almost as much of a fiction as that of the presumption of
innocence. From the time a man is arrested until arraignment he is
quizzed and interrogated with a view to inducing him to admit his
offence or give some evidence that may help convict him. Logically,
why _should_ not a person charged with a crime be obliged to give
what explanation he can of the affair? Why _should_ he have the
privilege of silence? Doesn’t he owe a duty to the public the same as
any other witness? If he is innocent he has nothing to fear; if he is
guilty—away with him! The French have no false ideas about such things
and at the same time they have a high regard for liberty. They merely
recognize the fact that there is a point at which the interest of the
public and its liberty is bound to conflict with the interest of the
individual and _his_ freedom to do as he likes. And we instinctively
recognize this, too, just as everybody does. We merely cheat ourselves
into thinking that _our_ liberty is something different from French
liberty because we have a lot of laws upon our statute books that are
there only to be disregarded and would have to be repealed instantly if
enforced.

Take, for instance, the celebrated provision of the penal laws that the
failure of an accused to testify in his own behalf shall not be taken
against him. Such a doctrine flies in the face of human nature. If a
man sits silent when witnesses under oath accuse him of a crime it is
an inevitable inference that he has nothing to say—that no explanation
of his would explain. The records show that the vast majority of
accused persons who do not avail themselves of the opportunity to
testify are _convicted_. Thus, the law which _permits_ a defendant
to testify in reality _compels_ him to testify, and a much-invoked
doctrine of liberty turns out to be a privilege in name only. In France
or America alike a man accused of crime sooner or later has to tell
what he knows—or take his medicine. It makes little difference whether
he does so under the legalized examination of a “juge d’instruction”
in Paris or under the quasi-voluntary interrogations of an assistant
district attorney or police inspector in New York. It is six of one and
half a dozen of the other if at his trial in France he remains mute
under examination or in America refrains from availing himself of the
privilege of testifying in his own behalf.

Thus, we are reluctantly forced to the conclusion that all human
institutions have their limitations, and that, however theoretically
perfect a government of laws may be, it must be administered by men
whose chief regard will not be the idealization of a theory of liberty
so much as an immediate solution of some concrete problem. And, of
course, we have known this all along, but instead of doing away with
impossible laws we have preferred to have prohibition on Main Street
and free liquor at the hotel side doors, closed Sundays on the statute
books and a wide-open town in practice, immunity from arrest in theory
under cover of the agreeable delusion that America is the freest
country in the world, and in reality the same situation that exists in
continental countries.

Not that the matter, after all, is particularly important to most
of us, but laws which exist only to be broken create a disrespect
and disregard for law which may ultimately be dangerous. It would be
perfectly simple for the legislature to say that a citizen _might_ be
arrested under circumstances tending to cause a reasonable suspicion,
even if he had not committed a crime, and it would be quite easy to
pass a statute providing that the commissioner of police might “mug”
and measure all criminals immediately after conviction. As it is, the
prison authorities won’t let him, so he has to do it while he has the
opportunity.

It must be admitted that this is rather hard on the innocent, but
they now have to suffer with the guilty for the sins of an indolent
and uninterested legislature. Moreover, if such a right of arrest
were proposed, some wiseacre or politician would probably rise up
and denounce the suggestion as the first step in the direction of a
military dictatorship. Thus, we shall undoubtedly fare happily on in
the blissful belief that our personal liberties are the subject of
the most solicitous and zealous care on the part of the authorities,
guaranteed to us under a government which is not of men but of laws,
until one of us happens to be arrested (by mistake, of course) and
learns by sad experience the practical methods of the police in dealing
with criminals and the agreeable but deceptive character of the
pleasant fiction of the presumption of innocence.




CHAPTER II

PREPARING A CRIMINAL CASE FOR TRIAL


WHEN the prosecuting attorney in a great criminal trial arises to open
the case to the impanelled jury, very few, if any, of them have the
slightest conception of the enormous expenditure of time, thought, and
labor which has gone into the preparation of the case and made possible
his brief and easily delivered speech. For in this opening address
of his there must be no flaw, since a single misstated or overstated
fact may prejudice the jury against him and result in his defeat. Upon
it also depends the jury’s first impression of the case and of the
prosecutor himself—no inconsiderable factor in the result—and in a
trial of importance its careful construction with due regard to what
facts shall be omitted (in order to enhance their dramatic effect when
ultimately proven) may well occupy the district attorney every evening
for a week. But if the speech itself has involved study and travail, it
is as nothing compared with the amount required by that most important
feature of every criminal case—the selection of the jury.

For a month before the trial, or whenever it may be that the jury has
been drawn, every member upon the panel has been subjected to an unseen
inquisitorial process. The prosecutor, through his own or through
hired sleuths, has studied with microscopic care the family history,
the business standing and methods, the financial responsibility, the
political and social affiliations, and the personal habits and “past
performances” of each and every talesman. When at the beginning of the
trial they, one by one, take the witness-chair (on what is called the
_voir dire_) to subject themselves to an examination by both sides
as to their fitness to serve as jurors in the case, the district
attorney probably has close at hand a rather detailed account of each,
and perchance has great difficulty in restraining a smile when some
prospective juror, in his eagerness either to serve or to escape,
deliberately equivocates in answer to an important question as to his
personal history.

“Are you acquainted with the accused or his family?” mildly inquires
the assistant prosecutor.

“No—not at all,” the talesman may blandly reply.

The answer, perhaps, is literally true, and yet the prosecutor may
be pardoned for murmuring “Liar!” to himself as he sees that his
memorandum concerning the juror’s qualifications states that he belongs
to the same “lodge” with the prisoner’s uncle by marriage and carries
an open account on his books with the defendant’s father.

“I think we will excuse Mr. Ananias,” politely remarks the prosecutor;
then in an undertone he turns to his chief and mutters: “The old
rascal! He would have knifed us into a thousand pieces if we’d given
him the chance!” And all this time the disgruntled Mr. Ananias is
wondering why, if he _didn’t_ “know the defendant or his family,” he
was not accepted as a juror.

Of course, every district attorney has, or should have, pretty good
information as to each talesman’s actual capabilities as a juror and
something of a record as to how he has acted under fire. If he is a
member of the “special” panel, it is easy to find out whether he has
ever acquitted or convicted in any _cause celèbre_, and if he has
acquitted any plainly guilty defendant in the past it is not likely
that his services will be required. If, however, he has convicted in
such a case the district attorney may try to lure the other side into
accepting him by making it appear that he himself is doubtful as to the
juror’s desirability. Sometimes persons accused of crime themselves,
and actually under indictment, find their way onto the panels, and more
than one ex-convict has appeared there in some inexplicable fashion.
But to find them out may well require a double shift of men working day
and night for a month before the case is called, and what may appear
to be the most trivial fact thus discovered may in the end prove the
decisive argument for or against accepting the juror.

Panel after panel may be exhausted before a jury in a great murder
trial has been selected, for each side in addition to its challenges
for “cause” or “bias” has thirty[2] peremptory ones which it may
exercise arbitrarily. If the writer’s recollection is not at fault,
the large original panel drawn in the first Molineux trial was used up
and several others had to be drawn until eight hundred talesmen had
been interrogated before the jury was finally selected. It is usual to
examine at least fifty in the ordinary murder case before a jury is
secured.

It may seem to the reader that this scrutiny of talesmen is not
strictly preparation for the trial, but, in fact, it is fully as
important as getting ready the facts themselves; for a poor jury,
either from ignorance or prejudice, will acquit on the same facts which
will lead a sound jury to convict. A famous prosecutor used to say,
“Get your jury—the case will take care of itself.”

But as the examination of the panel and the opening address come last
in point of chronology it will be well to begin at the beginning and
see what the labors of the prosecutor are in the initial stages of
preparation. Let us take, for example, some notorious case, where an
unfortunate victim has died from the effects of a poisoned pill or
draft of medicine, or has been found dead in his room with a revolver
bullet in his heart. Some time before the matter has come into the
hands of the prosecutor, the press and the police have generally been
doing more or less (usually less) effective work upon the case. The
yellow journals have evolved some theory of who is the culprit and have
loosed their respective reporters and “special criminologists” upon
him. Each has its own idea and its own methods—often unscrupulous.
And each has its own particular victim upon whom it intends to fasten
the blame. Heaven save his reputation! Many an innocent man has been
ruined for life through the efforts of a newspaper “to make a case,”
and, of course, the same thing, though happily in a lesser degree, is
true of the police and of some prosecutors as well.

In every great criminal case there are always four different and
frequently antagonistic elements engaged in the work of detection and
prosecution—first, the police; second, the district attorney; third,
the press; and, lastly, the personal friends and family of the deceased
or injured party. Each for its own ends—be it professional pride,
personal glorification, hard cash, or revenge—is equally anxious to
find the evidence and establish a case. Of course, the police are the
first ones notified of the commission of a crime, but as it is now
almost universally their duty to inform at once the coroner and also
the district attorney thereof, a tripartite race for glory frequently
results which adds nothing to the dignity of the administration of
criminal justice.

The coroner is at best no more than an appendix to the legal anatomy,
and frequently he is a disease. The spectacle of a medical man of small
learning and less English trying to preside over a court of first
instance is enough to make the accused himself chuckle for joy.

Not long ago the coroners of New York discovered that, owing to the
fact that the district attorney or his representatives generally
arrived first at the scene of any crime, there was nothing left for
the “medicos” to do, for the district attorney would thereupon submit
the matter at once to the grand jury instead of going through the
formality of a hearing in the coroner’s court. The legal medicine men
felt aggrieved, and determined to be such early birds that no worm
should them escape. Accordingly, the next time one of them was notified
of a homicide he raced his horse down Madison Avenue at such speed that
he collided with a trolley car and broke his leg.

Another complained to the district attorney that the assistants of the
latter, who had arrived at the scene of an asphyxiation before him, had
bungled everything.

“Ach, dose young men!” he exclaimed, wringing his hands—“Dose young
men, dey come here und dey opened der vindow und let out der gas und
_all mine evidence esgaped_.”

The same coroner on another occasion discovered that a murderer had
removed the body of his victim to New Jersey, thus depriving him of any
corpse upon which to hold his inquest. A sympathetic reporter thereupon
suggested that it would be well to have a law prohibiting any such
removal by the party committing a homicide.

“Dot vas a good idea!” solemnly replied the medical Solon. “It should
be made a crime! I will haf it proposed at der next legislature.”

It is said that this interesting personage once instructed his jury to
find that “the _diseased_ came to his death from an _ulster_ on the
stomach.”

These anecdotes are, perhaps, what judges would call _obiter dicta_,
yet the coroner’s court has more than once been utilized as a field in
the actual preparation of a criminal case. When Roland B. Molineux was
first suspected of having caused the death of Mrs. Adams by sending the
famous poisoned package of patent-medicine to Harry Cornish through the
mails, the assistant district attorney summoned him as a witness to the
coroner’s court and attempted to get from him in this way a statement
which Molineux would otherwise have refused to make.

When all the first hullabaloo is over and the accused is under arrest
and safely locked up, it is usually found that the police have merely
run down the obvious witnesses and made a _prima facie_ case. All the
finer work remains to be done either by the district attorney himself
or by the detective bureau working under his immediate direction or
in harmony with him. Little order has been observed in the securing
of evidence. Every one is a fish who runs into the net of the police,
and all is grist that comes to their mill. The district attorney sends
for the officers who have worked upon the case and for the captain or
inspector who has directed their efforts, takes all the papers and
tabulates all their information. His practiced eye shows him at once
that a large part is valueless, much is contradictory, and all needs
careful elaboration. A winnowing process occurs then and there; and the
officers probably receive a “special detail” from head-quarters and
thereafter take their orders from the prosecutor himself. The detective
bureau is called in and arrangements made for the running down of
particular clews. Then he will take off his coat, clear his desk, and
get down to work.

Of course, his first step is to get all the information he can as
to the actual facts surrounding the crime itself. He immediately
subpœnas all the witnesses, whether previously interrogated by
the police or not, who know anything about the matter, and subjects
them to a rigorous cross-examination. Then he sends for the police
themselves and cross-examines _them_. If it appears that any witnesses
have disappeared he instructs his detectives how and where to look
for them. Often this becomes in the end the most important element
in the preparation for the trial. Thus in the Nan Patterson case the
search for and ultimate discovery of Mr. and Mrs. Morgan Smith (the
sister and brother-in-law of the accused) was one of its most dramatic
features. After they had been found it was necessary to indict and
then to extradite them in order to secure their presence within the
jurisdiction, and when all this had been accomplished it proved
practically valueless.

It frequently happens that an entire case will rest upon the testimony
of a single witness whose absence from the jurisdiction would prevent
the trial. An instance of such a case was that of Albert T. Patrick,
for without the testimony of his alleged accomplice—the valet
Jones—he could not have been convicted of murder. The preservation of
such a witness and his testimony thus becomes of paramount importance,
and rascally witnesses sometimes enjoy considerable ease, if not
luxury, at the expense of the public while waiting to testify. Often,
too, a case of great interest will arise where the question of the
guilt of the accused turns upon the evidence of some one person who,
either from mercenary motives or because of “blood and affection,”
is unwilling to come to the fore and tell the truth. A striking case
of this sort occurred some ten years ago. The “black sheep” of a
prominent New York family forged the name of his sister to a draft
for thirty thousand dollars. This sister, who was an elderly woman
of the highest character and refinement, did not care to pocket the
loss herself and declined to have the draft debited to her account
at the bank. A law-suit followed, in which the sister swore that the
name signed to the draft was not in her handwriting. She won her case,
but some disinterested though officious person laid the matter before
the district attorney. The forger was arrested and his sister was
summoned before the grand jury. Here was a pleasant predicament. If
she testified for the State her brother would undoubtedly go to prison
for many years, to say nothing of the notoriety for the entire family
which so sensational a case would occasion. She, therefore, slipped out
of the city and sailed for Europe the night before she was to appear
before the grand jury. Her brother was in due course indicted and held
for trial in large bail, but there was and is no prospect of convicting
him for his crime so long as his sister remains in the voluntary exile
to which she has subjected herself. She can never return to New York to
live unless something happens either to the indictment or her brother,
neither of which events seems likely in the immediate future.

Perhaps, if the case is one of shooting, the weapon has vanished. Its
discovery may lead to the finding of the murderer. In one instance
where a body was found in the woods with a bullet through the heart
there was nothing to indicate who had committed the crime. The only
scintilla of evidence was an exploded cartridge—a small thing on
which to build a case. But the district attorney had the hammer marks
upon the cap magnified several hundred times and then set out to find
the rifle which bore the hammer which had made them. Thousands of
rifles all over the State were examined. At last in a remote lumber
camp was found the weapon which had fired the fatal bullet. The owner
was arrested, accused of the murder, and confessed his crime. In like
manner, if it becomes necessary to determine where a typewritten
document was prepared the letters may be magnified, and by examining
the ribbons of suspected machines the desired fact may be ascertained.
The magnifying glass still plays an important part in detecting crime,
although usually in ways little suspected by the general public.

On the other hand, where the weapon has not been spirited away the
detectives may spend weeks in discovering when and where it was
purchased. Every pawnshop, every store where a pistol could be bought,
is investigated, and under proper circumstances the requisite evidence
to show deliberation and premeditation may be secured.

These investigations are naturally conducted at the very outset of
the preparation of the case. The weapon, in seven trials out of ten,
is the most important thing in it. By its means it can generally be
demonstrated whether the shooting was accidental or intentional—and
whether or not the killing was in self-defence.

Where this last plea is interposed it is usually made at once upon the
arrest, the accused explaining to the police that he fired only to
save his own life. In such a situation, where the killing is admitted,
practically the entire preparation will centre upon the most minute
tests to determine whether or not the shot was fired as the accused
claims that it was. The writer can recall at least a dozen cases in his
own experience where the story of the defendant, that the revolver was
discharged in a hand-to-hand struggle, was conclusively disproved by
experimenting with the weapon before the trial. There was one homicide
in which a bullet perforated a felt cap and penetrated the forehead
of the deceased. The defendant asserted that he was within three feet
of his victim when he fired, and that the other was about to strike
him with a bludgeon. A quantity of felt, of weight similar to that of
the cap, was procured and the revolver discharged at it from varying
distances. A microscopic examination showed that certain discolorations
around the bullet-hole (claimed by the defence to be burns made by
the powder) were, in fact, grease marks and that the shot must have
been fired from a distance of about fifteen feet. The defendant was
convicted on his own story, supplemented by the evidence of the witness
who made the tests.

The most obvious and first requirement is, as has been said, to find
the direct witnesses to the facts surrounding the crime, commit their
statements under oath to writing, so that they cannot later be denied
or evaded, and make sure that these witnesses will not only hold no
intercourse with the other side, but will be on hand when wanted. This
last is not always an easy task, and various expedients often have
to be resorted to, such as placing hostile witnesses under police
surveillance, or in some cases in “houses of detention,” and hiding
others in out-of-the-way places, or supplying them with a bodyguard
if violence is to be anticipated. When the proper time comes the
favorable witnesses must be duly drilled or coached, which does not
imply anything improper, but means merely that they must be instructed
how to deliver their testimony, what answers are expected to certain
questions, and what facts it is intended to elicit from them. Witnesses
are often offended and run amuck because they are not given a chance
upon the stand to tell the story of their lives. This must be guarded
against and steps taken to have their statements given in such a way
that they are audible and intelligible. A few lessons in elementary
elocution are generally vitally necessary. The man with the bassoon
voice must be tamed, and the birdlike old lady made to chirp more
loudly. But all this is the self-evident preparation which must take
place in every case, and while highly important is of far less interest
than the development of the circumstantial evidence which is the next
consideration of the district attorney.

The discovery and proper proof of minute facts which tend to
demonstrate the guilt of an accused are the joy of the natural
prosecutor, and he may in his enthusiasm spend many thousands of
dollars on what seems, and often is, an immaterial matter. Youthful
officials intrusted with the preparation of important cases often
become unduly excited and forget that the taxpayers are paying the
bills. The writer remembers sitting beside one of these enthusiasts
during a celebrated trial. A certain woman witness had incidentally
testified to a remote meeting with the deceased at which a certain
other woman was alleged to have been present. The matter did not seem
of much interest or importance, but the youth in question seized a
yellow pad and excitedly wrote in blue pencil, “Find Birdie” (the other
lady) “_at any cost_!” This he handed to a detective, who hastened
importantly away. Let us hope that “Birdie” was found speedily and in
an inexpensive manner.

When the case against Albert T. Patrick, later convicted of the murder
of the aged William M. Rice, was in course of preparation it was found
desirable to show that Patrick had called up his accomplice on the
telephone upon the night of the murder. Accordingly, the telephone
company was compelled to examine several hundred thousand telephone
slips to determine whether or not this had actually occurred. While the
fact was established in the affirmative, the company now destroys its
slips in order not to have to repeat the performance a second time.

Likewise, in the preparation of the Molineux case it became important
to demonstrate that the accused had sent a letter under an assumed
name ordering certain remedies. As a result, one of the employees of
the patent-medicine company spent several months going over their old
mail orders and comparing them with a certain sample, until at last the
letter was unearthed. Of course, the district attorney had to pay for
it, and it was probably worth what it cost to the prosecution, although
Molineux’s conviction was reversed by the Court of Appeals and he was
acquitted upon his second trial.

The danger is, however, that a prosecutor who has an unlimited amount
of money at his disposal may be led into expenditures which are
hardly justified simply because he thinks they may help to secure a
conviction. Nothing is easier than to waste money in this fashion, and
public officials sometimes spend the county’s money with considerably
more freedom than they would their own under similar circumstances.

The legitimate expenses connected with the preparation of every
important case are naturally large. For example, diagrams must be
prepared, photographs taken of the place of the crime, witnesses
compensated for their time and their expenses paid, and, most important
of all, competent experts must be engaged. This leads us to an
interesting aspect of the modern jury trial.

When no other defence to homicide is possible the claim of insanity
is frequently interposed. Nothing is more confusing to the ordinary
juryman than trying to determine the probative value of evidence
touching unsoundness of mind, and the application thereto of the legal
test of criminal responsibility. In point of fact, juries are hardly
to be blamed for this, since the law itself is antiquated and the
subject one abounding in difficulty. Unfortunately the opportunity for
vague yet damaging testimony on the part of experts, the ease with
which any desired opinion can be defended by a slight alteration in
the hypothetical facts, and the practical impossibility of exposure,
have been seized upon with avidity by a score or more of unscrupulous
alienists who are prepared to sell their services to the highest
bidder. These men are all the more dangerous because, clever students
of mental disease and thorough masters of their subject as they are,
they are able by adroit qualifications and skilful evasions to make
half-truths seem as convincing as whole ones. They ask and receive
large sums for their services, and their dishonest testimony must be
met and refuted by the evidence of honest physicians, who, by virtue of
their attainments, have a right to demand substantial fees. Even so,
newspaper reports of the expense to the State of notorious trials are
grossly exaggerated. The entire cost of the first Thaw trial to the
County of New York was considerably less than twenty thousand dollars,
and the second trial not more than half that amount. To the defence,
however, it was a costly matter, as the recent schedules in bankruptcy
of the defendant show. Therein it appears that one of his half-dozen
counsel still claims as owing to him for his services on the first
trial the modest sum of thirty-five thousand dollars! The cost of the
whole defence was probably ten times that sum. Most of the money goes
to the lawyers, and the experts take the remainder.

It goes without saying that both prosecutor and attorney for the
defence must be masters of the subject involved. A trial for poisoning
means an exhaustive study not only of analytic chemistry, but of
practical medicine on the part of all the lawyers in the case, while
a plea of insanity requires that, for the time being, the district
attorney shall become an alienist, familiar with every aspect of
paranoia, _dementia præcox_, and all other forms of mania. He must
also reduce his knowledge to concrete, workable form, and be able to
defeat opposing experts on their own ground. But such knowledge comes
only by prayer and fasting—or, perhaps, rather by months of hard and
remorseless grind.

The writer once prosecuted a druggist who had, by mistake, filled
a prescription for a one-fourth-grain pill of calomel with a
one-fourth-grain pill of morphine. The baby for whom the pill was
intended died in consequence. The defence was that the prescription
had been properly filled, but that the child was the victim of various
diseases, from acute gastritis to cerebro-spinal meningitis. In
preparation the writer was compelled to spend four hours every evening
for a week with three specialists, and became temporarily a minor
expert on children’s diseases. To-day he is forced to admit that he
would not know a case of acute gastritis from one of mumps. But the
druggist was convicted.

Yet it is not enough to prepare for the defence you _believe_ the
accused is going to interpose. A conscientious preparation means
getting ready for _any_ defence he may endeavor to put in. Just as the
prudent general has an eye to every possible turn of the battle and
has, if he can, re-enforcements on the march, so the prosecutor must
be ready for anything, and readiest of all for the unexpected. He must
not rest upon the belief that the other side will concede any fact,
however clear it may seem. Some cases are lost simply because it never
occurs to the district attorney that the accused will deny something
which the State has twenty witnesses to prove. The twenty witnesses
are, therefore, not summoned on the day of trial, the defendant _does_
deny it, and as it is a case of word against word the accused gets the
benefit of the doubt and, perhaps, is acquitted.

No case is properly prepared unless there is in the court-room every
witness who knows anything about any aspect of the case. No one can
foretell when the unimportant will become the vital. Most cases turn on
an unconsidered point. A prosecutor once lost what seemed to him the
clearest sort of a case. When it was all over, and the defendant had
passed out of the court-room rejoicing, he turned to the foreman and
asked the reason for the verdict.

“Did you hear your chief witness say he was a carpenter?” inquired the
foreman.

“Why, certainly,” answered the district attorney.

“Did you hear me ask him what he paid for that ready-made pine door he
claimed to be working on when he saw the assault?”

The prosecutor recalled the incident and nodded.

“Well, he said ten dollars—and I knew he was a liar. A door like that
don’t cost but four-fifty!”

It is, perhaps, too much to require a knowledge of carpentry on the
part of a lawyer trying an assault case. Yet the juror was undoubtedly
right in his deduction.

In a case where insanity is the defence, the State must dig up and have
at hand every person it can find who knew the accused at any period of
his career. He will probably claim that in his youth he was kicked in
a game of foot-ball and fractured his skull, that later he fell into
an elevator shaft and had concussion of the brain, or that he was hit
on the head by a burglar. It is usually difficult, if not impossible,
to disprove such assertions, but the prosecutor must be ready, if he
can, to show that foot-ball was not invented until after the defendant
had attained maturity, that it was some other man who fell down the
elevator shaft, and to produce the burglar to deny that the assault
occurred. Naturally, complete preparation for an important trial
demands the presence of many witnesses who ultimately are not needed
and who are never called. Probably in most such cases about half the
witnesses do not testify at all.

Most of what has been said has related to the preparation for trial
of cases where the accused is already under arrest when the district
attorney is called into the case. If this stage has not been reached
the prosecutor may well be called upon to exercise some of the
functions of a detective in the first instance.

A few years ago it was brought to the attention of the New York
authorities that many blackmailing letters were being received bearing
the name of “Lewis Jarvis.” These were of a character to render the
apprehension of the writer of them a matter of much importance. The
letters directed that the replies be sent to a certain box in the New
York post-office, but as the boxes are numerous and close together it
seemed doubtful if “Lewis Jarvis” could be detected when he called
for his mail. The district attorney, the police, and the post-office
officials finally evolved the scheme of plugging the lock of “Lewis
Jarvis’s” box with a match. The scheme worked, for “Jarvis,” finding
that he could not use his key, went to the delivery window and asked
for his mail. The very instant the letters reached his hand the gyves
were upon the wrists of one of the best-known attorneys in the city.

When the district attorney has been apprised that a crime has been
committed, and that a certain person is the guilty party, he not
infrequently allows the suspect to go his way under the careful watch
of detectives, and thus often secures much new evidence against him. In
this way it is sometimes established that the accused has endeavored
to bribe the witnesses and to induce them to leave the State, while
the whereabouts of stolen loot is often discovered. In most instances,
however, the district attorney begins where the police leave off, and
he merely supplements their labors and prepares for the actual trial
itself. But the press he has always with him, and from the first moment
after the crime up to the execution of the sentence or the liberation
of the accused, the reporters dog his footsteps, sit on his doorstep,
and deluge him with advice and information.

Now a curious feature about the evidence “worked up” by reporters for
their papers is that little of it materializes when the prosecutor
wishes to make use of it. Of course, some reporters do excellent
detective work, and there are one or two veterans (like Gus. Roeder
of the _World_) attached to the criminal courts in New York City who,
in addition to their literary capacities, are natural-born sleuths,
and combine with a knowledge of criminal law, almost as extensive as
that of a regular prosecutor, a resourcefulness and nerve that often
win the case for whichever side they espouse. I have frequently found
that these men knew more about the cases which I was prosecuting than
I did myself, and a tip from them has more than once turned defeat
into victory. But newspaper men, for one reason or another, are loath
to testify, and usually make but poor witnesses. They feel that
their motives will be questioned, and are naturally unwilling to put
themselves in an equivocal position. The writer well remembers that
in the Mabel Parker case, where the defendant, a young and pretty
woman, had boasted of her forgeries before a roomful of reporters, it
was impossible, when her trial was called, to find more than one of
them who would testify—and he had practically to be dragged to the
witness chair. In point of fact, if reporters made a practice of being
witnesses it would probably hurt their business. But, however much
“faked” news may be published, a prosecutor who did not listen to all
the hints the press boys had to give would make a great mistake; and as
allies and advisers they are often invaluable, for they can tell him
where and how to get evidence of which otherwise he would never hear.

The week before a great case is called is a busy one for the prosecutor
in charge. He is at his office early to interview his main witnesses
and go over their testimony with them so that their regular daily work
may not be interrupted more than shall be actually necessary. Some he
cautions against being over-enthusiastic and others he encourages to
greater emphasis. The bashful “cop” is badgered until at last he ceases
to begin his testimony in the cut-and-dried police fashion.

“On the morning of the twenty-second of July, about 3.30 A.M., while on
post at the corner of Desbrosses Street——,” he starts.

“Oh, quit that!” shouts the district attorney. “Tell me what you saw in
your own words.”

The “cop” blushes and stammers:

“Aw, well, on the morning of the twenty-second of July, about 3.30
A.M.——”

“Look here!” yells the prosecutor, jumping to his feet and shaking his
fist at him, “do you want to be taken for a d——n liar? ‘Morning of
the twenty-second of July, about 3.30 A.M., while on post!’ You never
talked like that in your life.”

By this time the “cop” is “mad clear through.”

“I’m no liar!” he retorts. “I saw the cuss pull his gun and shoot!”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” laughs the prosecutor, and Patrick,
mollified with a cigar, dimly perceives the objectionable feature of
his testimony.

About this time one of the sleuths comes in to report that certain
much-desired witnesses have been “located” and are in custody
downstairs. The assistant makes immediate preparation for taking
their statements. Then one of the experts comes in for a chat about a
new phase of the case occasioned by the discovery that the defendant
actually _did_ have spasms when an infant. The assistant wisely makes
an appointment for the evening. A telegram arrives saying that a
witness for the defence has just started for New York from Philadelphia
and should be duly watched on arrival. The district attorney sends for
the assistant to inquire if he has looked up the law on similar cases
in Texas and Alabama—which he probably has not done; and a friend on
the telephone informs him that Tomkins, who has been drawn on the jury,
is a boon companion of the prisoner and was accustomed to play bridge
with him every Sunday night before the murder.

Coincidently, some private detectives enter with a long report on
the various members of the panel, including the aforesaid Tomkins,
whom they pronounce to be “all right,” and as never having, to
their knowledge, laid eyes on the accused. Finally, in despair, the
prosecutor locks himself in his library with a copy of the Bible,
“Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations,” and a volume of celebrated speeches,
to prepare his summing up, for no careful trial lawyer opens a case
without first having prepared, to some extent, at least, his closing
address to the jury. He has thought about this for weeks and perhaps
for months. In his dreams he has formulated syllogisms and delivered
them to imaginary yet obstinate talesmen. He has glanced through many
volumes for similes and quotations of pertinency. He has tried various
arguments on his friends until he knows just how, _if_ he succeeds in
proving certain facts and the defence expected _is_ interposed, he is
going to convince the twelve jurors that the defendant is guilty and,
perhaps, win an everlasting reputation as an orator himself.

This superficial sketch of how an important criminal case is got
ready for trial would be incomplete without some further reference to
something which has been briefly hinted at before—preparation upon
its purely legal aspect. This may well demand almost as much labor as
that required in amassing the evidence. Yet a careful and painstaking
investigation of the law governing every aspect of the case is
indispensable to success. The prosecutor with a perfectly clear case
may see the defendant walk out of court a free man, simply because he
has neglected to acquaint himself with the various points of law which
may arise in the course of the trial, and the lawyer for an accused
may find his client convicted upon a charge to which he has a perfectly
good legal defence, for the same reason.

Looking at it from the point of view of the prisoner’s counsel, it is
obvious that it is quite as efficacious to free your client on a point
of law, without having the case go to the jury at all, as to secure an
acquittal at their hands.

At the conclusion of the evidence introduced in behalf of the State
there is always a motion made to dismiss the case on the ground of
alleged insufficiency in the proof. This has usually been made the
subject of the most exhaustive study by the lawyers for the defence,
and requires equal preparation on the part of the prosecutor. The
writer recalls trying a bankrupt, charged with fraud, where the lawyer
for the defendant had written a brief of some three hundred pages upon
the points of law which he proposed to argue to the court upon his
motion to acquit. But, unfortunately, his client pleaded guilty and the
volume was never brought into play.

But a mastery of the law, a thorough knowledge and control of the
evidence, a careful preparation for the opening and closing addresses,
and an intimate acquaintance with the panel from which the jury is
to be drawn are by no means the only elements in the preparation for
a great legal battle. One thing still remains, quite as important as
the rest—the selection of the best time and the best court for the
trial. “A good beginning” in a criminal case means a beginning before
the right judge, the proper jury, and at a time when that vague but
important influence known as public opinion augurs success. A clever
criminal lawyer, be he prosecutor or lawyer for the defendant, knows
that all the preparation in the world is of no account provided his
case is to come before a stupid or biased judge, or a prejudiced or
obstinate jury. Therefore, each side, in a legal battle of importance,
studies, as well as it can, the character, connections, and cast of
mind of the different judges who may be called upon to hear the case,
and, like a jockey at the flag, tries to hurry or delay, as the case
may be, until the judicial auspices appear most favorable. A lawyer who
has a weak defence seeks to bring the case before a weak judge, or, if
public clamor is loud against his client, makes use of every technical
artifice to secure delay, by claiming that there are flaws in the
indictment, or by moving for commissions to take testimony in distant
points of the country. The opportunities for legal procrastination are
so numerous that in a complicated case the defence may often delay
matters for over a year. This may be an important factor in the final
result.

Yet even this is not enough, for, ultimately, it is the judge’s charge
to the jury which is going to guide their deliberations and, in
large measure, determine their verdict. The lawyers for the defence,
therefore, prepare long statements of what they either believe or
pretend to believe to be the law. These statements embrace all the
legal propositions, good or bad, favorable to their side of the case.
If they can induce the judge to follow these so much the better for
their client, for even if they are not law it makes no difference,
since the State has no appeal from an acquittal in a criminal case, no
matter how much the judge has erred. In the same way, but not in quite
the same fashion, the district attorney prepares “requests to charge,”
but his desire for favorable instructions should be, and generally
is, curbed by the consideration that if the judge makes any mistake
in the law and the defendant is convicted he can appeal and upset the
case. Of course, some prosecutors are so anxious to convict that they
will wheedle or deceive a judge into giving charges which are not only
most inimical to the prisoner, but so utterly unsound that a reversal
is sure to follow; but when one of these professional bloodhounds is
baying upon the trail all he thinks of is a conviction—that is all he
wants, all the public will remember; to him will be the glory; and when
the case is finally reversed he will probably be out of office. These
“requests” cover pages, and touch upon every phase of law applicable
or inapplicable to the case. Frequently they number as many as fifty,
sometimes many more. It is “up to” the judge to decide “off the bat”
which are right and which are wrong. If he guesses that the right one
is wrong or the wrong one right the defendant gets a new trial.




CHAPTER III

SENSATIONALISM AND JURY TRIALS


FOR the past twenty-five years we have heard the cry upon all sides
that the jury system is a failure. Indeed, such to-day is prevalently
believed to be the case; and to this general indictment is frequently
added the specification that the trials in our higher courts of
criminal justice are the scenes of grotesque buffoonery and heartless
merriment, where cynical juries recklessly disregard their oaths and
where morbid crowds flock to satisfy the cravings of their imaginations
for details of blood and sexuality.

It is unnecessary to question the honesty of those who thus picture the
administration of criminal justice in America. Indeed, thus it probably
appears to them. But before such an arraignment of present conditions
in a highly civilized and progressive nation is accepted as final, it
is well to examine into its inherent probabilities and test it by what
we know of the actual facts.

In the first place, it should be remembered that the jury was
instituted and designed to protect the English freeman from tyranny
upon the part of the crown. Judges were, and sometimes still are, the
creatures of a ruler or unduly subject to his influence. And that ruler
neither was, nor is, always the head of the nation; but just as in the
days of the Normans he might have been a powerful earl whose influence
could make or unmake a judge, so to-day he may be none the less a
ruler if he exists in the person of a political boss who has created
the judge before whom his political enemy is to be tried. The writer
has seen more than one judge openly striving to influence a jury to
convict or to acquit a prisoner at the dictation of such a boss, who,
not content to issue his commands from behind the arras, came to the
court-room and ascended the bench to see that they were obeyed. Usually
the jury indignantly resented such interference and administered
a well-merited rebuke by acting directly contrary to the clearly
indicated wishes of the judge.

But while admitting its theoretic value as a bulwark of liberty,
the modern assailant of the jury brushes the consideration aside by
asserting that the system has “broken down” and “degenerated into a
farce.”

Let us now see how much of a farce it is. If four times out of five
a judge rendered decisions that met with general approval, he would
probably be accounted a highly satisfactory judge. Now, out of every
one hundred indicted prisoners brought to the bar for trial, probably
fifteen ought to be acquitted if prosecuted impartially and in
accordance with the strict rules of evidence. In the year 1910 the
juries of New York County convicted in sixty-six per cent of the cases
before them. If we are to test fairly the efficiency of the system,
we must deduct from the thirty-four acquittals remaining the fifteen
acquittals which were justifiable. By so doing we shall find that in
the year 1910 the New York County juries did the correct thing in about
eighty-one cases out of every hundred. This is a high percentage of
efficiency.[3] Is it likely that any judge would have done much better?

After a rather long experience as a prosecutor, in which he has
conducted many hundreds of criminal cases, the writer believes that the
ordinary New York City jury finds a correct general verdict four times
out of five. As to talesmen in other localities he has no knowledge or
reliable information. It seems hardly possible, however, that juries
in other parts of the United States could be more heterogeneous or
less intelligent than those before which he formed his conclusions. Of
course, jury judgments are sometimes flagrantly wrong. But there are
many verdicts popularly regarded as examples of lawlessness
which, if examined calmly and solely from the point of view of the
evidence, would be found to be the reasonable acts of honest and
intelligent juries.

For example, the acquittal of Thaw _upon the ground of insanity_ is
usually spoken of as an illustration of sentimentality on the part
of jurymen, and of their willingness to be swayed by their emotions
where a woman is involved. But few clearer cases of insanity have
been established in a court of justice. The district attorney’s _own
experts_ had pronounced the defendant a hopeless paranoiac; the
prosecutor had, at a previous trial, openly declared the same to be
his own opinion; and the evidence was convincing. At the time it was
rendered, the verdict was accepted as a foregone conclusion. To-day the
case is commonly cited as proof of the gullibility of juries and of the
impossibility of convicting a rich man of a crime.

There will always be some persons who think that every defendant should
be convicted and feel aggrieved if he is turned out by the jury. Yet
they entirely forget, in their displeasure at the acquittal of a man
whom they instinctively “_know_” to be guilty, that the jury probably
had exactly the same impression, but were obliged under their oaths to
acquit because of an insufficiency of evidence.

An excellent illustration of such a case is that of Nan Patterson. She
is commonly supposed to have attended, upon the night of her acquittal,
a banquet at which one of her lawyers toasted her as “the guilty girl
who beat the case.” Whether she was guilty or not, there is a general
and well-founded impression that she murdered Cæsar Young. Yet the
writer, who was present throughout the trial, felt at the conclusion of
the case that there was a fairly reasonable doubt of her guilt. Even
so, the jury disagreed, although the case is usually referred to as an
acquittal and a monument to the sentimentality of juries.

The acquittal of Roland B. Molineux is also recalled as a case where
a man, previously proved guilty, managed to escape. The writer, who
was then an assistant district attorney, made a careful study of the
evidence at the time, and feels confident that the great majority of
the legal profession would agree with him in the opinion that the
Court of Appeals had no choice but to reverse the defendant’s first
conviction on account of the most prejudicial error committed at the
trial, and that the jury who acquitted him upon the second occasion had
equally no choice when the case was presented with a proper regard to
the rules of evidence and procedure. Indeed, on the second trial the
evidence pointed almost as convincingly toward another person as toward
the defendant.

I have mentioned the Patterson, Thaw, and Molineux trials because they
are cases commonly referred to in support of the general contention
that the jury system is a failure. But I am inclined to believe that
any single judge, bench of judges, or board of commissioners would have
reached the same result as the juries did in these instances.

It is quite true that juries, for rather obvious reasons, are more apt
to acquit in murder cases than in others. In the first place, save
where the defendant obviously belongs to the vicious criminal class, a
jury finds it somewhat difficult to believe, unless overwhelming motive
be shown, that he could have deliberately taken another’s life. Thus,
with sound reason, they give great weight to the plea of self-defence
which the accused urges upon them. He is generally the only witness.
His story has to be disproved by circumstantial evidence, if indeed
there be any. Frequently it stands alone as the only account of the
homicide. Thus murder cases are almost always weaker than others, since
the chief witness has been removed by death; while at the same time
the nature of the punishment leads the jury unconsciously to require
a higher degree of proof than in cases where the consequences are
less abhorrent. All this is quite natural and inevitable. Moreover,
homicide cases as a rule are better defended than others, a fact which
undoubtedly affects the result. These considerations apply to all
trials for homicide, notorious or otherwise, the results of which in
New York County for the past ten years are set forth in the following
table:

  +------+-------------+------------+-------------+------------+
  | YEAR | CONVICTIONS | ACQUITTALS | CONVICTIONS | ACQUITTALS |
  |      |             |            |   PER CENT  |  PER CENT  |
  +------+-------------+------------+-------------+------------+
  | 1901 |     25      |     17     |      60     |     40     |
  | 1902 |     31      |     11     |      74     |     26     |
  | 1903 |     42      |      8     |      84     |     16     |
  | 1904 |     37      |     14     |      72     |     28     |
  | 1905 |     32      |     13     |      71     |     29     |
  | 1906 |     53      |     22     |      70     |     30     |
  | 1907 |     39      |     10     |      78     |     22     |
  | 1908 |     35      |     17     |      67     |     33     |
  | 1909 |     43      |     11     |      80     |     20     |
  | 1910 |     45      |     15     |      75     |     25     |
  +------+-------------+------------+-------------+------------+
  | Total|    382      |    138     |  Av. 73     | Av. 27     |
  +------+-------------+------------+-------------+------------+

A popular impression exists at the present time that a man convicted of
murder has but to appeal his case on some technical ground in order to
secure a reversal, and thus escape the consequences of his crime. How
wide of the mark such a belief may be, at least so far as one locality
is concerned, is shown by the fact that in New York State, from 1887 to
1907, there were 169 decisions by the Court of Appeals on appeals from
convictions of murder in the first-degree, out of which there were only
twenty-nine reversals. Seven of these defendants were again immediately
tried and convicted, and a second time appealed, upon which occasion
only two were successful, while five had their convictions promptly
affirmed. Thus, so far as the ultimate triumph of justice is concerned,
out of 169 cases in that period the appellants finally succeeded in
twenty-two only.

Since 1902 there have been twenty-seven decisions rendered in
first-degree murder cases by the Court of Appeals, with _only three
reversals_.[4] The more important convictions throughout the State are
affirmed with great regularity.

As to the conduct of such cases, the writer’s own experience is that
a murder trial is the most solemn proceeding known to the law. He has
prosecuted at least fifty men for murder, and convicted more than he
cares to remember. Such trials are invariably dignified and deliberate
so far as the conduct of the legal side of the case is concerned. No
judge, however unqualified for the bench; no prosecutor, however
light-minded; no lawyer, however callous, fails to feel the serious
nature of the transaction or to be affected strongly by the fact that
he is dealing with life and death. A prosecutor who openly laughed or
sneered at a prisoner charged with murder would severely injure his
cause. The jury, naturally, are overwhelmed with the gravity of the
occasion and the responsibility resting upon them.

In the Patterson, Thaw, and Molineux cases the evidence, unfortunately,
dealt with unpleasant subjects and at times was revolting, but there
was a quiet propriety in the way in which the witnesses were examined
that rendered it as inoffensive as it could possibly be. Outside the
court-room the vulgar crowd may have spat and sworn; and inside no
doubt there were degenerate men and women who eagerly strained their
ears to catch every item of depravity. But the throngs that filled
the court-room were quiet and well ordered, and the merely curious
outnumbered the morbid.

The writer deprecates the impulse which leads judges, from a feeling
that justice should be publicly administered, to throw wide the doors
of every court-room, irrespective of the subject-matter of the trial.
We need have no fear of Star Chamber proceedings in America, and no
harm would be done by excluding from the court-room all persons who
have no business at a trial.

It is, of course, not unnatural that in the course of a trial occupying
weeks or months the tension should occasionally be relieved by a gleam
of humor. After you have been busy trying a case for a couple of weeks
you go to court and set to work in much the same frame of mind in
which you would attack any other business. But the fact that a small
boy sometimes sees something funny at a funeral, or a bevy of giggling
shop-girls may be sitting in the gallery at a fashionable wedding,
argues little in respect to the solemnity or beauty of the service
itself.

What _are_ the celebrated cases—the trials that attract the attention
and interest of the public? In the first place, they are the very cases
which contain those elements most likely to arouse the sympathy and
prejudices of a jury—where a girl has taken the life of her supposed
seducer, or a husband has avenged his wife’s alleged dishonor. Such
cases arouse the public imagination for the very reason that every
man realizes that there _are_ two sides to every genuine tragedy of
this character—the legal and the natural. Thus, aside from any other
consideration, they are the obvious instances where justice is most
likely to go astray.

In the next place, the defence is usually in the hands of counsel of
adroitness and ability; for even if the prisoner has no money to pay
his lawyer, the latter is willing to take the case for the advertising
he will get out of it.

Third, a trial which lasts for a long time naturally results in
creating in the jury’s mind an exaggerated idea of the prisoner’s
rights, namely, the presumption of innocence and the benefit of the
reasonable doubt. For every time that the jury will hear these phrases
once in a petty larceny or forgery case, they will hear them in a big
murder trial a hundred times. They see the defendant day after day, and
the relation becomes more personal. Their responsibility seems greater
toward him than toward the defendant in petty cases.

Last, as previously suggested, murder cases are apt to be inherently
weaker than others, and more often depend upon circumstantial evidence.

The results of such cases are therefore but a poor test of the
efficiency of a jury system. They are, in fact, the precise cases
where, if at all, the jury might be expected to go wrong.

But juries would go astray far less frequently even in such trials were
it not for that most vicious factor in the administration of criminal
justice—the “yellow” journal. For the impression that public trials
are the scenes of coarse buffoonery and brutality is due to the manner
in which these trials are exploited by the sensational papers.

The instant that a sensational homicide occurs, the aim of the editors
of these papers is—not to see that a swift and sure retribution is
visited upon the guilty, or that a prompt and unqualified vindication
is accorded to the innocent, but, on the contrary, so to handle the
matter that as many highly colored “stories” as possible can be run
about it.

Thus, where the case is perfectly clear against the prisoner, the
“yellow” press seeks to bolster up the defence and really to justify
the killing by a thinly disguised appeal to the readers’ passions. Not
infrequently, while the editorial page is mourning the prevalence of
homicide, the front columns are bristling with sensational accounts of
the home-coming of the injured husband, the heart-breaking confession
of the weak and erring wife, and the sneering nonchalance of the
seducer, until a public sentiment is created which, if it outwardly
deprecates the invocation of the unwritten law, secretly avows that it
would have done the same thing in the prisoner’s place.

This antecedent public sentiment is fostered from day to day until it
has unconsciously permeated every corner of the community. The juryman
will swear that he is unaffected by what he has read, but unknown to
himself there are already tiny furrows in his brain along which the
appeal of the defence will run.

In view of this deliberate perversion of truth and morals, the
euphemisms of a hard-put defendant’s counsel when he pictures a chorus
girl as an angel and a coarse bounder as a St. George seem innocent
indeed. It is not within the rail of the court-room but within the
pages of these sensational journals that justice is made a farce.
The phrase “contempt of court” has ceased practically to have any
significance whatever. The front pages teem with caricatures of the
judge upon the bench, of the individual jurors with exaggerated
heads upon impossible bodies, of the lawyers ranting and bellowing,
juxtaposed with sketches of the defendant praying beside his prison cot
or firing the fatal shot in obedience to a message borne by an angel
from on high.

How long would the “unwritten law” play any part in the administration
of criminal justice if every paper in the land united in demanding,
not only in its editorials, but upon its front pages, that private
vengeance must cease? Let the “yellow” newspapers confine themselves
simply to an accurate report of the evidence at the trial, with a
reiterated insistence that the law must take its course. Let them stop
pandering to those morbid tastes which they have themselves created.
Let the “Sympathy Sisters,” the photographer, and the special artist be
excluded from the court-room. When these things are done, we shall have
the same high standard of efficiency upon the part of the jury in great
murder trials that we have in other cases.




CRIMINALS




CHAPTER IV

WHY DO MEN KILL?


WHEN a shrewd but genial editor called me up on the telephone and asked
me how I should like to write an article (a “story,” he called it) on
the above lurid title, I laughed in his—I mean the telephone’s face.

“My dear fellow!” I said (I should only have the nerve to call him that
over a wire). “My dear fellow! It would ruin me! How could I keep my
self-respect and write that kind of sensational stuff—me, a reputable,
conservative, dry-as-dust member of the bar! Go to! Why do men kill?
Ha-ha! Why do men eat? Why do men drink? Why do men love? Why do
men——”

“Yes,” came back his somewhat cynical voice “Why?”

“How do I know?” I answered, still trying to be jocular. “_I_ never
killed anybody!”

“Eh?” said he.

I paused.

“Well,” I admitted, “never actually with my own hand, old chap! I
have—taken part—so to speak—in—er—proceedings that ultimately
resulted in the death of certain human beings—in a perfectly legal
way, but I’m not sure that I entirely approved of it. Duty, you know!
Salary—I had a growing family.”

“Look here!” he interrupted. “I want that story. I want to know
something. I do! I want to know why one man kills another man. If we
knew why, maybe we could stop it, couldn’t we? We could try to, anyhow.
And you know something about it. You’ve prosecuted nearly a hundred
men for murder. Get the facts—that’s what I want. Cut the adjectives
and morality, and get down to the reasons. Anything particularly
undignified about that?”

“N—o,” I began, taking a fresh start.

“All right,” he replied crisply. “Send it up for January.” And he rang
off.

I arose and walked over to the bookcase on which reposed several
shelves of “minutes” of criminal trials. They were dusty and
depressing. Practically every one of them was a memento of some poor
devil gone to prison or to the chair. Where were they now—and _why_
did they kill—yes, why _did_ they?

I glanced along the red-labeled backs.

“People _versus_ Candido.” Now why did _he_ kill? I remembered the
Italian perfectly. He killed his friend because the latter had been
too attentive to his wife. “People _versus_ Higgins.” Why did he? That
was a drunken row on a New Year’s Eve within the sound of Trinity
chimes. “People _versus_ Sterling Greene.” Yes, he was a colored
man—I recalled the evidence—drink and a “yellow gal.” “People
_versus_ Mock Duck”—a Chinese feud between the On Leong Tong and the
Hip Sing Tong—a vendetta, first one Chink shot and then another,
turn and turn about, running back through Mott Street, New York,
Boston, San Francisco, until the origin of the quarrel was lost in
the dim Celestial mists across the sea. Out of the first four cases
the following motives: Jealousy—1. Drink—1. Drink and jealousy—1.
Scattering (how can you term a “Tong” row?)—1.

I began to get interested. Supposing I dug out _all_ the homicide
cases I had ever tried, what would the result show as to motive for
the killing? Would drink and women account for seventy-five per cent?
Mentally I ran my eye back over nearly ten years. What _other_ motives
had the defendants at the bar had? There was Laudiero—an Italian
“Camorrista”—he had killed simply for the distinction it gave him
among his countrymen and the satisfaction he felt at being known as a
“bad” man—a “capo maestra.” There was Joseph Ferrone—pure jealousy
again. Hendry—animal hate intensified by drink. Yoscow—a deliberate
murder, planned in advance by several of a gang, to get rid of a young
bully who had made himself generally unpleasant. There was Childs,
who had killed, as he claimed, in self-defence because he was set
upon and assaulted by rival runners from another seaman’s boarding
house. Really it began to look as if men killed for a lot of reasons.
I wanted to call up my friend and ask what kind of killings counted.
Did he simply want to know why men murdered one another? He couldn’t
possibly mean that I was to attempt to explain why they saw fit to
exterminate each other by means of capital punishment? Or ran over
one another in trains and automobiles? Or allowed each other to die
from unsanitary conditions? Or lynched one another?—there was only
_one_ reason for that I knew. Or killed themselves? Nor did he mean
to have me go into the question of why they killed elsewhere—in
Naples, Sicily, Constantinople, and so on. No; what he wanted to find
out was why men in the United States of America killed other men of
their own kind without malice aforethought—legal and quasi-legal
killings excluded. Moreover, he wanted to know from the actual personal
experience of those who had weighed the evidence as to their motives in
a sufficiently large number of cases to be representative.

One consideration at once suggested itself. How about the killings
where the murderer is never caught? The prisoners _tried_ for murder
are only a mere fraction of those who _commit_ murder. True, and the
more deliberate the murder, the greater, unfortunately, the chance of
the villain getting away. Still, in cases merely of suspected murder,
or in cases where no evidence is taken, it would be manifestly unfair
arbitrarily to assign motives for the deed, if deed it was. No, one
must start with the assumption, sufficiently accurate under all the
circumstances, that the killings in which the killer is caught are
fairly representative of killings as a whole.

All crimes naturally tend to divide themselves into two classes—crimes
against property and crimes against the person, each class having an
entirely different assortment of reasons for their commission.

There can be practically but one motive for theft, burglary, or
robbery. It is, of course, conceivable that such crimes might be
perpetrated for revenge—to deprive the victim of some highly prized
possession. But in the main there is only one object—unlawful gain.
So, too, blackmail, extortion, and kidnapping are all the products of
the desire for “easy money.” _But, unquestionably, this is the reason
for murder in comparatively few cases._

The usual motive for crimes against the person—assault, manslaughter,
mayhem, murder, etc.—is the desire to punish, or be avenged upon
another by inflicting personal pain upon him or by depriving him of his
most valuable asset—life. And this desire for retaliation or revenge
generally grows out of a recent humiliation received at the hands of
the other person, a real or fancied wrong to oneself, a member of
one’s family, or one’s property. But this was too easy an answer to my
friend’s question. He could have got that much out of any elementary
text-book on penology. He wanted and deserved more than that, and I set
out to give it to him.

My first inquiry was in the direction of original sources. I sought
out the man in the district attorney’s office who had had the widest
general experience and put the question to him. This was Mr. Charles
C. Nott, Jr., who has been trying murder cases for nearly ten years.
It so happened that he had kept a complete record of all of them and
this he courteously placed at my disposal. The list contains sixty-two
cases, and the defendants were of divers races. These homicides
included seventeen committed in cold blood (about twenty-five per cent,
an extraordinary percentage) from varying motives, as follows: One
defendant (white) murdered his colored mistress simply to get rid of
her; another killed out of revenge because the deceased had “licked”
him several times before; another, having quarrelled with his friend
over a glass of soda water, later on returned and precipitated a
quarrel by striking him, in the course of which he killed him; another
because the deceased had induced his wife to desert him; another lay
in wait for his victim and killed him without the motive ever being
ascertained; one man killed his brother to get a sum of money, and
another because his brother would not give him money; another because
he believed the deceased had betrayed the Armenian cause to the Turks;
another because he wished to get the deceased out of the way in order
to marry his wife; and another because deceased had knocked him down
the day before. One man had killed a girl who had ridiculed him;
and one a girl who had refused to marry him; another had killed his
daughter because she could no longer live in the house with him; one,
an informer, had been the victim of a Black Hand vendetta; and the
last had poisoned his wife for the insurance money in order to go off
with another woman. There were two cases of infanticide, one in which
a woman threw her baby into the lake in Central Park, and another in
which she gave her baby poison. Besides these murders, five homicides
had been committed in the course of perpetrating other crimes,
including burglary and robbery.

Passing over three cases of culpable negligence resulting in death, we
come to thirty-seven homicides during quarrels, some of which might
have been technically classified as murders, but which, being committed
“in the heat of passion,” in practically every instance resulted in
a verdict of manslaughter. The quarrels often arose over the most
trifling matters. One was a dispute over a broom, another over a horse
blanket, another over food, another over a twenty-five-cent bet in a
pool game, another over a loan of fifty cents, another over ten cents
in a crap game, and still another over one dollar and thirty cents
in a crap game. Five men were killed in drunken rows which had no
immediate cause except the desire to “start something.” One man killed
another because he had not prevented the theft of some lumber, one (a
policeman) because the deceased would not “move on” when ordered, one
because a bartender refused to serve him with any more drinks, and one
(a bartender) because the deceased insisted that he _should_ serve more
drinks. One man was killed in a quarrel over politics, one in a fuss
over some beer, one in a card game, one trying to rob a fruit-stand,
one in a dispute with a ship’s officer, one in a dance hall row. One
man killed another whom he found with his wife, and one wife killed her
husband for a similar cause; another wife killed her husband simply
because she “could not stand him,” and one because he was fighting
with their son. One man was killed by another who was trying to
collect from him a debt of six hundred dollars. One quarrel resulting
in homicide arose because the defendant had pointed out deceased to
the police, another because the participants called each other names,
and another arose out of an alleged seduction. Three homicides grew
out of street rows originating in various ways. One man killed another
who was fighting with a friend of the first, a janitor was killed in
a “continuous row” which had been going on for a long time, and one
homicide was committed for “nothing in particular.”

This astonishing olla podrida of reasons for depriving men of their
lives leaves one stunned and confused. Is it possible to deduce any
order out of such homicidal chaos? Still, an attempt to classify such
diverse causes enables one to reach certain general conclusions. Out
of the sixty-two homicides there were seventeen cold-blooded murders,
with deliberation and premeditation (in such cases the _reasons_ for
the killing are by comparison unimportant); three homicides due to
negligence, five committed while perpetrating a felony; thirty-seven
manslaughters, due in sixteen cases to quarrels (simply), thirteen
to drink, four to disputes over money, three to women, one to race
antagonism.

Reclassifying the seventeen murders according to causes, we have:
Six due to women, four to quarrels, five to other causes, and two
infanticides. Added to the manslaughters previously classified, we
have a total of sixty-two killings, due in twenty cases to quarrels,
thirteen to drink, nine to women, four to disputes over money, one
to race antagonism, five to general causes, three to negligence, two
infanticides, five during the commission of other crimes.

The significant features of this analysis are that about seventy-five
per cent of the killings were due to quarrels over small sums or other
matters, drink and women; over fifty per cent to drink and petty
quarrels, and about thirty per cent to quarrels simply. The trifling
character of the causes of the quarrels themselves is shown by the fact
that in three of these particular cases, tried in a single week, the
total amount involved in the disputes was only eighty-five cents. That
is about twenty-eight and one-half cents a life. Many a murder in a
barroom grows out of an argument over whether a glass of beer has, or
has not, been paid for, or whose turn it is to treat; and more than one
man has been killed in New York City because he was too clumsy to avoid
stepping on somebody’s feet or bumping into another man on the sidewalk.

The writer sincerely regrets that his own lack of initiative prevented
his keeping a diary similar to that of his colleague, Mr. Nott, during
his seven years’ service as a prosecutor. It is now impossible for him
to refresh his memory as to the causes of all the various homicides
which he prosecuted, but where he can do so the evidence points to
a conclusion similar to that deduced from Mr. Nott’s record. The
_proximate_ causes were trifling—the _underlying_ cause was the
lack of civilization of the defendant—his brutality and absence of
self-control.

With a view to ascertaining conditions in general throughout the United
States, I asked a clipping agency to send me the first one hundred
notices of actual homicides which should come under its scissors. The
immediate result of this experiment was that I received forty-five
notices supposedly relating to murders and homicides, which on closer
examination proved to be anything but what I wanted for the purpose in
view. With only one or two exceptions they related not to deaths from
violence reported as having occurred on any particular day, but to
notices of convictions, acquittals, indictments, pleas of guilty and
not guilty, rewards offered, sentences, executions, “suspicions” of the
police, “mysteries revived,” and even editorials on capital punishment.

A letter of protest brought in due course, but much more slowly, one
hundred and seven clippings, which yielded the following reasons why
men killed: There were four suicides, three lynchings, one infanticide,
three murders while resisting arrest, three criminals killed while
resisting arrest, two men killed in riots, eight murders in the
course of committing burglaries and robberies, seven persons killed
in vendettas, three race murders, and twenty-four killed in quarrels
over petty causes; there were twelve murders from jealousy, followed
in four instances by suicide on the part of the murderer; six killings
justifiable on the “higher law” theory only, but involving great
provocation, and thirty deliberate slaughters. The last clipping
recounted how an irate husband pounded a “masher” so hard that he died.
Leaving out the suicides and those killed while resisting arrest, there
remain one hundred persons murdered, not only by persons insane or
wild from the effects of liquor, but by robbers and burglars, brutes,
bullies, and thugs, husbands, wives, and lovers, and by a vast number
of people who not only destroyed their enemies in the fury of anger,
but in many instances openly went out gunning for them, lay in wait for
them in the dark, or hacked off their heads with hatchets while they
slept.

It is, indeed, a sanguinary record, from which little consolation is to
be derived, and the only comfort is the probability that the accounts
of the first one hundred murders anywhere in Europe would undoubtedly
be just as blood-curdling. I had simply asked the clipping bureau to
send me one hundred horrors and I had got them. They did not indicate
anything at all so far as the ratio of homicide to population was
concerned or as to the blood-thirstiness of Americans in general. They
merely showed what despicable things murders were.

As to the reasons for the killings, they were as diverse as those
which Mr. Nott had prosecuted, save that there were more of an
ultra blood-thirsty character, due probably to the fact that the
young lady who did the clipping wanted (after one rebuff) to make
sure that I was satisfied with the goods she sent me. And this
suggests a reason for the large percentage of cold-blooded killings
prosecuted by my friend—namely, that Mr. Nott being the most astute
prosecutor available, the district attorney, whenever the latter had a
particularly atrocious case, sent it to him in order that the defendant
might surely get his full deserts.

The reasons for these homicides were of every sort; police officers and
citizens were shot and killed by criminals trying to make “get-aways,”
and by negroes and others “running amuck”; despondent young men shot
their unresponsive sweethearts and then either blew out their own
brains or pretended to try to do so; two stable-men had a duel with
revolvers, _and each killed the other_; several men were shot for being
too attentive to young women residing in the same hotels; an Italian,
whose wife had left him and gone to her mother, went to the house and
killed her, her sister, her sister’s husband, his mother-in-law, two
children, and finally himself; the “Gopher Gang” started a riot at a
“benefit” dance given to a widow and killed a man, after which they
fled to the woods and fired from cover upon the police until eighteen
were overpowered and arrested; a young girl and her fiancé, sitting in
the parlor, planning their honeymoon, were unexpectedly interrupted by
a rejected suitor of the girl’s, who shot and killed both of them; an
Italian who peeked into a bedroom, just for fun, afterward rushed in
and cut off two persons’ heads with an ax—one of them was his wife;
a gang of white ruffians shot and then burned a negro family of three
peacefully working in the fields; a man who went to the front door to
see who had tapped on his window was shot through the heart; a striker
was killed by a twenty-five-pound piece of flagging thrown from a
roof; there was a gun fight of colored men at Madison, Wisconsin, at
which three were shot; a gang of negro ruffians killed and mutilated a
white woman (with a baby in her arms) and her husband; masked robbers
called a man to his barn at Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and cut his
throat; an Italian was found with his head split in two by a butcher’s
cleaver; a negress in Lafayette, Louisiana, killed a family of six with
a hatchet; a negro farmer and his two daughters were lynched and their
bodies burned by four white men (who will probably also be lynched if
caught); a girl of eleven shot her girl friend of about the same age
and killed her; several persons were found stabbed to death; a plumber
killed his brother (also a plumber) for saying that he stole two
dollars; a murderer was shot by a posse of militia in a cornfield; a
card game at Bayonne, New Jersey, resulted in a revolver fight on the
street in which one of the players was killed; bank robbers killed a
cashier at twelve o’clock noon; a jealous lover in Butte, Montana, shot
and killed his sweetheart, her father, and mother; a deputy sheriff
was murdered; burglars killed several persons in the course of their
business; Kokolosski, a Pole, kicked his child to death; and a couple
of dozen people were incidentally shot, stabbed, or otherwise disposed
of in the course of quarrels over the most trivial matters. In almost
no case was there what an intelligent, civilized man would regard as
an adequate _reason_ for the homicide. They killed because they felt
like killing, and yielded to the impulse, whatever its immediate origin.

This conclusion is abundantly supported by the figures of the Chicago
_Tribune_ for the seven years ending in 1900, when carefully analyzed.
During this period 62,812 homicides were recorded. Of these there were
17,120, of which the causes were unknown and 3,204 committed while
making a justifiable arrest, in self-defence, or by the insane, so that
there were in fact only 42,488 felonious homicides the causes of which
can be definitely alleged. The ratio of the “quarrels” to this net
total is about seventy-five per cent. There were, in addition, 2,848
homicides due to liquor—that is, _without cause_. Thus eighty per cent
of all the murders and manslaughters in the United States for a period
of seven years were for no reason at all or from mere anger or habit,
arising out of causes often of the most trifling character.

Nor are the conclusions changed by the figures of the years between
1904 and 1909.

During this period 61,786 homicides were recorded. Of these there
were 9,302 of which the causes were not known, and 2,480 committed
while making a justifiable arrest, in self-defence, or by the insane,
leaving 50,004 cases of felonious homicides of known causes. Of these
homicides, 33,476 were due to quarrels and 4,799 to liquor, a total of
38,275 out of the 50,004 cases of known causes being traceable in this,
another seven years, to motives the most casual.

It would be stupid to allege that the _reason_ men killed was _because_
they had been stepped on or had been deprived of a glass of beer. The
cause lies deeper than that. It rests in the willingness or desire of
the murderer to kill at all. Among barbaric or savage peoples this is
natural; but among civilized nations it is hardly to be anticipated.
If the negro who shoots his fellow because he believes himself to have
been cheated out of ten cents were really civilized, he would either
not have the impulse to kill or, having the impulse to kill, would have
sufficient power of self-control to refrain from doing so. This power
of self-control may be natural or acquired, and it may or may not be
possessed by the man who feels a desire to commit a homicide. The fact
to be observed—the interesting and, broadly speaking, the astonishing
fact—is that among a people like ourselves anybody should have a
desire to kill. It is even more astonishing than that the impulse
should be yielded to so often if it comes.

This, then, is the real reason why men kill—because it is inherent
in their state of mind, it is part of their mental and physical
make-up—they are ready to kill, they want to kill, they are the kind
of men who do kill. This is the result of their heredity, environment,
educational and religious training, or the absence of it. How many
readers of this paper have ever experienced an actual desire to kill
another human being? Probably not one hundredth of one per cent. They
belong to the class of people who either never have such an impulse,
or at any rate have been taught to keep such impulses under control.
Hence it is futile to try to explain that some men kill for a trifling
sum of money, some because they feel insulted, others because of
political or labor disputes, or because they do not like their food.
Any one of these may be the match that sets off the gunpowder, but the
real cause of the killing is the fact that the gunpowder is there,
lying around loose, and ready to be touched off. What engenders this
gunpowder state of mind would make a valuable sociological study, but
it may well be that a seemingly inconsequential fact may so embitter
a boy or man toward life or the human race in general that in time he
“sees red” and goes through the world looking for trouble. Any cause
that makes for crime and depravity makes for murder as well. The little
boy who is driven out of the tenement onto the street, and in turn off
the street by a policeman, until, finding no wholesome place to play,
he joins a “gang” and begins an incipient career of crime, may end in
the “death house.”

The table on the opposite page gives the figures collected by the
Chicago _Tribune_ for the years from 1881 to 1910.

In view of the foregoing it may seem paradoxical for the writer to
state that he questions the alleged unusual tendency to commit murder
on the part of citizens of the United States. Yet of one fact he
is absolutely convinced—namely, that homicide _has substantially
decreased in the last fifteen years_. Even according to the figures
collected by the Chicago _Tribune_, there were but 8,975 homicides in
1910 as compared with 10,500 in 1895, and 10,652 in 1896.

NUMBER OF MURDERS AND HOMICIDES IN THE UNITED STATES EACH YEAR SINCE
1881, COMPARED WITH THE POPULATION

  +------+--------------+---------------+-------------+
  |      | NUMBER OF    | ESTIMATED     | NUMBER OF   |
  |      | MURDERS AND  | POPULATION    | MURDERS AND |
  | YEAR | HOMICIDES IN | OF THE        | HOMICIDES   |
  |      | THE UNITED   | UNITED STATES | FOR EACH    |
  |      | STATES       |               | MILLION OF  |
  |      |              |               | PEOPLE      |
  +------+--------------+---------------+-------------+
  | 1881 |    1,266     |  51,316,000   |     24.7    |
  | 1882 |    1,467     |               |     27.9    |
  | 1883 |    1,697     |               |     31.6    |
  | 1884 |    1,465     |               |     26.7    |
  | 1885 |    1,808     |  56,148,000   |     32.2    |
  | 1886 |    1,499     |               |     26.1    |
  | 1887 |    2,335     |               |     39.8    |
  | 1888 |    2,184     |               |     36.4    |
  | 1889 |    3,567     |               |     58.2    |
  | 1890 |    4,290     |  62,622,250   |     68.5    |
  | 1891 |    5,906     |               |     92.4    |
  | 1892 |    6,791     |               |    104.2    |
  | 1893 |    6,615     |               |     99.5    |
  | 1894 |    9,800     |               |    144.7    |
  | 1895 |   10,500     |  69,043,000   |    152.2    |
  | 1896 |   10,652     |               |    151.3    |
  | 1897 |    9,520     |               |    132.8    |
  | 1898 |    7,840     |               |    107.2    |
  | 1899 |    6,225     |               |     83.6    |
  | 1900 |    8,275     |  75,994,575   |    108.7    |
  | 1901 |    7,852     |  77,754,000   |    100.9    |
  | 1902 |    8,834     |  79,117,000   |    111.7    |
  | 1903 |    8,976     |               |    112.0    |
  | 1904 |    8,482     |               |             |
  | 1905 |    9,212     |               |             |
  | 1906 |    9,350     |               |             |
  | 1907 |    8,712     |               |             |
  | 1908 |    8,952     |               |             |
  | 1909 |    8,103     |               |             |
  | 1910 |    8,975     |  91,972,266   |     97.5    |
  +------+--------------+---------------+-------------+
  | Total|  191,150     |               |             |
  +------+--------------+---------------+-------------+

Meantime the population of our country has been leaping onward.

We are blood-thirsty enough, God knows, without making things out
any worse than they are or juggling the figures. Our murder rate per
100,000 unquestionably exceeds that of most of the countries of western
Europe, but, as the saying is, “there’s a reason.” If our homicide
statistics related only to the white population of even the _second
generation born_ in this country we should find, I am convinced, that
we are no more homicidal than France and Belgium, and less so than
Italy. It is to be expected that with our Chinese, “greaser,” and
half-breed population in the West, our Black Belt in the South, and
our Sicilian and South Italian immigration in the North and East, our
murder rate should exceed those of the continental nations, which are
nothing if not well policed.

But of one thing we can be abundantly certain without any figures at
all, and that is that our present method of administering justice
(less the actions of juries than of judges)—the system taken as a
whole—offers no deterrent to the embryonic or professional criminal.
The administration of justice to-day is not the swift judgment of
honest men upon a criminal act, but a clever game between judge and
lawyer, in which the action of the jury is discounted entirely and the
moves are made with a view to checkmating justice, not in the trial
court-room, but before the appellate tribunal two or three years later.

“My young feller,” said a grizzled veteran of the criminal bar to me
long years ago, after our jury had gone out, “there’s lots of things in
this game you ain’t got on to yet. Do you think I care what this jury
does? Not one mite. I got a nice little error into the case the very
first day—and I’ve set back ever since. S’pose we _are_ convicted?
I’ll get Jim here [the prisoner] out on a certificate and it’ll be two
years before the Court of Appeals will get around to the case. Meantime
Jim’ll be out makin’ money to pay me my fee—_won’t you_, Jim? Then
your witnesses will be gone, and nobody’ll remember what on earth it’s
all about. You’ll be down in Wall Street practicing real law yourself,
and the indictment will kick around the office for a year or so, all
covered with dust, and then some day I’ll get a friend of mine to
come in quietly and move to dismiss. And it’ll _be_ dismissed. Don’t
you worry! Why, a thousand other murders will have been committed in
this county by the time that happens. Bless your soul! You can’t go
on tryin’ the same man forever! Give the other fellers a chance. You
shake your head? Well, it’s a fact. I’ve been doin’ it for forty years.
You’ll see.” And I did. That may not be Why men kill, but perhaps
indirectly it may have something to do with it.




CHAPTER V

DETECTIVES AND OTHERS


A DETECTIVE, according to the dictionaries, is one “whose occupation it
is to discover matters as to which information is desired, particularly
wrong-doers, and to obtain evidence to be used against them.” A private
detective, by the same authority, is one “engaged unofficially in
obtaining secret information for or guarding the private interests of
those who employ him.” The definition emphasizes the official character
of detectives in general as contrasted with those whose services may be
enlisted for hire by the individual citizen, but the distinction is of
little importance, since it is based arbitrarily upon the character of
the employer (whether the State or a private client) instead of upon
the nature of the employment itself, which is the only thing which is
likely to interest us about detectives at all.

The sanctified tradition that a detective was an agile person
with a variety of side-whiskers no longer obtains even in light
literature, and the most imaginative of us is frankly aware of the
fact that a detective is just a common man earning (or pretending to
earn) a common living by common and obvious means. Yet in spite of
ourselves we are accustomed to attribute superhuman acuteness and
a lightning-like rapidity of intellect to this vague and romantic
class of fellow-citizens. The ordinary work of a detective, however,
requires neither of these qualities. Honesty and obedience are his
chief requirements, and if he have intelligence as well, so much the
better, provided it be of the variety known as horse sense. A genuine
candidate for the job of Sherlock Holmes would find little competition.
In the first place, the usual work of a detective does not demand any
extraordinary powers of deduction at all.

Leaving out of consideration those who are merely private policemen
(often in uniform), and principally engaged in patrolling residential
streets, preserving order at fairs, race-tracks, and political
meetings, or in breaking strikes and preventing riots, the largest part
of the work for which detectives are employed is not in the detection
of crime and criminals, but in simply watching people, following
them, and reporting as accurately as possible their movements.
These functions are known in the vernacular as spotting, locating,
and trailing. It requires patience, some powers of observation,
and occasionally a little ingenuity. The real detective under such
circumstances is the man to whom they hand in their reports. Yet
much of the most dramatic and valuable work that is done involves no
acuteness at all, but simply a willingness to act as a spy and to brave
the dangers of being found out.

There is nothing more thrilling in the pages of modern history than the
story of the man (James McPartland) who uncovered the conspiracies of
the Molly McGuires. But the work of this man was that of a spy pure
and simple.

Another highly specialized class of detectives is that engaged in
police and banking work, who by experience (or even origin) have a
wide and intimate acquaintance with criminals of various sorts, and
by their familiarity with the latter’s whereabouts, associates, work,
and methods are able to recognize and run down the perpetrators of
particular crimes.

Thus, for example, there are men in the detective bureau of New York
City who know by name, and perhaps have a speaking acquaintance with,
a large number of the pick-pockets and burglars of the East Side. They
know their haunts and their ties of friendship or marriage. When any
particular job is pulled off they have a pretty shrewd idea of who
is responsible for it and lay their plans accordingly. If necessary,
they run in the whole bunch and put each of them through a course of
interrogation, accusation, and brow-beating until some one breaks down
or makes a slip that involves him in a tangle. These men are special
policemen whose knowledge makes them detectives by courtesy. But
their work does not involve any particular superiority or quickness
of intellect—the quality which we are wont to associate with the
detection of crime.

Now, if the ordinary householder finds that his wife’s necklace has
mysteriously disappeared, his first impulse is to send for a detective
of some sort or other. In general, he might just as well send for his
mother-in-law. Of course, the police can and will watch the pawnshops
for the missing baubles, but no crook who is not a fool is going to
pawn a whole necklace on the Bowery the very next day after it has been
“lifted.” Or he can enlist a private detective who will question the
servants and perhaps go through their trunks, if they will let him.
Either sort will probably line up the inmates of the house for general
scrutiny and try to bully them separately into a confession. This may
save the master a disagreeable experience, but it is the simplest
sort of police work and is done vicariously for the taxpayer, just as
the public garbage man relieves you from the burden of taking out the
ashes yourself, because he is paid for it, not on account of your own
incapacity or his superiority. Which, speaking of garbage, reminds the
writer of a disconnected personal experience in which he endeavored to
enlist the services of one of these latter specialists for the purpose
of carrying a trunk on his wagon to the steamboat wharf.

“I’m sorry, sir,” replied the gentleman in question, “I ain’t used to
handling trunks. They ain’t in my line. But [proudly] _when it comes to
swill, I’m as good as anybody_!”

The real detective is the one who, taking up the solution of a crime or
other mystery, brings to bear upon it _unusual_ powers of observation
and deduction and an exceptional resourcefulness in acting upon his
conclusions. Frankly, I have known very few such, although for some
ten years I have made use of a large number of so-called detectives in
both public and private matters. As I recall the long line of cases
where these men have rendered service of great value, almost every one
resolves itself into a successful piece of mere spying or trailing.
Little ingenuity or powers of reason were required. Of course, there
are a thousand tricks that an experienced man acquires as a matter of
course, but which at first sight seem almost like inspiration. I shall
not forget my delight when Jesse Blocher, who had been trailing Charles
Foster Dodge through the South (when the latter was wanted as the chief
witness against Abe Hummel on the charge of subornation of perjury of
which he was finally convicted), told me how he instantly located his
man, without disclosing his own identity, by unostentatiously leaving
a note addressed to Dodge _in a bright-red envelope_ upon the office
counter of the Hotel St. Charles in New Orleans, where he knew his
quarry to be staying. A few moments later the clerk saw it, picked it
up, and, as a matter of course, thrust it promptly into box No. 420,
thus involuntarily hanging, as it were, a red lantern on Dodge’s door.

There is no more reason to look for superiority of intelligence or
mental alertness among detectives of the ordinary class than there is
to expect it from clerks, stationary engineers, plumbers, or firemen.
While comparisons are invidious, I should be inclined to say that
the ordinary chauffeur was probably a brighter man than the average
detective. This is not to be taken in derogation of the latter, but
as a compliment to the former. There is more reason why he should be.
There are a great many detectives of ambiguous training. I remember in
a celebrated case discovering that of the more important detectives
employed by a well-known private Anti-Criminal Society in New York, one
had been a street vender of frankfurters (otherwise yclept “hot dogs”),
and another the keeper of a bird store, which last perhaps qualified
him for the pursuit and capture of human game. There is a popular
fiction that lawyers are shrewd and capable, similar to the prevailing
one that detectives are astute and cunning in their methods. But, as
the head of one of the biggest agencies in the country remarked to me
the other day, when discussing the desirability of retaining local
counsel in a distant city: “By thunder! _You_ know how hard it is to
find a lawyer that isn’t a _dead one_.” I feel confident that he did
not mean this in the sense that there was no good lawyer except a dead
lawyer. What my detective friend probably had in mind was that it was
difficult to find a lawyer who brought to bear on a new problem any
originality of thought or action. It is even harder to find a detective
who is not in this sense a dead one. I have the feeling, being a lawyer
myself, that (for educational reasons probably) it is harder to find a
live detective than a live lawyer. There are a few of both, however, if
you know where to look for them. But it is easy to fall into the hands
of the Philistines.

The fundamental reason why it is so hard to form any just opinion of
detectives in general is that (except by their fruits) there is little
opportunity to discriminate between the able and the incapable. Now,
the more difficult and complicated his task the less likely is the
sleuth (honest or otherwise) to succeed. The chances are a good deal
more than even that he will never solve the mystery for which he is
engaged. Thus at the end of three months you will have only his reports
and his bill—which are poor comfort, to say the least. And yet he
may have really worked eighteen hours per day in your service. But
a dishonest detective has only to disappear (and take his ease for
the same period) and send you _his_ reports and _his_ bill—and you
will have only his word for how much work he has done and how much
money he has spent. You are absolutely in his power—unless you hire
another _detective_ to watch _him_. Consequently there is no class in
the world where the temptation to dishonesty is greater than among
detectives—not even among plumbers, cabmen, butchers, and lawyers.
(God knows the peril of all of these!) This, too, is, I fancy, the
reason that the evidence of the police detective is received with so
much suspicion by jurymen—they know that the only way for him to
retain his position is by making a record and getting convictions,
and hence they are always looking for jobs and frame-ups. If a police
detective doesn’t make arrests and send a man to jail every once in a
while there is no conclusive way for his superiors to be sure he isn’t
loafing.

There are a very large number of persons who go into the detective
business for the same reason that others enter the ministry—they can’t
make a living at anything else. Provided he has squint eyes and a dark
complexion, almost anybody feels that he is qualified to unravel the
tangled threads of crime. The first resource of the superannuated or
discharged police detective is to start an agency. Of course, he may be
first class in spite of these disqualifications, but the presumption
in the first instance is that he is no longer alert or effective, and
in the second that in one way or another he is not honest. Agencies
recruited from deposed and other ex-policemen usually have all the
faults of the police without any of their virtues. There are many small
agencies which do reliable work, and there are a number of private
detectives in all the big cities who work single-handed and achieve
excellent results. However, if he expects to accomplish anything by
hiring detectives, the layman or lawyer must first make sure of his
agency or his man.

One other feature of the detective business should not be overlooked.
In addition to charging for services not actually rendered and expenses
not actually incurred, there is in many cases a strong temptation to
betray the interests of the employer. A private detective may, and
usually does, become possessed of information even more valuable to
the person who is being watched than to the person to whom he owes his
allegiance. Unreliable rascals constantly sell out to the other side
and play both ends against the middle. In this they resemble some of
the famous diplomatic agents of history. And police detectives employed
to run down criminals and protect society have been known instead to
act as stalls for bank burglars and (for a consideration) to assist
them to dispose of their booty and protect them from arrest and
capture. It has repeatedly happened that reliable private detectives
have discovered that the police employed upon the same case have in
reality been tipping off the criminals as to what was being done and
coaching them as to their conduct. Of course the natural jealousy
existing between official and unofficial agents of the law leads to a
good many unfounded accusations of this character, but, on the other
hand, the fact that much of the most effective police work is done
by employing professional criminals to secure information and act
as stool-pigeons often results in a definite understanding that the
latter shall be themselves protected in the quiet enjoyment of their
labors. The relations of the regular police to crime, however, and the
general subject of police graft have little place in a chapter of this
character.

The first question that usually arises is whether a detective shall
or shall not be employed at all in any particular case. Usually the
most important thing is to find out what the real character, past, and
associations of some particular individual may be. Well-established
detective agencies with offices throughout the country are naturally in
a better position to acquire such information quickly than the private
individual or lawyer, since they are on the spot and have an organized
staff containing the right sort of men for the work. If the information
lies in your own city you can probably hire some one to get it or
ferret it out yourself quite as well, and much more cheaply, than by
employing their services. The leads are few and generally simple. The
subject’s past employers and business associates, his landlords and
landladies, his friends and enemies, and his milkman must be run down
and interrogated. Perhaps his personal movements must be watched. Any
intelligent fellow who is out of a job will do this for you for about
$5 per day and expenses. The agencies usually charge from $6 to $8
(and up), and prefer two men to one, as a matter of convenience and
to make sure that the subject is fully covered. If the suspect is on
the move and trains or steamships must be met, you have practically no
choice but to employ a national agency. It alone has the proper plant
and equipment for the work. In an emergency, organization counts more
than anything else. Where time is of the essence, the individual has no
opportunity to hire his own men or start an organization of his own.
But if the matter is one where there is plenty of leisure to act, you
can usually do your own detective work better and cheaper than any one
else.

Regarding the work of the detective as a spy (which probably
constitutes seventy-five per cent of his employment to-day), few
persons realize how widely such services are being utilized. The
insignificant old Irishwoman who stumbles against you in the department
store is possibly watching with her cloudy but eagle eye for
shoplifters. The tired-looking man on the street-car may, in fact, be
a professional “spotter.” The stout youth with the _pince-nez_ who
is examining the wedding presents is perhaps a central-office man. All
this you know or may suspect. But you are not so likely to be aware
that the floor-walker himself is the agent of a rival concern placed in
the department store to keep track, not only of prices but of whether
or not the wholesalers are living up to their agreements in regard to
the furnishing of particular kinds of goods only to one house; or that
the conductor on the car is a paid detective of the company, whose
principal duty is not to collect fares, but to report the doings of the
unions; or that the gentleman who is accidentally introduced to you at
the wedding breakfast is employed by a board of directors to get a line
on your host’s business associates and social companions.

In the great struggle between capital and labor, each side has expended
large sums of money in employing confederates to secure secret
information as to the plans and doings of the enemy. Almost every labor
union has its Judas, and many a secretary to a capitalist is in the
secret employment of a labor union. The railroads must be kept informed
of what is going on, and, if necessary, they import a man from another
part of the country to join the local organization. Often such men, on
account of their force and intelligence, are elected to high office in
the brotherhoods whose secrets they are hired to betray. Practically
every big manufacturing plant in the United States has on its pay-rolls
men acting as engineers, foremen, or laborers who are drawing from $80
to $100 per month as detectives either (1) to keep their employers
informed as to the workings of the labor unions, (2) to report to the
directors the actual conduct of the business by its salaried officers,
superintendents, and overseers, or (3) to ascertain and report to
outside competing concerns the methods and processes made use of, the
materials utilized, and the exact cost of production.

There are detectives among the chambermaids and bellboys in the hotels,
and also among the guests; there are detectives on the passenger lists
and in the cardrooms of the Atlantic liners; the colored porter on the
private car, the butler at your friend’s house, the chorus girl on
Broadway, the clerk in the law office, the employee in the commercial
agency, may all be drawing pay in the interest of some one else,
who may be either a transportation company, a stock-broker, a rival
financier, a yellow newspaper, an injured or even an erring wife, a
grievance committee, or a competing concern; and the duties of these
persons may and will range from the theft of mailing-lists, books, and
papers, and (in the case of the newspaper) of private letters, up to
genuine detective work requiring some real ability.

Apart from the hired thieves above referred to, some yellow journals
employ men to work upon the various “mystery stories” that from time to
time arouse the attention of the public, who often accomplish as good
results as the police. I should, however, place one limitation upon
this general statement, which is that, as the object of the newspaper
is usually quite as much to keep the story alive as to solve the
mystery, the papers are apt to find startling significance in details
of slight importance. While we are speaking of newspapers, it may not
be out of place to suggest that their activity is such that there are
few general evils left undisclosed and few prominent men the privacy
of whose lives is not known in the editorial rooms. When lurid tales
are told of the secret doings of Mr. So-and-So and the Hon. This and
That, you may rest assured that the greater the desirability of those
yarns as copy for the big dailies, the less likely they are to have
any foundation in fact. The eye of the city editor is in every place
discerning the evil if not the good. Indeed, it is almost unnecessary
for the papers to hire spies, since self-constituted ones are ready at
any moment to bargain with them for stolen goods and ruined reputations.

Detective work of the sort which involves the betrayal of confidences
and friendships naturally excites our aversion—yet in many cases the
end undoubtedly justifies the means employed, and often there is no
other way to avert disaster and prevent fiendish crimes. Sometimes, on
the other hand, the information sought is purely for mercenary or even
less worthy reasons, and those engaged in these undertakings range from
rascals of the lowest type to men who are ready to risk death for the
cause which they represent and who are really heroes of a high order.
One of the latter with whom I happened to be thrown professionally was
a young fellow of about twenty named Guthrie.

It was during a great strike, and outrages were being committed all
over the city of New York by dynamiters supposed to be in the employ
of the unions. Young Guthrie, who was a reckless dare-devil, offered
his services to the employers, and agreed (for a trifling compensation)
to join one of the local unions and try to find out who were the men
blowing up office buildings in process of construction and otherwise
terrorizing the inhabitants of the city. The story of his success
deserves a chapter by itself, and it is enough here to state that he
applied for membership in the organization, and by giving evidence
of his courage and fiber managed to secure a place as a volunteer in
the dynamiting squad. So cleverly did he pass himself off as a bitter
enemy of capital that he was entrusted with secrets of the utmost
value and took part in making the plans and procuring the dynamite to
execute them. The quality of his nerve (as well as his foolhardiness)
is shown by the fact that he once carried a dress-suit case full of
the explosive around the city, jumping on and off street cars, and
dodging vehicles. When the proper moment came and the dynamite had been
placed in an uncompleted building on Twenty-second Street, Guthrie
gave the signal and the police arrested the dynamiters—all of them,
including Guthrie, who was placed with the rest in a cell in the Tombs
and continued to report to the district attorney all the information
which he thus secured from his unsuspecting associates. Indeed, it
was hard to convince the authorities that Guthrie was a spy and not
a mere accomplice who had turned State’s evidence, a distinction of
far-reaching legal significance so far as his evidence was concerned.

The final episode in the drama was the unearthing by the police of
Hoboken of the secret cache of the dynamiters, containing a large
quantity of the explosive. Guthrie’s instructions as to how they should
find it read like a page from Poe’s “Gold Bug.” You had to go at night
to a place where a lonely road crossed the Erie Railroad tracks in the
Hackensack meadows, and mark the spot where the shadow of a telegraph
pole (cast by an arc light) fell on a stone wall. This you must climb
and walk so many paces north, turn and go so many feet west, and then
north again. You then came to a white stone, from which you laid your
course through more latitude and longitude until you were right over
the spot. The police of Hoboken did as directed, and after tacking
round and round the field, _found the dynamite_. Of course, the union
said the whole thing was a plant, and that Guthrie had put the dynamite
in the field himself at the instigation of his employers, but before
the case came to trial both dynamiters pleaded guilty and went to Sing
Sing. One of them turned out to be an ex-convict, a burglar. I often
wonder where Guthrie is now. He certainly cared little for his life.
Perhaps he is down in Venezuela or Mexico. He could never be aught than
a soldier of fortune. But for a long time the employers thought that
Guthrie was a detective sent by the unions to compromise _them_ in the
very dynamiting they were trying to stop!

I once had a particularly dangerous and unfortunate case where a
private client was being blackmailed by a half-crazy ruffian who had
never seen him, but had selected him arbitrarily, as a person likely to
give up money. The blackmailer was a German Socialist, who was out of
employment—a man of desperate character. He had made up his mind that
the world owed him a living, and he had decided that the easiest way
to get it was to make some more prosperous person give him a thousand
dollars under threat of being exposed as an enemy of society.

The charge was so absurd as to be almost ludicrous, but had my client
caused the blackmailer’s arrest the matter would have been the subject
of endless newspaper notoriety and comment. It was therefore thought
wise to make use of other means, and I procured the assistance
of a young German-American of my acquaintance, who, in the guise
of a vaudeville artist seeking a job, went to the blackmailer’s
boarding-house and pretended to be looking for an actor friend with a
name not unlike that of the criminal.

After two or three visits he managed to scrape an acquaintance with
the blackmailer and thereafter spent much time with him. Both were out
of work, both were Germans, and both liked beer. My friend had just
enough money to satisfy this latter craving. In a month or so they were
intimate friends and used to go _fishing_ together down the bay. At
last, after many months, the criminal disclosed to the detective his
plan of blackmailing my client, and suggested that as two heads were
better than one they had better make it a joint venture. The detective
pretended to balk at the idea at first, but was finally persuaded,
and at the other’s request undertook the delivery of the blackmailing
letters to my client! Inside of three weeks he had in his possession
enough evidence in the criminal’s _own handwriting_ to send him to
prison for the rest of his life. When at last the detective disclosed
his identity the blackmailer at first refused to believe him, and then
literally rolled on the floor in his agony and fear at discovering how
he had been hoodwinked. The next day he disappeared and has not been
heard of since, but his letters are in my vault, ready to be used if he
again puts in an appearance.

The records of the police and of the private agencies contain many
instances where murderers have confessed their guilt long after the
crime to supposed friends, who were in reality decoys placed there
for that very purpose. It is a peculiarity of criminals that they
cannot keep their secrets locked in their own breasts. The impulse
to confession is universal, particularly in women. Egotism has some
part in this, but the chief element is the desire for companionship.
Criminals have a horror of dying under an alias. The dignity of
identity appeals even to the tramp. This impulse leads oftentimes to
the most unnecessary and suicidal disclosures. The murderer who has
planned and executed a diabolical homicide and who has retired to
obscurity and safety will very likely in course of time make a clean
breast of it to some one whom he believes to be his friend. He wants
to “get it off his chest,” to talk it over, to discuss its fine points,
to boast of how clever he was, to ask for unnecessary advice about his
conduct in the future, to have at least one other person in the world
who has seen his soul’s nakedness.

The interesting feature of such confessions from a legal point of view
is that, no matter how circumstantial they may be, they are not usually
of themselves sufficient under our law to warrant a conviction. The
admission or confession of a defendant needs legal corroboration. This
corroboration is often very difficult to find, and frequently cannot
be secured at all. This provision of the statutes is doubtless a wise
one to prevent hysterical, suicidal, egotistical, and semi-insane
persons from meeting death in the electric chair or on the gallows, but
it often results in the guilty going unpunished. Personally, I have
never known a criminal to _confess_ a crime of which he was innocent.
The nearest thing to it in my experience is when one criminal, jointly
guilty with another and sure of conviction, has drawn lots with his
pal, lost, confessed, and in the confession exculpated his companion.

In the police organization of almost every large city there are a few
men who are genuinely gifted for the work of detection. Such an one
was Petrosino, a great detective, and an honest, unselfish, and heroic
man, who united indefatigable patience and industry with reasoning
powers of a high order. The most thrilling evening of my life was when
my wife and I listened before a crackling fire in my library to Joe’s
story of the Van Cortlandt Park murder, the night before I was going to
prosecute the case. Sitting stiffly in an arm-chair, his great, ugly
moon-face expressionless save for an occasional flash from his black
eyes, Petrosino recounted slowly and accurately how, by means of a
single slip of paper bearing the penciled name “Sabbatto Gizzi, P. O.
Box 239, Lambertville, N. J.,” he had run down the unknown murderer of
an unknown Italian stabbed to death in the park’s shrubbery. The paper
contained neither the name of the criminal nor his victim, but by means
of this slender clue he had gone to Lambertville and found an Italian
who had identified the deceased as a man who had left Lambertville for
New York in the company of another Italian named Strollo. Petrosino
interviewed Strollo, who admitted the trip but denied any knowledge of
his companion’s death. He had, he said, turned him over to his brother,
for whom Strollo had been searching.

In Strollo’s pocket Petrosino found a letter to the brother _from_
Tony Torsielli, the murdered man. It was in Strollo’s own handwriting
and enclosed in an envelope _addressed to Torsielli himself_ at
Lambertville. This envelope bore a red two-cent stamp. On the basis of
this letter, aided by Strollo’s contradictory statements, Petrosino
reconstructed the murder and demonstrated that there _was_ no brother,
that Strollo had _invented_ him for the purpose of luring Torsielli to
New York, and that he had acted as amanuensis for Torsielli and carried
on the correspondence for both. The envelope addressed in Strollo’s
handwriting _to Torsielli at Lambertville_ was the key to the whole
mystery. There was no reason why Strollo should be writing to his own
friend whom he saw daily and who lived beside him in the same town.
Neither, argued Petrosino, would there be any reason for putting on a
_two-cent_ stamp in a place so small as to have no mail delivery. Ergo,
the envelope must have been intended to create the impression that it
had been mailed from some other place, by another person—from whom but
the fictitious brother? Bit by bit Petrosino built up a case entirely
out of circumstantial evidence that demonstrated Strollo’s guilt to a
mathematical certainty. So vivid was Petrosino’s account of his labors
that in opening the case next day to the jury I had but to repeat the
story I had heard the night before. Strollo was convicted after a
week’s trial before Judge O’Gorman in the Criminal Term of the Supreme
Court and paid the penalty of his treachery in the electric chair. For
him I felt not one pang of pity or remorse.

But during the preparation for the case the function of the detective
as a decoy was demonstrated in a most effective manner. Strollo was
confined in the House of Detention and a detective from head-quarters
was introduced there as an ostensible prisoner, under the name of
Silvio. Strollo and he became great friends, and when the former was
removed to the Tombs the murderer wrote elaborately to the detective,
requesting him to testify as a witness at the trial on his behalf and
instructing him what to say in order to establish an alibi. Those
letters were the last nails in Strollo’s coffin. After his conviction
they were stolen by somebody and could not be included in the case on
appeal, for which reason the court had some doubt as to whether the
conviction should be affirmed. Before the Court of Appeals rendered its
decision, however, I found, while cleaning out my safe, photographs of
the letters which I had had taken as a precautionary measure, but the
existence of which I had forgotten. I now have every important document
that comes into my hands as evidence photographed as a matter of course.

Petrosino’s physical characteristics were so pronounced that he was
probably as widely, if not more widely, known than any other Italian in
New York. He was short and heavy, with enormous shoulders and a bull
neck, on which was placed a great round head like a summer squash. His
face was pock-marked, and he talked with a deliberation that was due to
his desire for accuracy, but which at times might have been suspected
to arise from some other cause. He rarely smiled and went methodically
about his business, which was to drive the Italian criminals out of
the city and country. Of course, being a marked man in more senses
than one, it was practically impossible to disguise himself, and,
accordingly, he had to rely upon his own investigations and detective
powers, supplemented by the efforts of the trained men in the Italian
branch, many of whom are detectives of a high order of ability. If the
life of Petrosino were to be written, it would be a book unique in the
history of criminology and crime, for this man was probably the only
great detective of the world to find his career in a foreign country
amid criminals of his own race.

I have instanced Petrosino as an example of a police detective of a
very unusual type, but I have known several other men on the New York
Police Force of real genius in their own particular lines of work. One
of these is an Irishman who makes a specialty of get-rich-quick men,
oil and mining stock operators, wire-tappers and their kin, and who
knows the antecedents and history of most of them better than any other
man in the country. He is ready to take the part of either a “sucker”
or a fellow crook, as the exigencies of the case may demand.

And then there was old Tom Byrnes, of whom everybody knows. There are
detectives—real ones—on the police force of all the great cities of
the world to-day, most of them specialists, a few of them geniuses
capable of undertaking the ferreting out of any sort of mystery, but
the last are rare. The police detective usually lacks the training,
education, and social experience to make him effective in dealing with
the class of élite criminals who make high society their field. Yet, of
course, it is this class of crooks who most excite our interest and who
fill the pages of popular detective fiction.

The head-quarters man has no time nor inclination to follow the
sporting duchess and the fictitious earl who accompanies her in
their picturesque wanderings around the world. He is busy inside the
confines of his own country. Parents or children may disappear,
but the mere seeking of oblivion on their part is no crime and
does not concern him except by special dispensation on the part of
his superiors. Divorced couples may steal their own children back
and forward, royalties may inadvertently involve themselves with
undesirables, governmental information exude from State portals in
a peculiar manner, business secrets pass into the hands of rivals,
race-horses develop strange and untimely diseases, husbands take long
and mysterious trips from home—a thousand exciting and worrying things
may happen to the astonishment, distress, or intense interest of
nations, governments, political parties, or private individuals, which
from their very nature are outside the purview of the regular police.
Here, then, is the field of the secret agent or private detective, and
here, forsooth, is where the detective of genuine deductive powers and
the polished address of the so-called “man of the world” is required.

There are two classes of cases where a private detective must needs
be used, if indeed any professional assistance is to be called in:
first, where the person whose identity is sought to be discovered or
whose activities are sought to be terminated is not a criminal or
has committed no crime, and second, where, though a crime has been
committed, the injured parties cannot afford to undertake a public
prosecution.

For example, if you are receiving anonymous letters, the writer of
which accuses you of all sorts of unpleasant things, you would, of
course, much prefer to find out who it is and stop him quietly than
to turn over the correspondence to the police and let the writer’s
attorneys publicly cross-examine you at his trial as to your past
career. Even if a diamond necklace is stolen from a family living on
Fifth Avenue, there is more than an even chance that the owner will
prefer to conceal her loss rather than to have her picture in the
morning paper. Yet she will wish to find the necklace if she can.

When the matter has no criminal side at all, the police cannot be
availed of, although we sometimes read that the officers of the local
precinct have spent many hours in trying to locate Mrs. So-and-So’s
lost Pomeranian, or in performing other functions of an essentially
private nature—most generously. But if, for example, your daughter is
made the recipient, almost daily, of anonymous gifts of jewelry which
arrive by mail, express, or messenger, and you are anxious to discover
the identity of her admirer and return them, you will probably wish to
engage outside assistance.

Where will you seek it? You can do one of two things: go to a big
agency and secure the services of the _right man_, or engage such a
man outside who may or may not be a professional detective. I have
frequently utilized with success in peculiar and difficult cases the
services of men whom I knew to be common-sense persons, with a natural
taste for ferreting out mysteries, but who were not detectives at all.
Your head book-keeper may have real talents in this direction—if he
is not above using them. Naturally, the first essential is brains—and
if you can give the time to the matter, your own head will probably be
the best one for your purposes. If, then, you are willing to undertake
the job yourself, all you need is some person or persons to carry out
your instructions, and such are by no means difficult to find. I have
had many a case run down by my own office force—clerks, lawyers, and
stenographers, all taking a turn at it. Why not? Is the professional
sleuth working on a fixed salary for a regular agency and doing a dozen
different jobs each month as likely to bring to bear upon your own
private problem as much intelligence as you yourself?

There is no mystery about such work, except what the detective himself
sees fit to enshroud it with. Most of us do detective work all the
time without being conscious of it. Simply because the matter concerns
the theft of a pearl, or the betraying of a business or professional
secret, or the disappearance of a friend, the opinion of a stranger
becomes no more valuable. And the chances are equal that the stranger
will make a bungle of it.

Many of the best available detectives are men who work by themselves
without any permanent staff, and who have their own regular clients,
generally law firms and corporations. Almost any attorney knows several
such, and the chief advantage of employing one of them lies in the
fact that you can learn just what their abilities are by personal
experience. They usually command a high rate of remuneration, but
deductive ability and resourcefulness are so rare that they are
at a premium and can only be secured by paying it. These men are
able, if necessary, to assume the character of a doctor, traveller,
man-about-town, or business agent without wearing in their lapels a
sign that they are detectives, and they will reason ahead of the other
fellow and can sometimes calculate pretty closely what he will do.
Twenty-five dollars a day will generally hire the best of them, and
they are well worth it.

The detective business swarms with men of doubtful honesty and morals,
who are under a constant temptation to charge for services not rendered
and expenses not incurred, who are accustomed to exaggeration if not
to perjury, and who have neither the inclination nor the ability to do
competent work.

Once they get their clutches on a wealthy client, they resemble the
shyster lawyer in their efforts to bleed him by stimulating his fears
of publicity and by holding out false hopes of success, and thus
prolonging their period of service. An unscrupulous detective will,
almost as a matter of course, work on two jobs at once and charge
_all_ his time to each client. He will constantly report progress when
nothing has been accomplished, and his expenses will fill pages of his
notebook. Meantime his daily reports will fall like a shower of autumn
leaves. In no profession is it more essential to know the man who is
working for you. If you need a detective, get the best you can find,
put a limit on the expense, and give him your absolute confidence.




CHAPTER VI

DETECTIVES WHO DETECT


IN the preceding chapter the writer discussed at some length the real,
as distinguished from the fancied, attributes of detectives in general,
and the weaknesses as well as the virtues of the so-called detective
“agency.” There are in the city of New York at the present time
about one hundred and fifty licensed detectives. Under the detective
license laws each of these has been required to file with the State
comptroller written evidences of his good character, competency, and
integrity, approved by five reputable freeholders of his county, and
to give bond in the sum of two thousand dollars. He also has to pay a
license fee of one hundred dollars per annum, but this enables him to
employ as many “operators” as he chooses. In other words, the head of
the agency may be a high-class man and his agents wholly undesirable
citizens. How often this is the case is known to none better than the
heads themselves. The strength and efficiency of a detective agency
does not lie in the name at the top of its letter-paper, but in the
unknown personnel of the men who are doing or shirking the work. I
believe that most of the principals of the many agencies throughout the
United States are animated by a serious desire to give their clients
a full return for their money and loyal and honest service. But the
best intentions in the world cannot make up for the lack of untiring
vigilance in supervising the men who are being employed in the client’s
service.

It is right here that the “national” has an immense advantage over
the small agency which cannot afford to keep a large staff of men
constantly on hand, but is forced to engage them temporarily as they
may be needed. The “national” agency can shift its employees from
place to place as their services are required, and the advantages
of centralization are felt as much in this sort of work as in any
other industry. The licensed detective who sends out a hurry call for
assistants is apt to be able to get only men whom he would otherwise
not employ. In this chapter, the word “national,” as applied to a
detective agency, refers not to the title under which such an agency
may do its business, but to the fact that it is organized and equipped
to render services all over the country.

In this connection it is worth noticing that the best detective
agencies train their own operators, selecting them from picked
material. The candidate must as a rule be between twenty and
thirty-five years of age, sound of body, and reasonably intelligent.
He gets pretty good wages from the start. From the comparatively
easy work of watching or “locating,” he is advanced through the more
difficult varieties of “shadowing” and “trailing,” until eventually
he may develop into a first-class man who will be set to unravel a
murder mystery or to “rope” a professional criminal. But with years of
training the best material makes few _real_ detectives, and the _real_
detective remains in fact the man who sits at the mahogany desk in the
central office and presses the row of mother of pearl buttons in front
of him.

If you know the heads or superintendents of the large agencies you
will find that the “star” cases, of which they like to talk, are, for
the most part, the pursuit and capture of forgers and murderers. The
former, as a rule, are “spotted” and “trailed” to their haunts, and
when sufficient evidence has been obtained the police are notified, and
a raid takes place, or the arrest is made, by the State authorities.
In the case of a murderer, in a majority of cases, his capture is
the result of skilful “roping” by an astute detective who manages
to get into his confidence. For example, a murder is committed by
an Italian miner. Let us suppose he has killed his “boss,” or even
the superintendent or owner. He disappears. As the reader knows, the
Italians are so secretive that it is next to impossible to secure any
information—even from the relatives of a murdered man.

The first thing is to locate the assassin. An Italian detective is
sent into the mine as a laborer. Months may elapse before he gets
on familiar or intimate terms with his fellows. All the time he is
listening and watching. Presently he hears something that indicates
that the murderer is communicating with one of his old friends either
directly or through third parties. It is then generally only a question
of time before his whereabouts are ascertained. Once he is “located”
the same method is followed in securing additional evidence or material
in the nature of a confession or admission tending to establish guilt.
Having previously “roped” the murderer’s friends, the detective now
proceeds to the more difficult task of “roping” the murderer himself.
Of course, the life of a detective in a Pennsylvania coal mine would
be valueless if his identity were discovered, and yet the most daring
pieces of detective work are constantly being performed under these and
similar conditions. Where the criminal is not known, the task becomes
far more difficult and at times exceedingly dangerous.

One of my own friends, an Italian gentleman, spent several months
in the different mines of this country, where Italians are largely
employed, investigating conditions and ascertaining for the benefit
of his government the extent to which anarchy was prevalent. It was
necessary for him to secure work as a miner at the lowest wages and
to disguise himself in such a way that it would be impossible for
anybody to detect his true character. Fortunately, the great diversity
of Italian dialects facilitated his efforts and enabled him to pass
himself off as from another part of the country than his comrades.
Having made his preparations he came to New York as an immigrant and
joined a party of newly arrived Italians on their way to the coal
mines of West Virginia. Without following him further, it is enough to
say that during his service in the mines he overheard much that was
calculated to interest exceedingly the authorities at Rome. Had his
disguise been penetrated the quick thrust of a five-inch blade would
have ended his career. He would never have returned to New York. There
would only have been another dead “Dago” miner. The local coroner would
have driven up in his buggy, looked at the body, examined the clean,
deep wound in the abdomen, shrugged his shoulders, and empanelled a
heterogeneous jury who would have returned a verdict to the effect
that “deceased came to his death through a stab wound inflicted by
some person to the jury unknown.” My friend was not a professional
detective, but the recital of his experiences was enough to fill me
with new respect for those engaged in the “man hunt” business among the
half civilized miners of the coal regions.

But the work of even the “national” agencies is not of the kind which
the novel-reading public generally associates with detectives—that is
to say, it rarely deals with the unravelling of “mysteries,” except the
identity of passers of fraudulent paper and occasional murderers. The
protection of the banks is naturally the most important work that such
an agency can perform.

The National Bankers’ Association consists of eleven thousand members.
“Pinkerton’s Bank and Bankers’ Protection” has a large organization of
subscribers. These devote themselves to identifying and running down
all criminals whose activities are dangerous to them. Here the agency
and the police work hand in hand, exchanging photographs of crooks
and suspects and keeping closely informed as to each other’s doings.
Yet there is no official connection between any detective agency and
the police of any city. It is an almost universal rule that a private
detective shall not make an arrest. The reasons for this are manifold.
In the first place, the private detective has neither the general
authority nor the facilities for the manual detention of a criminal.
A blue coat and brass buttons, to say nothing of a night stick, are
often invaluable stage properties in the last act of the melodrama. And
as the criminal authorities are eventually to deal with the defendant
anyway, it is just as well if they come into the case as soon as may
be. It goes without saying, of course, that a detective _per se_
has no more right to make an arrest than any private citizen—nor
has a policeman, for that matter, save in exceptional cases. The
officer is valuable for his dignity, avoirdupois, “bracelets,” and
other accessories. The police thus get the credit of many arrests in
difficult cases where all the work has been done by private detectives,
and it is good business for the latter to keep mum about it.

One of the chief assets of the big agency is its accumulated
information concerning all sorts of professional criminals. Its
galleries are quite as complete as those of the local head-quarters,
for a constant exchange of art objects is going on with the police
throughout the world. And as the agency is protecting banks all over
the United States it has greater interest in _all_ bank burglars as a
class than the police of any particular city who are only concerned
with the burglars who (as one might say) burgle in their particular
burg. Thus, you are more likely to find a detective from a national
agency following a forger to Australasia or Polynesia than you are a
sleuth from 300 Mulberry Street, New York.

The best agencies absolutely decline to touch divorce and matrimonial
cases of any sort. It does not do a detective agency any good to have
its men constantly upon the witness stand subject to attack, with a
consequent possible reflection upon their probity of character and
truthfulness. Moreover, a good detective is too valuable a person to be
wasting his time in the court-room. In the ordinary divorce case the
detective, having procured his evidence, is obliged to remain on tap
and subject to call as a witness for at least three or four months,
during which time he cannot be sent away on distant work. Neither can
the customer be charged ordinarily for waiting time, and apart from its
malodorous character the business is not desirable from a financial
point of view.

The national agencies prefer clean criminal work, murder cases,
and general investigating. They no longer undertake any policing,
strike-breaking, or guarding. The most ridiculous misinformation in
regard to their participation in this sort of work has been spread
broadcast largely by jealous enemies and by the labor unions.

By way of illustration, one Thomas Beet, describing himself as an
English detective, contributed an article to the New York _Tribune_ of
September 16, 1906, in which he said:

“In one of the greatest of our strikes, that involving the steel
industry, over two thousand armed detectives were employed supposedly
to protect property, while several hundred more were scattered in
the ranks of strikers as workmen. Many of the latter became officers
in the labor bodies, helped to make laws for the organizations, made
incendiary speeches, cast their votes for the most radical movements
made by the strikers, participated in and led bodies of the members in
the acts of lawlessness that eventually caused the sending of State
troops and the declaration of martial law. While doing this, these
spies within the ranks were making daily reports of the plans and
purposes of the strikers. To my knowledge, when lawlessness was at its
height and murder ran riot, these men wore little patches of white on
the lapels of their coats so that their fellow detectives of the two
thousand would not shoot them down by mistake.”

He, of course, referred to the great strike at Homestead, Pennsylvania,
in 1892. In point of fact, there were only six private detectives
engaged on the side of the employers at that time, and these were
there to assist the local authorities in taking charge of six hundred
and fifty watchmen, and to help place the latter upon the property
of the steel company. These watchmen were under the direction of the
sheriff and sworn in as peace officers of the county. Mr. Beet seems
to have confused his history and mixed up the white handkerchief of
the Huguenots of Nantes with the strike-breakers of Pennsylvania. It
is needless to repeat (as Mr. Robert A. Pinkerton stated at the time)
that the white label story is ridiculously untrue, and that it was the
strikers who attacked the watchmen, and not the watchmen the strikers.
One striker and _one_ watchman were killed.

But this attack of Mr. Beet upon his own profession, under the guise
of being an English detective (it developed that he was an ex-divorce
detective from New York City), was not confined to his remarks about
inciting wanton murder. On the contrary, he alleged (as one having
authority and not merely as a scribe) that American detective agencies
were practically nothing but blackmailing concerns, which used the
information secured in a professional capacity to extort money from
their own clients.

“Think of the so-called detective,” says Mr. Beet, “whose agency pays
him two dollars or two dollars and fifty cents a day, being engaged
upon confidential work and in the possession of secrets that he knows
_are worth money_! Is it any wonder that so many cases are sold out by
employees, _even_ when the agencies are honest?”

We are constrained to answer that it is no more wonderful than that
any person earning the same sum should remain honest when he might
so easily turn thief. As the writer has himself pointed out in these
pages, there are hundreds of so-called detective agencies which are
but traps for the guileless citizen who calls upon them for aid. But
there are many which are as honestly conducted as any other variety
of legitimate business. I do not know Mr. Beet’s personal experience,
but it appears to have been unfortunate. At any rate, his diatribe is
unfounded and false, and the worst feature of it is his assertion that
detective agencies make a business of manufacturing cases when there
happen to be none on hand.

“Soon,” says he, “there were not enough cases to go around, and then
with the aid of spies and informers the unscrupulous detectives began
to make cases. Agencies began to work up evidence against persons
and then resorted to blackmail, or else approached those to whom
the information might be valuable, and by careful manœuvring had
themselves retained to unravel the case. This brought into existence
hordes of professional informers who secured the opening wedges for the
fake agencies. Men and women, many of them of some social standing,
made it a practice to pry around for secrets which might be valuable;
spies kept up their work in large business establishments and began to
haunt the cafés and resorts of doubtful reputation, on the watch for
persons of wealth and prominence who might be foolish enough to place
themselves in compromising circumstances. Even the servants in wealthy
families soon learned that certain secrets of the master and mistress
could be turned to profitable account. We shudder when we hear of the
system of espionage maintained in Russia, while in the large American
cities, unnoticed, are organizations of spies and informers on every
hand who spend their lives digging pitfalls for the unwary who can
afford to pay.”

One would think that we were living in the days of the Borgias! “Ninety
per cent,” says Mr. Beet, “of private detective agencies are rotten to
the core and simply exist and thrive upon a foundation of dishonesty,
deceit, conspiracy, and treachery to the public in general and their
own patrons in particular. There are detectives _at the heads of
prominent agencies_ in this country whose pictures adorn the Rogues’
Gallery; men who have served time in various prisons for almost every
crime on the calendar.”

This harrowing picture has the modicum of truth that makes it
insidiously dangerous. But this last extravagance betrays the
denunciator. One would be interested to have this past-master of
overstatement mention the names of these distinguished crooks that
_head the prominent agencies_. Their exposure, if true, would not be
libellous, and it would seem that he had performed but half his duty
to the public in refraining from giving this important, if not vital,
information.

I know several of these gentlemen whose pictures I feel confident do
not appear in and (much less) do not adorn the Rogues’ Gallery, and
who have not been, as yet, convicted of crime. A client is as safe in
the hands of a good detective agency as he is in the hands of a good
lawyer; he should know his agency, that is all—just as he should know
his lawyer. The men at the head of the big agencies generally take the
same pride in their work as the members of any learned profession.
They know that a first-class reputation for honesty is essential to
their financial success and that good will is their stock in trade.
Take this away and they would have nothing.

In 1878 the founder of one of the most famous of our national agencies
promulgated in printed form for the benefit of his employees what he
called his general principles. One of these was the following:

“This agency only offers its services at a stated per diem for each
detective employed on an operation, giving no guarantee of success,
except in the reputation for reliability and efficiency; and any person
in its service who shall, under any circumstances, permit himself
or herself to receive a gift, reward, or bribe shall be instantly
dismissed from the service.”

Another:

“The profession of the detective is a high and honorable calling. Few
professions excel it. He is an officer of justice, and must himself be
pure and above reproach.”

Again:

“It is an evidence of the unfitness of the detective for his profession
when he is compelled to resort to the use of intoxicating liquors; and,
indeed, the strongest kind of evidence, if he continually resorts to
this evil practice. The detective must not do anything to farther sink
the criminal in vice or debauchery, but, on the contrary, must seek to
win his confidence by endeavoring to elevate him, etc.”

“Kindness and justice should go hand in hand, whenever it is possible,
in the dealings of the detective with the criminal. There is no human
being so degraded but there is some little bright spark of conscience
and of right still existing in him.”

Last:

“The detective must, in every instance, report everything which is
_favorable_ to the suspected party, as well as everything which may be
against him.”

The man who penned these principles had had the safety of Abraham
Lincoln in his keeping; and these simple statements of his faith are
the best refutation of the baseless assertions above referred to.

It may be that in those days the detection of crime was a bit more
elementary than at the present time. One can hardly picture a modern
sleuth delaying long in an attempt to evangelize his quarry, but these
general principles are the right stuff and shine like good deeds in a
naughty world.

As one peruses this little pink pamphlet he is constantly struck by
the repeated references to the detective as an _actor_. That _was_
undoubtedly the ancient concept of a sleuth. “He must possess, also,
the player’s faculty of assuming any character that his case may
require, and of acting it out to the life with an ease and naturalness
which shall not be questioned.” This somewhat large order is, to
our relief, qualified a little later on. “It is not to be expected,
however,” the author admits, “that _every_ detective shall possess
these rare qualifications, although the more talented and versatile he
is, the higher will be the sphere of operation which he will command.”

The modern detective agency is conducted on business principles and
does not look for histrionic talent or general versatility. As one of
the heads of a prominent agency said to me the other day:

“When we want a detective to take the part of a plumber _we get a
plumber_, and when we need one to act as a boiler-maker we go out and
get a _real one_—if we haven’t one on our pay-rolls.”

“But,” I replied, “when you need a man to go into a private family
and pretend to be an English clergyman, or a French viscount, or a
brilliant man of the world—who do you send?”

The “head” smiled.

“The case hasn’t arisen yet,” said he. “When it does I guess we’ll get
the real thing.”

The national detective agency, with its thousands of employees who
have, most of them, grown up and received their training in its
service, is a powerful organization, highly centralized, and having an
immense sinking fund of special knowledge and past experience. This is
the product of decades of patient labor and minute record. The agency
which offers you the services of a Sherlock Holmes is a fraud, but you
can accept as genuine a proposition to run down any man whose picture
you may be able to identify in the gallery. The day of the impersonator
is over. The detective of this generation is a hard-headed business man
with a stout pair of legs.

This accumulated fund of information is the heritage of an honest
and long established industry. It is seventy-five per cent of its
capital. It is entirely beyond the reach of the mushroom agency, which
in consequence has to accept less desirable retainers involving no
such requirements, or go to the wall. The collection of photographs
is almost priceless and the clippings, letters, and memoranda in the
filing cases only secondarily so. Very few of the “operators” pretend
to anything but common-sense with, perhaps, some special knowledge
of the men they are after. They are not clairvoyants or mystery men,
but they will tirelessly follow a crook until they get him. They are
the regular troops who take their orders without question. The real
“detective” is the “boss” who directs them.

The reader can easily see that in all cases where a crime, such
as forgery, is concerned, once the identity of the criminal is
ascertained, half the work (or more than half) is done. The agencies
know the face and record of practically every man who ever flew a bit
of bad paper in the United States, in England, or on the Continent.
If an old hand gets out of prison his movements are watched until it
is obvious that he does not intend to resort to his old tricks. After
the criminal is known or “located,” the “trailing” begins and his
“connections” are carefully studied. This may or may not require what
might be called real detective work; that is to say, work requiring a
superior power of deducing conclusions from first-hand information,
coupled with unusual skill in acting upon them. Mere trailing is often
simple, yet sometimes very difficult. A great deal depends on the
operator’s own peculiar information as to his man’s habits, haunts,
and associates. It is very hard to say in most cases just where mere
knowledge ends and detective work proper begins. As for disguises, they
are almost unknown, except such as are necessary to enable an operator
to join a gang where his quarry may be working and “rope” him into a
confession.

Detective agencies of the first-class are engaged principally in
clean-cut criminal work, such as guarding banks from forgers and
“yeggmen”—an original and dangerous variety of burglar peculiar to the
United States and Canada. In other words, they have large associations
for clients who need more protection than the regular police can give
them, and whose interest it is that the criminal shall not only be
driven out of town, but run down (wherever he may be), captured, and
put out of the way for as long a time as possible.

The work done for private individuals is no less important and
effective, but it is secondary to the other. The great value of the
“agency” to the victim of a theft is the speed with which it can
disseminate its information—something quite impossible so far as the
individual citizen is concerned. Let me give an illustration or two.

Between 10.30 P.M. Saturday, February 25, 1911, and 9.30 A.M.
Sunday, February 26, 1911, one hundred and thirty thousand dollars
worth of pearls belonging to Mrs. Maldwin Drummond were stolen from a
stateroom on the steamship _Amerika_ of the Hamburg-American line. The
London underwriters cabled five thousand dollars reward and retained
to investigate the case a well-known American agency, which before
the _Amerika_ had reached Plymouth on her return trip had their
notifications in the hands of all the jewelers and police officials of
Europe and the United States, and had covered every avenue of disposal
in North and South America. In addition, this agency investigated every
human being on the _Amerika_ from first cabin to forecastle.

Within a year or so an aged stock-broker, named Bancroft, was robbed
on the street of one hundred thousand dollars in securities. Inside of
fifty-five minutes after he had reported his loss a detective agency
had notified all banks, brokers, and the police in _fifty-six_ cities
of the United States and Canada.

The telephone is the modern detective’s chief ally, and he relies upon
rapidity more than upon deduction. Under present conditions it is
easier to overtake a crook than to reason out what he will probably
do. In fact, the old-fashioned “deductive detective” is largely a man
of the past. The most useless operator in the world is the one who is
“wedded to his own theory” of the case—the man who asks no questions
and relies only on himself. Interject a new element into a case and
such a man is all at sea. In the meantime the criminal has made his
“get away.”

In the story books your detective scans with eagle eye the surface of
the floor for microscopic evidences of crime. His mind leaps from a
cigar ash to a piece of banana peel and thence to what the family had
for dinner. His brain is working all the time. His gray matter dwarfs
almost to insignificance that of Daniel Webster or the Hon. Benjamin
F. Butler. It is, of course, all quite wonderful and most excellent
reading, and the old-style sleuth really thought he could do it!
Nowadays, while the fake detective is snooping around the back piazza
with a telescope, the real one is getting the “dope” from the village
blacksmith or barber (if there is any except on Saturday nights) or the
girl that slings the pie at the station. These folk have something to
_go_ on. They may not be highly intelligent, but they know the country,
and, what is more important, they know the people. All the brains in
the world cannot make up for the lack of an elementary knowledge of
the place and the characters themselves. It stands to reason that no
strange detective could form as good an opinion as to which of the
members of your household would be most likely to steal a piece of
jewelry as you could yourself. Yet the old-fashioned Sherlock knew and
knows it all.

One of the best illustrations of the practical necessity of some
first-hand knowledge is that afforded by the recovery of a diamond
necklace belonging to the wife of a gentleman in a Connecticut town.
The facts that are given here are absolutely accurate. The gentleman
in question was a retired business man of some means who lived not far
from the town and who made frequent visits to New York City. He had
made his wife a present of a fifteen thousand-dollar diamond necklace,
which she kept in a box in a locked trunk in her bedroom. _While she
had_ _owned the necklace for over a year she had never worn it._
One evening having guests for dinner on the occasion of her wedding
anniversary she decided to put it on and wear it for the first time.
That night she replaced it in its box and enclosed this in another box,
which she locked and placed in her bureau drawer. This she also locked.
The following night she decided to replace the necklace in the trunk.
She accordingly unlocked the bureau drawer, and also the larger box,
which apparently was in exactly the same condition as when she had put
it away. But the inner box was empty and the necklace had absolutely
disappeared. Now, no one had _seen_ the necklace for a year, and then
only her husband, their servants, and two or three old friends. _No
outsider could have known of its existence._ There was no evidence of
the house or bureau having been disturbed.

A New York detective agency was at once retained, which sent one of its
best men to the scene of the crime. He examined the servants, heard
the story, and reported that it _must have been_ an inside job—that
there was _no possibility_ of anything else. But there was nothing to
implicate any one of the servants, and there seemed no hope of getting
the necklace back. Two or three days later the husband turned up at the
agency’s office in New York, and after beating about the bush for a
while, remarked:

“I want to tell you something. You have got this job wrong. There’s one
fact your man didn’t understand. The truth is that I’m a pretty easy
going sort of a feller, and every six months or so I take all the men
and girls employed around my house down to Coney Island and give ’em
a rip-roaring time. I make ’em my friends, and I dance with the girls
and I jolly up the men, and we are all good pals together. Sort of
unconventional, maybe, but it pays. I _know_—see?—that there ain’t _a
single one_ of those people who would do me a mean trick. Not one of
’em but would lend me all the money he had. I don’t care _what_ your
operator says, the person who took that necklace came from outside. You
take that from me.”

The superintendent, who is wise in his generation, scratched his chin.

“Is that dead on the level?” he inquired.

“Gospel!” answered the other.

“I’ll come up myself!” said the boss.

Next day the boss behind a broken-winded horse, in a dilapidated buggy,
drove from another town to the place where his client lived. At the
smithy on the cross-roads he stopped and borrowed a match. The smith,
glad of an excuse to leave the heat of the forge, came out and got the
loan of a chew from the boss.

“Anybody have any good hosses in this town?” asked the detective.

“Betcher life!” answered the smith. “Mr. —— up on the bill has the
best in the county!”

“What sort of a feller is he?”

The smith chewed in silence for a moment.

“Don’t know him myself, but I tell you what, his help says he’s the
best employer they ever had—and they _stay_ there forever!”

The boss drove on to the house, which he observed was situated at about
an equal distance from three different railway stations and surrounded
by a piazza with pillars. He walked around it, examining the vines
until his eye caught a torn creeper and a white scratch on the paint.
It _had_ been an outside job after all, and two weeks had already been
lost. _Deduction_ was responsible for a mistake which would not have
occurred had a little _knowledge_ been acquired first. That is the
lesson of this story.

The denouement, which has no lesson at all, is interesting. The
superintendent saw no prospect of getting back the necklace, but before
so informing the client, decided to cogitate on the matter for a day
or two. During that time he met by accident a friend who made a hobby
of studying yeggmen and criminals and occasionally doing a bit of the
amateur tramp act himself.

“By the way,” said the friend, “do you ever hear of any ‘touches’ up
the river or along the Sound?”

“Sometimes,” answered the boss, pricking up his ears. “Why do you ask?”

“Why, the other night,” replied the friend, “I happened to be meeting
my wife up at the Grand Central about six o’clock and I saw two yeggs
that I knew taking a train _out_. I thought it was sort of funny.
Pittsburgh Ike and Denver Red.”

“When was it?”

“Two weeks ago,” said the friend.

“Thanks,” returned the boss. “You must excuse me now; I’ve got an
important engagement.”

Three hours later Pittsburgh Ike and Denver Red were in a cell at
head-quarters. _At six o’clock that evening the necklace had been
returned._ This was a coincidence that might not occur in a hundred
years, but had the deductive detective determined the question he would
still be pondering on the comparative probability of whether the cook,
the chore man, or the hired girl was the guilty party.

A clean bit of detection on the part of an agency, and quite in the
day’s work, was the comparatively recent capture of a thief who secured
three hundred and sixty thousand dollars worth of securities from a
famous banking institution in New York City by means of a very simple
device. A firm of stock brokers had borrowed from this bank about two
hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a day or two and put up the
securities as collateral. In the ordinary course of business, when the
borrower has no further use for the money, he sends up a certified
check for the amount of the loan with interest, and the bank turns over
the securities to the messenger. In this particular case a messenger
arrived with a certified check, shoved it into the cage, and took away
what was pushed out to him in return—three hundred and sixty thousand
dollars in bonds. The certification turned out to be a forgery and the
securities vanished. I do not know whether the police were consulted or
not. Sometimes in such cases the banks prefer to resort to more private
methods and, perhaps, save the necessity of making a public admission
of their stupidity. When my friend, the superintendent, was called
in, the officers of the bank were making the wildest sort of guesses
as to the identity of the master mind and hand which had deceived the
cashier. He must, they felt sure, have made the forgery with a camel’s
hair brush of unrivalled fineness.

“A great artist!” said the president.

“The most skilful forger in the world!” opined another.

“We must run down all the celebrated criminals!” announced a third.

“Great artist—nothing!” remarked the boss, rubbing his thumb over the
certification which blurred at the touch. “He’s no painter! Why, that’s
a rubber stamp!”

What a shock for those dignified gentlemen! To think that _their_
cashier had been deceived by a mere, plebeian, common or garden thing
of rubber!

“Good-day, gents!” said the boss, putting the check in his wallet.
“I’ve got to get busy with the rubber stamp makers!”

He returned to his office and detailed a dozen men to work on the East
Side and a dozen on the West Side, with orders to search out every
man in New York who manufactured rubber stamps. Before the end of the
afternoon the maker was found on the Bowery, near Houston Street. This
was his story: A couple of weeks before, a young man had come in and
ordered a certification stamp, drawing at the time a rough design
of what he wanted. The stamp, when first manufactured, had not been
satisfactory to him; and on his second visit, the customer had left a
piece of a check, carefully torn out in circular form, which showed
the certification which he desired copied. This fragment the maker
had retained, as well as a slip of paper, upon which the customer had
written the address of the place to which he wished the stamp sent—The
Young Men’s Christian Association! The face of the fragment showed a
part of the maker’s signature. The superintendent ran his eye over
a list of brokers and picked out the name of the firm most like the
hieroglyphics on the check. Then he telephoned over and asked to be
permitted to see their pay roll. Carefully comparing the signature
appearing thereon with the Y. M. C. A. slip, he picked his man in less
than ten minutes. The latter was carefully trailed to his home, and
thence to the Young Men’s Christian Association, after which he called
on his fiancée at her father’s house. He spent the night at his own
boarding place. Next morning (Sunday) he was arrested on his way to
church, and all the securities (except some that he later returned)
were discovered in his room. More quick work! The amateur’s method
had been very simple. He knew that the loan had been made and the
bonds sent to the bank. So he forged a check, certified it himself,
and collected the securities. Of course, he was a bungler and took a
hundred rash chances.

A good example of the value of the accumulated information—documentary,
pictorial, and otherwise—in the possession of an agency was the capture
of Charles Wells, more generally known as Charles Fisher, _alias_ Henry
Conrad, an old-time forger, who suddenly resumed his activities after
being released from a six-year term in England. A New York City bank had
paid on a bogus two hundred and fifty dollar check and had reported its
loss to the agency in question. The superintendent examined the check
and (although Fisher had been in confinement for six years on the other
side) spotted it for his work. The next step was to find the forger.
Of course, no man who does the actual “scratching” attempts to “lay
down” the paper. That task is up to the “presenter.” The cashier of the
bank identified in the agency’s gallery the picture of the man who had
brought in the two hundred and fifty dollar check, and he in turn proved
to be another ex-convict well known in the business, whose whereabouts
in New York were not difficult to ascertain. He was “located” and
“trailed” and all his associates noted and followed. In due course he
“connected up” (as they say) with Fisher. Now, it is one thing to follow
a man who has no idea that he is being followed and another to trail a
man who is as suspicious and elusive as a fox. A professional criminal’s
daily business is to observe whether or not he is being followed, and he
rarely if ever, makes a direct move. If he wants a drink at the saloon
across the street, he will, by preference, go out the back door, walk
around the block and dodge in the side entrance via the tail of an ice
wagon. In this case the detectives followed the presenter for days
before they reached Fisher, and when they did they had still to locate
his “plant.”

The arrest in this case illustrates forcibly the chief characteristic
of successful criminals—egotism. The essential quality of daring
required in their pursuits gives them an extraordinary degree of
self-confidence, boldness, and vanity. And to vanity most of them can
trace their fall. It seems incredible that Fisher should have returned
to the United States after his discharge from prison and immediately
resumed his operations without carefully concealing his impedimenta.
Yet when he was run down in a twenty-six family apartment house,
the detectives found in his valise several thousand blank and model
checks, hundreds of letters and private papers, a work on “Modern
Bank Methods,” and his “ticket of leave” from England! This man was a
_successful_ forger and because he was successful, his pride in himself
was so great that he attributed his conviction in England to _accident_
and really felt that he was immune on his release.

The arrest of such a man often presents great legal difficulties which
the detectives overcome by various practical methods. There is no man
in the world who “gets away” with so many “tricks” on his “chest” as
the sleuth. As they say, “_It’s the way we do it._” Of course, no
officer without a search warrant has a right to enter a house or an
apartment. A man’s house is his castle. Mayor Gaynor, when a judge, in
a famous opinion (more familiarly known in the lower world even than
the Decalogue) laid down the law unequivocally and emphatically in this
regard. Thus, in the Fisher case, the defendant having been arrested
on the street, the detectives desired to search the apartment of the
family with which he lived. They did this by first inducing the tenant
to open the door and, after satisfying themselves that they were in the
right place, ordering the occupants to get in line and “march” from one
room to another while they rummaged for evidence. “Of course, we had no
right to do it, but they didn’t _know_ we hadn’t!” said the boss.

But frequently the defendant knows his rights just as well as the
police. On one occasion the same detective who arrested Fisher wanted
to take another man out of an apartment where he had been run to
earth. His mother (aged eighty-two years) put the chain on the door
and politely instructed the detective (who had no warrant) to go to
purgatory. All the evidence against the forger was inside the apartment
and he was actively engaged in burning it up in the kitchen stove. In
half an hour to arrest him would have been useless! The detectives
stormed and threatened, but the old crone merely grinned at them. She
hated a “bull” as much as did her son. Fearing to take the law into
their own hands, they summoned a detective sergeant from head-quarters,
but, although he sympathized with them, he had read Mayor Gaynor’s
decision and declined to take any chances. They then “appealed” to the
cop on the beat, who proved more reasonable, but although he used
all his force, he was unable to break down the door which had in the
meantime been reinforced from the inside. After about an hour, the
old lady unchained the door and invited the detectives to come in.
The crook was sitting by the window smoking a cigar and reading _St.
Nicholas_, while all evidence of his crime had vanished in smoke.

One more anecdote at the expense of the deductive detective. A watchman
was murdered, the safe of a brewery blown open and the contents stolen.
Local detectives worked on the case and satisfied themselves that the
night engineer at the brewery had committed the crime. He was a quiet
and, apparently, a God-fearing man, but circumstances were conclusive
against him. In fact, he had been traced within ten minutes of the
murder on the way to the scene of the homicide. But some little link
was lacking and the brewery officials called in the agency. The first
thing the superintendent did was to look over the engineer. _At first
sight he recognized him as a famous crook who had served five years for
a homicidal assault!_ One would think that that would have settled the
matter. But it didn’t! The detective said nothing to his associates
or employers, but called on the engineer that evening and had a quiet
talk with him in which he satisfied himself that the man was _entirely
innocent_. The man had served his time, turned over a new leaf, and was
leading an honest, decent life. Two months later the superintendent
caused the arrest of four yeggmen, all of whom were convicted and are
now serving fifteen years each for the crime.

Thus, the reader will observe that there are just a few more real
detectives still left in the business—if you can find them.
Incidentally, they, one and all, take off their hats to Scotland Yard.
They will tell you that the Englishman may be slow (fancy an American
inspector of police wearing gray suede gloves and brewing himself a
dish of tea in his office at four o’clock!), but that once he goes
after a crook he is bound to get him—it is merely a question of time.
I may add that in the opinion of the heads of the big agencies the
percentage of ability in the New York Detective Bureau is high—one of
them going so far as to claim that fifty per cent of the men have real
detective ability—that is to say “brains.” That is rather a higher
average than one finds among clergymen and lawyers, yet it may be so.




THE CAMORRA




CHAPTER VII

THE CAMORRA IN ITALY

  _We are not Carabinieri,
  We are not Royalists,
  But we are Camorrists—
  The devil take the others!_


IN Italy, when it rains, the man on the street mutters: “_Piove!
Governo ladro!_” (“It rains! Thief of a government!”) Oddly enough,
this expression, originally coined by the _Fanfulla_, an influential
journal, to ridicule the _opponents_ of the government, really
epitomizes the attitude of the average Italian toward the central
authority. It is the vital word spoken in jest. The Italian—and
particularly the Italian of the southern peninsula—is against
government—any government, all government—on general principles.
He and his forefathers went through a grim school, and they have not
forgotten.

The Italian, however republican in form his institutions may be, is
still the subject of a monarchy, and he has never fully grasped the
Anglo-Saxon idea that even a king is subject to the law. In Italy no
one thinks of questioning the legality of an arrest. With us, to do so
is the first thought that comes. On the Continent, the fact that an act
is done by an _official_, by a man in striped trousers, places it above
criticism. No matter how obvious an error may have been committed,
one is inevitably met by the placid assertion: “The government makes
no mistakes.” Neither has the idea of the sanctity of personal liberty
ever been properly developed. There is no _habeas corpus_ in Italy.
Release on bail is legally possible, but difficult of achievement and
little availed of. A man’s house is not “his castle.” The law itself
is usually complicated and slow in remedial and criminal matters, and
justice is apt to be blind unless the right sort of eye doctor—a
deputy or a senator—is called in. Bureaucracy has perpetuated the
Italian’s inherited distrust of government and distaste for legal
process, and drives him still to seek his ends in many cases by
influence, bribery, or—the Camorra.

Rarely can we point to a social phenomenon in this country and say:
“This is so because of something a hundred years ago.” With us some one
has an idea, and presto! we are recalling judges, pulling down idols,
“elevating” women to be sheriffs, and playing golf on Sundays. Where
are the gods of yesterday? The pulse of the nation leaps at a single
click of the Morse code. An injustice in Oklahoma brings a mass meeting
together in Carnegie Hall. But the continuance of the Camorra in Italy
to-day is directly due to the succession of tyrants who about a century
ago allowed the patriots of Naples and Sicily to rot in prison or hung
them up on scaffolds in the public squares.

The Bourbon rule in the “Kingdom of the Two Sicilies”[5] was one of the
most despicable in history. In eleven days in 1793 one hundred and
twenty professors, physicians, and priests were executed by the public
hangman in Naples. This was a mere foretaste of what was coming. When
Napoleon dethroned the Bourbons in 1805 and made his brother Joseph
“King of Naples,” there dawned an era of enlightenment and reform
which continued when Joseph was succeeded by Joachim Murat in 1808;
but the Congress of Vienna in 1815 reinstated the old dynasty and
recalled Ferdinand I, who had been lurking in Sardinia, to the throne.
Then the horrors began again. A period of retrogression, of wholesale
persecutions and executions, followed. Never was there anything like
the nightmare of bloody politics which lasted through the reigns of
Ferdinand I (1825), of Francis I (1830), of Ferdinand II (1859), and of
Francis II, until the entry of Garibaldi into Naples in 1860.

The oppressions of the Bourbons and the struggle of the patriots of
Italy for freedom and the Risorgimento stimulated secret organization.
No other means to combat tyranny was, in fact, possible. To be known to
have liberal ideas meant instant arrest, if not death. Under Ferdinand
II there had been over twenty thousand political prisoners actually in
prison at one time and thirty thousand more _attendibili_, confined in
their houses.[6] The governor of Genoa complained to Mazzini’s father
because the youth “walked by himself at night, absorbed in thought.”
Said he: “We don’t like young people thinking without knowing the
subject of their thoughts.” The great society of the Carbonari had
provoked the counter-organization of the Calderoni, and had in turn
given way to the “New Italy” of Mazzini. It is said on excellent
authority that in 1820 there were seventy thousand persons in the city
of Naples alone who belonged to secret societies. In this year we first
hear of the Camorra by name, and for the next forty years it spread and
flourished until it became so powerful that the government of the “Two
Sicilies” had perforce to enter into treaty with it and finally (in
1860) to turn over to it the policing of the city of Naples. Indeed,
it may be that some such extra-legal organization was a practical
necessity if existence were to be tolerable at all.

Lombroso, in the “Growth of Crime,” writes: “When the royal postal
officials were in the habit of tampering with correspondence, when
the police were bent on arresting the honest patriots and making use
of thieves as _agents provocateurs_, the necessity of things enhanced
the value of the Camorra, which could always have a letter or a packet
safely conveyed, save you from a dagger thrust in prison, redeem you a
stolen article for a fair sum, or, when quarrels and disputes arose,
could get these settled on much more equitable terms and less costly
than any one else or indeed the ordinary process of the law.”

This was the heyday of the Camorra as an organization of criminals.
Later it developed into something more—a political ring under whose
leash the back of southern Italy still quivers.

The Neapolitan Camorra had its origin in Spain. The great Cervantes,
in “Rinconeto y Contadillo,” has drawn a marvellous picture of a
brotherhood of thieves and malefactors who divided their evil profits
_with the police and clergy_. This was “La Garduna”—the mother of the
Camorra. As early as 1417 it had rules, customs, and officers identical
with those of the Camorra of the nineteenth century, and, like it,
flourished in the jails, which were practically under its control.
Undoubtedly this organization found its way into Sicily and Naples
in the wake of the Spanish occupation of the thirteenth century, and
germinated in the loathsome prisons of the period until it was ready to
burst forth into open activity under the Bourbons.

The word _camorra_ comes from the Spanish _chamarra_ (in Italian
_gamurra_, hence _tabarra_, _tabarro_), meaning a “cloak” usually
affected by thieves and bullies. From this is derived the Spanish word
_camorra_, “a quarrel with fists,” and the phrase _hacer camorra_,
fairly translatable as “to look for trouble.” It would be difficult
to find any closer definition than this last of the business of the
Neapolitan Camorra.

Giuseppi Alongi, a pupil and follower of Lombroso, and one of the
principal Italian authorities upon the subject, says concerning the
rise of the Neapolitan organization:

“The Camorra certainly had its birth in the prisons of Naples. Old
offenders regarded themselves as aristocrats of crime, and behaved
as masters in their own households, forming a sort of privileged
class within the prison. The idea of levying taxes on newcomers
came as natural to them as that among soldiers of calling upon the
recruit to ‘pay his footing.’ That the Neapolitan Camorra is so mixed
up with religion is due to the fact that the local criminal unites
ferocity with religious superstition, while the amazing devotion of
the population to ‘Our Lady of Mount Carmel,’ who is venerated as the
symbol of maternal love, offers an easy means of exploiting their
credulity. It became the custom, therefore, to exact tolls from the
people, under the pretence that they were intended for religious
purposes. The Camorrists have four hundred feasts every year, and the
Church of Mount Carmel in Naples is still their religious centre.”

In the days from 1820 to 1860, to be a Camorrist was a matter of pride
and a rare distinction among the baser sort. So far from concealing his
membership in it, the Camorrista vaunted it abroad, even affecting a
peculiar costume which rendered him unmistakable. A red necktie, the
loose ends of which floated over either shoulder, a parti-colored sash,
and a cane heavily loaded with brass rings, marked him as a “bad man”
during this romantic period. But, however picturesque it may have been,
the Camorra soon became the most dreaded and loathsome secret society
in the world.

Only those could become members who had shown their preference for
the _mala vita_ and given tangible evidence of their criminality.
Candidates who had qualified for the novitiate proved their suitability
for the next grade by performing some brutal act, such as slitting an
old man’s throat from ear to ear.

The business of the Camorra was organized extortion, assisted by murder
and violence. The Camorrist was a bully—one who could use the knife.
In this he was instructed until he became a master in artistic stabbing
with a fair knowledge of anatomy. Various styles of knives were used
for different purposes: the _settesoldi_, for scarring and unimportant
duelling among members; the _’o zumpafuosso_, or deadly official knife,
for the “jumping duel”; the _triangolo_ for murders, etc. The actual
slashing was usually done not by the Camorrist himself, but by some
aspirant to membership in the society who desired to give proof of
his virtue, and who, rather as a favor, was permitted to take all the
chances. Accordingly the “honored” youth selected the right knife and
lay in wait for his victim, assisted by a _palo_, or “stall,” who gave
warning of danger and perhaps arranged for the victim to stumble just
as the blow was to be struck. Secret signals facilitated matters. Even
to-day, the American in Naples who is not “afraid to go home in the
dark” had best hasten his steps if he hears near by the bark of a dog,
the mew of a cat, the crow of a cock, or a sneeze, any one of which
does not carry conviction as to its genuine character. These are all
common Camorrist signals of attack; while popular tunes such as “_Oi
ne’, traseteve, ca chiora!_” (“Go in, for it rains!”) are warnings of
the approach of danger.

The Camorra levied blackmail upon all gambling enterprises, brothels,
drivers of public vehicles, boatmen, beggars, prostitutes, thieves,
waiters, porters, marketmen, fruit-sellers, small tradesmen, lottery
winners, and pawnbrokers, controlled all the smuggling and coined
bogus money; and the funds thus secured were divided among (1) the
police, (2) the members in jail, (3) the aged, (4) widows and orphans
of those who had died in the cause of crime, (5) the higher officers,
(6) whatever saint or shrine it was desired to propitiate, and (7) the
“screenings” went to the men who did the dirty work.

The Camorrists made use of picture signs for names, and a secret
symbolism to express their meanings, written or spoken. They also had
an argot, or dialect, which has impressed itself upon the language of
the entire lower class of Naples. All criminals have a jargon of their
own, often picturesque, frequently humorous, and the slang of the
Camorrist differed little from that of other associations of crooks
here and elsewhere, save in its greater volume. Much of the Camorrist
vocabulary has passed into common use, and it is difficult to determine
now what words are of strictly Camorristic origin, although the
following are supposed to be so:

  _Freddare_, “to turn a man cold” (to kill).

  _Agnello_, “lamb” (victim).

  _Il morto_, “the dead one” (one robbed).

  _La Misericordia_, “Compassion” (combination knife and
   dagger).

  _Bocca_, “mouth” (pistol).

  _Tric-trac_ (revolver).

  _Sorci neri_, “black rats” (night patrol).

  _Asparago_,[7] “asparagus” (a gendarme who has been
   tricked—“a stiff”).

  _Si accolla_, “he sticks to it” (he shoulders the others’
   crime).

In all there are said to be about five thousand words in the Camorrist
vocabulary; but a large number of these are simply Neapolitan slang,
for inventing which every Neapolitan has a gift.

No more interesting example of this slang has ever come to light than
in the secret diary of Tobia Basile (nicknamed “Scarpia Leggia”) who,
after serving thirty years in prison, returned to the haunts of men
to teach the _picciotti_ the forms and ceremonies of the society and
to instruct them in its secret language. This strange old man, more
literate than most Camorrists, kept a diary in the ancient symbolism
of the brotherhood. Having become bored by his wife he murdered her,
walled her body up in the kitchen, and recorded what he had done, thus:

  May   1,  “The violets are out.”

  May   7,  “Water to the beans.”

  June  11, “I have pruned my garden.”

  Aug.  10, “How beautiful is the sun.”

  Sept. 12, “So many fine sheep are passing.”

Time passed, and a contractor, rebuilding the wall, came upon the
corpse. Tobia denied his guilt, but his diary was found, as well as a
Camorrist translator. “Water to the beans.” That beautiful metaphor was
shown to mean naught else but “I have killed and buried her!” And in
the face of his own diary Tobia admitted the accuracy of his record.
“Water to the beans!”

The first grade of aspirants to the Camorra was that of the _garzone di
mala vita_, or “apprentice,” who was practically a servant, errand-boy,
or valet for his masters or sponsors, and was known as a _giovine
onorato_, or honored youth. The second grade was that of the _picciotti
sgarro_, or novice, originally difficult of attainment and often
requiring from six to ten years of service. The third or final stage
was that of the _capo paranza_, head of a local gang, or “district
leader.”

The society was divided into twelve centres, corresponding to the
twelve quarters of the city of Naples, each centre being, in turn,
subdivided into _paranze_ and having a separate or individual purse.
The chief of each _paranza_ was elected, and was the strongest or
boldest man in the gang. In earlier days he combined the office of
president, which carried with it only the limited authority to call
meetings, with that of cashier, which involved the advantage of being
able to divide the _camorra_, or proceeds of crime. The leader was
entitled himself to the _sbruffo_, a percentage due by “right of
camorra”; and this percentage belongs to-day in every case to the
Camorrist who has planned or directed the particular crime involved.
The leaders of the twelve divisions met, just as they occasionally do
_now_, to discuss affairs of vital importance, but in most matters the
individual sections were autonomous.

According to the confession of an old Camorrist, the lowest grade of
the society was attained by the following rite:

A general meeting of the district was called, at which the sponsor
formally introduced the candidate to the gathering. The leader stood
in the midst of his fellow Camorrists, all of whom were drawn up in
a circle according to seniority. If the treasurer was present the
president had three votes, and the assembly was known in Camorrist
slang as being _cap’ in trino_—three in one: if absent, the society
was known as _cap’ in testa_, which means “the supreme triad.” All
stood perfectly motionless, with arms folded across their breasts and
with bowed heads. The president, addressing the neophyte, said:

“Knowest thou the conditions and what thou must do to become an
honored youth? Thou wilt endure misfortune upon misfortune, thou wilt
be obliged to obey all the orders of the novices and the solemnly
professed, and bring them useful gains to furnish them with useful
service.”

To this the neophyte replies:

“Did I not wish to suffer adversities and hardships, I should not have
troubled the society.”

After a favorable vote on the admission of the candidate, he was led
forward and permitted to kiss each member once upon the mouth. The
president he kissed twice. Certain favors were then asked of the
assembly by the neophyte, and the president made reply:

“The favors asked shall be accorded according to our rules. Our terms
of membership are these:

“First: That thou go not singing or rowing or brawling in the public
streets.

“Secondly: That thou respect the novices and whatsoever instructions
they may give thee.

“Thirdly: That thou obey whole-heartedly our professed members and
carry out their commissions.”

After a few tests of the candidate he was handed over to the “novice
master,” a full-fledged member under whom he was to serve his term of
probation. The period of his apprenticeship depended upon the zeal,
ability, and ready obedience which he displayed in the course of it. He
was absolutely at the mercy of his master, and if so commanded he must
substitute himself for another and take the latter’s crimes upon his
own shoulders; but one who thus made of himself a “martyr” was promoted
to a higher grade in the society.

Promotion to such higher grades involved stricter examination and the
Camorrist admonition:

“Shouldst thou see even thine own father stab a companion or one of the
brethren, thou art bound to defend thy comrade at the cost of stabbing
or wounding thy father; and God help thee shouldst thou traffic with
traitors and spies!”

Standing with one foot in the galleys and the other in the grave
(symbolically), he swore to kill anybody, even himself, should that be
the wish of the society. The kissing ceremony was then renewed, and the
candidate was initiated fully into the secrets of the organization. The
number of weapons in the possession of the Camorra was revealed to him,
the names of brethren under the ban of suspicion, the names of all
novices and postulants, as well as the society password and the code of
recognition signs.

These points of ritual passed, the candidate was then ready for the
blood ceremony, which consisted in tasting the blood of each member
of the assembly, drawn from a small knife-wound made for the purpose,
and finally the combat. For this necessary part of the ceremony of
initiation, the candidate was required to select an opponent from the
assembly. The champions then chose their daggers, picked their seconds,
unshirted themselves—and the fight was on. It was a rule that they
must aim only at the muscles of the arm, and the president, acting as
_capo di tiranta_ (master of combat) was there to see that the rule
was obeyed. At the first drawing of blood the combat was over, and the
victor was brought forward to suck the blood of the wound and embrace
his adversary. If the newly promoted member happened to be the loser,
he had to resume the fight later on with another champion; and not
until he had won in a test was he definitely “passed” and “raised.”

Many other bloody tests have been attributed to this ceremony of the
Camorra; but these, as well as the foregoing in its strict form, have
been largely done away with, except in the prisons, where the society
still retains its formality. There remained, as a final step in the
ritual of initiation, the tattooing of two hearts joined together with
two keys. “Men of honor ought to have heart enough for two people, that
is to say, have a large heart; men bound only to their colleagues and
whose heart is closed as it were with a double key to all others.”
Sometimes a spider took the place of the hearts, symbolizing the
industry of the Camorrist and the silence with which he weaves the web
around his victim. This tattooing is still customary among Camorrists.

The usual Camorrist tribunal consisted of a committee of three
members belonging to the district organization, presided over by the
Camorrist of highest rank among them, and settled ordinary disputes and
punishments. From this there was an appeal in more important matters
to the central committee of twelve. This latter body elected a supreme
head for the entire society, and passed on matters of general policy.
It also sat as a court of original and final jurisdiction in cases of
treachery to the society, such as betraying its secrets or embezzling
its funds, imposed the death penalty, and appointed the executioners.
Its decrees were carried out with blind obedience, although not
infrequently the death sentence was commuted to that of disfiguration.

Such, then, was the society which in 1820 already controlled the
prisons, dealt in assassination and robbery, levied blackmail upon all
classes, trafficked in every sort of depravity, and had a rank and
file upon which its leaders could absolutely rely. It had no political
creed, nor did it interest itself in anything except crime. It had
greater solidarity than the police, which was almost equally corrupt.
Dreaded by all, it was utilized by all, for it could do that which the
police could not do.

The city officials of Naples had a very tender regard for the feelings
of “the brethren of the dagger.” In 1829 certain reformers proposed
building a wall around a notoriously evil street, so that at night,
under lock and key, the inhabitants could be properly “segregated.” But
the Camorra did not take kindly to the suggestion, and a letter was
left with the functionary in charge of the matter:[8]

  NAPLES, September, 1829.

  SIR:

  Are you not aware that in confining these poor girls in walls
  you act as if they were condemned to the lowest depths of
  hell? The prefect of police and the intendant who ordered
  this brutal act have no heart.... We are here who have much
  heart and are always ready to shed our own blood for them,
  and to cut the throats of those who shall do anything toward
  walling up that street. With all humility we kiss your hands.

  N. N.

The street was not walled up, the prefect of the police discovering
that he had too much heart.

Having no politics, the Camorrists became, as it were, Hessians in
politico-criminal activity. They were loyal only to themselves, their
favorite song being:

    “_Nui non simmmo gravanari,
    Nui non simmo realisti,
    Ma nui simmo Camorristi,
    Cuffiano a chilli’ e a chisti!_”

    (We are not Carabinieri,
    We are not royalists,
    But we are Camorrists—
    The devil take the others!)

Under the Bourbons the police recognized and used the Camorra as
their secret agents and granted its members immunity in return for
information and assistance. Both preyed on the honest citizen, and
existed by extortion and blackmail. “The government and the Camorra
hunted with one leash.” Yet, because the police were regarded as the
instruments of despotism, the people came to look upon the Camorrists
(who, technically at least, were hostile to authority) as allies
against tyranny. It was at this period of Italian history that the
present distrust of government and distaste for law had its rise, as
well as the popular sympathy for all victims of legal process and
hatred for all who wear the uniform of the police. The Camorra still
appeals to the dread of tyranny in the heart of the south Italian to
which in large measure, by its complicity, it contributed. Thus the
love of liberty was made an excuse for traffic with criminals; thus
was fostered the _omertà_, the perverted code of honor which makes it
obligatory upon a victim to shield his assassin from the law; and thus
was born the loathing of all authority which still obtains among the
descendants of the victims of Ferdinand’s atrocious system, which,
whatever their origin, gave the _mala vita_—brigandage, the Mafia, and
the Camorra—their virulence and tenacity.

In 1848 the Camorra had become so powerful that Ferdinand II actually
negotiated with it for support; but the society demanded too much
in return and the plan fell through. On this account the Camorra
threatened to bring on a revolution! In this it was not successful,
but it now began openly to affect revolutionary ideas and pretend to
be the friend of liberty, its imprisoned members posing as patriots,
victims of tyranny.

Thus it gained enormously in prestige and membership, while the throne
became less and less secure. Ferdinand II granted a general amnesty in
order to heighten his popularity, and the Camorrists who had been in
jail now had to be reckoned with in addition to those outside. In 1859
Ferdinand died and Francis II seated himself on the quaking throne. His
prefect of police, Liborio Romano, whom history has accused of plotting
the Bourbon overthrow with Garibaldi and of playing both ends against
the middle, had either perforce or with malice prepense conceived the
scheme of harnessing the Camorra by turning over to it the maintenance
of order in the city. The police had become demoralized and needed
rejuvenating, he said. Francis II thereupon had another jail delivery,
and “Don Liborio” organized a “National Guard” and enlisted throngs of
Camorrists in it, while in the gendarmerie he recruited the _picciotti_
as rank and file and installed the regular Camorrists as brigadiers.

Then came the news that Garibaldi was marching upon Naples. Romano,
still ostensibly acting for the best interests of his royal master,
urged the latter’s departure from the capital. The revolution was
coming. In some indefinable way, people who were for the Bourbons
yesterday saw to-day the impossibility of the continuance of the
dynasty. The cat was ready to jump, but it had not jumped yet.
Whatever may have been Romano’s real motives so far as the Bourbons
were concerned, the fact remains that his control over the national
militia and police, during the days and nights just prior to the
departure of the King and the arrival of Garibaldi, resulted in a
vigilance on their part which protected property and maintained an
order otherwise impossible.[9] Garibaldi at last arrived, with Romano’s
Camorrist police on hand to cheer loudly for “Victor Emmanuel and Italy
United!” and to knock on the head or stick a knife into the gizzard of
any one who seemed lukewarm in his reception of the conquering hero.
The cat jumped—assisted by the Camorra. The liberals were in, and with
them the Camorrists, as the saying is, “with both feet.” Thus, perhaps
for the first time in history, was a society of criminals recognized
officially by the government and intrusted with the task of policing
themselves.

From 1860 on the Camorra entered upon a new phase, a sort of duplex
existence, having on the one hand its old criminal organization
(otherwise known as the _Camorra bassa_) and on the other a group of
politicians or ring with wide-spread ramifications, closely affiliated
with the society and dealing either directly with it or through its
more influential and fashionable members, much as a candidate for
office in New York might have secured the support of the “Paul Kelly
Gang” through the offices of the politician under whose patronage it
existed. This “smart set” and the ring connected with it was known
as the _Camorra alta_ or _Camorra elegante_, and from the advent
of Garibaldi to the present time the strictly criminal operations
of the society have been secondary in importance to its political
significance. Its members became not merely crooks, but “protected”
crooks, since they gave office to men who would look after them in
return, and the result was the alliance of politics and crime in the
political history of Southern Italy during the last fifty years.

It is hardly likely that foxy old “Don Liborio” anticipated any such
far-reaching result of his extraordinary manœuvre with the Camorra.
It was not many weeks, however, before the Camorrists who had been
given public office and continued under Garibaldi, began to show
themselves in their true colors, and to use every opportunity for
blackmail and private vengeance. They had been given charge of the
octroi, or taxes levied at the city gates, and these decreased, under
Salvatore di Crescenza, from forty thousand to one thousand ducats per
day. Another Camorrist collector, Pasquale Menotte, had the effrontery
to turn in, on one occasion, the princely sum of exactly four cents.
It became absolutely necessary to get rid of them at any cost, and
to drive them out of the police and army, which they now permeated.
Mild measures were found insufficient, and as early as 1862 a raid
was conducted by the government upon the organization—Sparenta, the
Minister of Police, arresting three hundred Camorrists in one day. But
he accomplished little. From this time on until 1900 the history of
the Camorra is that of a corrupt political ring having a standing army
of crooks and rascals by means of which to carry out its bargains.

During this period many serious attempts were made to exterminate
it, but practically to no purpose. In 1863 another fruitless series
of raids filled the jails of Naples, and even of Florence and Turin,
with its members; but the society continued to flourish—less openly.
The resignation of Nicotera as Prime Minister in 1876 was followed by
a burst of activity among the Camorrists, but in 1877 the government
made a serious effort to put down the Mafia in Sicily, while in
1880 the murder of Bonelli in a foul dive of the Camorra in Naples
resulted in the prosecution of five Camorrists for his murder. The
trial, like that of 1911‒12, took place, for reasons of safety, at
Viterbo. The witnesses testified freely upon every subject save the
Camorra, and could not be induced to suggest that the assassination
had been the result of a conspiracy. “The word Camorra seemed to burn
their tongues.” The jury were so impressed by the obvious terror
which the society inspired in the Neapolitans that they found all the
five—Esposito, Romano, Tiniscalchi, Langella, and Trombetta—guilty,
and they were sentenced to forced labor in the galleys.

Apparently there was a sort of renaissance of the Camorra about 1880,
at the death of Victor Emmanuel II, and under the new administration
of Humbert it began to be increasingly active in political affairs.
At this time the _Camorra alta_ included lawyers, magistrates,
school-teachers, holders of high office, and even cabinet ministers.
The writer does not mean that these men went through the rites of
initiation or served an apprenticeship with the knife, but the whole
villainous power of the Camorra was at their backs, and they utilized
it as they saw fit.

The “Ring,” affiliated as it is with the leaders of the society, is
still the most dangerous manifestation of the Camorra. Historically,
it is true, it was known as the _alta Camorra_ or _Camorra elegante_,
but in ordinary parlance these terms are generally used to describe
Camorrists more closely related to the actual district organizations,
yet of a superior social order—men who perhaps have graduated from
leadership into the more aristocratic if equally shady purlieus
of crime. These handle the elections and deliver the vote, own a
gambling-house or two, or even more disreputable establishments, select
likely victims of society’s offscourings for blackmail, and act as
go-betweens between the Ring and the organization. They also furnish
the influence when it is needed to get Camorrists out of trouble, and
mix freely in the fast life of Naples and elsewhere. The power of the
Ring reached its climax in 1900.

In return for the services of the _Camorra bassa_ in electing its
deputies to office, the government saw to it that the criminal
activities of the society were not interfered with. Prefects who
sought to do their duty found themselves removed from office or
transferred to other communes, and the blight of the Camorra fell upon
Parliament, where it controlled a number of deputies from the provinces
of “Capitanata”; all governmental interference with the Camorra was
blocked, and Italian politics weltered in corruption.

Upon the assassination of King Humbert, in 1900, the situation in
Naples was as bad as that of New York City in the days of the Tweed
Ring. The ignorant Neapolitans sympathized with the Camorrists as
against the police, and voted as they were directed. Almost all the
lower classes were affiliated in some indirect way with the society,
much as they are in New York City with Tammany to-day. The Ring
absolutely controlled all but three of the newspapers published in
the city. The lowest depths had been reached in every department of
municipal and provincial administration, and even the hospitals and
orphan asylums had been plundered to such an extent that there was
nothing left for the thieves to get away with.

At this crisis the Socialist newspaper, _La Propaganda_, courageously
sprang to the attack of the communal administration, in the persons
of the Syndic Summonte and the Deputy Casale, who, smarting under the
lash of its excoriation, brought an action of libel against its editor.
Heretofore similar attacks had come to nothing, but the facts were so
notorious that Summonte evaded service and abandoned his associate,
and Casale, facing the necessity of explaining how he could support
a luxurious establishment on no salary, endeavored to withdraw the
action. The Public Minister himself announced that no witnesses need
be summoned for the defense, and publicly expressed his indignation
that a governmental officer, Commendatore F. S. Garguilo, Sustituto
Procuratore Generale of the Court of Cassation in Naples, should have
accepted a retainer for Casale. The tribunal handed down a decision
finding that the facts asseverated by _La Propaganda_ were fully proved
and, referring to the influence of Casale, said: “The immorality thence
emanating is such as to nauseate every honest conscience, and to affirm
this in a verdict is the commencement of regeneration.”

This was, indeed, the commencement of a temporary regeneration. Casale
was forced to resign his seat in Parliament and in the provincial
council. The entire municipal council resigned, and, amid the roarings
of the Neapolitan Camorrist press, the president of the Council of
Ministers, Senator Saracco, proposed and secured a royal commission
of inquiry of plenipotentiary powers, with a royal commissioner to
administer the commune of Naples. The report of this commission, in
two volumes of nine hundred pages each, draws a shocking picture of
municipal depravity, in which Casale appeared as recommending criminals
to public office, selling places for cash, and holding up payments
to the city’s creditors until he had been “seen.” He was proved to
have received thirty thousand lire for securing a subsidy for a
steamship company, and sixty thousand lire for getting a franchise for
a street railway. It appeared that the corruption in the educational
departments passed description, that concessions were hawked about
to the highest bidder, and that in one deal—the “Scandalous Loan
Contract,” so-called—five hundred thousand lire had been divided
between Scarfoglio, Summonte, Casale, and Delieto. This Scarfoglio,
the editor of _Il Matino_, and the cleverest journalist in Naples,
was exposed as the Ring’s intermediary, and his wife, the celebrated
novelist, Matilde Serao, was demonstrated to have been a trafficker in
posts and places. The trial and exposures created a furore all over
Italy. The Prime Minister refused to continue the Royal Commission and
announced a general election, and, amid the greatest excitement, the
Camorra rallied all its forces for its final struggle in politics. But
the citizens of Naples had had enough of the Ring for the time being,
and buried all the society’s candidates under an avalanche of votes.
This was the severest blow ever dealt to the political influence of the
Camorra.

The Casale trial marks the last stage of the Camorra’s history to date.
America has had too many “rings” of her own to care to delve deeply
into the slime of Italian politics. The Camorra regularly delivers the
votes of the organization to governmental candidates, and exerts a
powerful influence in the Chamber of Deputies. It still flourishes in
Naples, and continues in a somewhat modified form its old formalities
and festivities; but its life is hidden and it works in secret. The
solidarity of the organization has yielded to a growing independence on
the part of local leaders, whose authority is often usurped by some
successful _basista_ (burglary planner). The big _coups_ become fewer
as the years go on, the “stakes” for which the criminal game is played
smaller and smaller.

Police Inspector Simonetti, who had many years’ experience in Naples,
gave evidence before the Viterbo Assize on June 8, 1911, as follows:

“The Camorra truly exists at Naples, and signifies violence and
absolutism. Formerly it had severe laws and iron regulations, and all
the gains derived from criminal undertakings were divided among all the
leaders. There was blind, absolute obedience to the chiefs. In a word,
the Camorra was a state within a state.

“To-day this collectivism, this blind obedience, exists no longer. All
the Camorrists respect one another but they act every man for himself.

“The Camorra exerts its energies in divers ways. The first rung in the
Camorrist ladder is the exploitation of one or more women; the second,
the horsefair sales and public auctions of pawned goods. The Camorrists
go to these latter with the special object of frightening away all
would-be non-Camorrist buyers. Usury constitutes another special
source of lucre, and at Naples is exercised on a very large scale. The
Camorrist begins by lending a sum of five francs, at one franc per week
interest, in such fashion that the gain grows a hundredfold, so that
the Camorrist who began with five-franc loans is able to lend enormous
sums to noblemen in need of funds. For instance, the Camorrist loans
ten thousand lire, but exacts a receipt for twenty thousand lire, and
gives goods in place of money, these goods being subsequently bought
back at low prices by the selfsame usurers. Another great industry of
the Neapolitan Camorra is the receipt of stolen goods; practically all
the receivers of such in Naples are members of the Camorra.”

Governor Abbate, who for thirty years past has been chief warder of the
prisons at Pozzuoli near Naples (the ancient Puteoli at which St. Paul
sojourned for seven days on his way to Rome), gave evidence before the
Viterbo Assize on June 13, 1911:

“In the course of my thirty years’ experience I have had the worst
scum of the Neapolitan Camorra pass through my hands. I have never
met a gentleman nor an individual capable of speaking the truth
among them. I have never been without a contingent of Camorrists in
my prison. I always follow the system adopted in most other Italian
prisons of putting all the Camorrist prisoners together in a pack by
themselves. When new inmates come, they spontaneously declare if they
be Camorrists, just as one might state his nationality or his religion.
I group them accordingly with the rest of their fellows. They know they
will be so treated; and unless we follow this system a perfect inferno
of terrorism ensues. The Camorrists seize the victuals, the clothes and
underwear of the non-Camorrist inmates, whom, in fact, they despoil in
every way imaginable.

“I come to learn the grades of my Camorrist prisoners inasmuch as
Camorrists, probationers, freshmen, and the rank and file, show
studious obedience to their seniors and chiefs, whom they salute with
the title of ‘master.’”

The Camorrist, in addition to exploiting women, still levies toll on
boatmen, waiters, cab-drivers, fruit-sellers, and porters, and, under
guise of protecting the householder from the Camorrists, extorts each
week small sums from the ordinary citizen. The meanest work of these
“mean thieves” is the robbing of emigrants about to embark, from whom
they steal clothing and money and even the pitiful little packages of
food they have provided for the voyage.

A grade higher (or lower) are the gangs of burglars or thieves whose
work is directed and planned, and the tools and means for which are
furnished by a _padrone_ or _basista_. These will also do a job of
stabbing and face-slashing at cut rates or for nothing to oblige a real
friend of the “Beautifully Reformed Society.”

More elevated in the social scale is the type of Professor Rapi or
Signor de Marinis, the _Camorrista elegante_, who on the fringe of
society watches his chance to blackmail a society woman, “arrange”
various private sexual matters for some nobleman, or cheat a drunken
aristocrat at the gaming-tables.

Last, there is the traffic in the elections, which has been so
advantageous to the government in the not distant past that its
ostentatious attempts to drive out the Camorra, made in response
to public demand, have usually been half-hearted, if not blatantly
insincere.

Yet the traditions of the Camorra still obtain, and in many of the
prisons its influence is supreme. Witness the deadly duel between
twelve Camorrists and twelve Mafiusi in 1905 in the Pozzuoli
penitentiary, in which five men were killed and the remainder had to
be torn apart at the muzzles of the infantry. Witness also, and more
strikingly, the trial and execution of Lubrano, who, confined in jail
with other Camorristi, betrayed their secrets. In formal session behind
prison walls, the “brothers” sentenced him to death, and he was stabbed
by a _picciotto_, who was thereupon “raised” to the highest grade of
the society.

The Camorrists still turn out in force for their religious holidays,
and visit Monte Vergine and other shrines in gala costume, accompanied
by their women. Drunken rioting, debauchery, and knifings mark the
devotions of this most religious sect. But they are a shoddy lot
compared to the “bravos” of the last century. At best, they are a lot
of cheap crooks—“pikers” compared to a first-class cracksman—pimps,
sharpers, petty thieves, and dealers in depravity, living off the
proceeds of women and by the blackmail of the ignorant and credulous.

It would be ridiculous to deny that the Camorra exists in Naples, but
it would be equally absurd to claim that it has the picturesqueness or
virility of ancient times. Yet it is dreaded by all—by the Contessa
in her boudoir, by the manager of the great trans-oceanic line, by the
_ragazzo_ on the street. The inquiry of the traveller reveals little
concerning it. One will be confidently told that no such society or
sect any longer exists, and with equal certainty that it is an active
organization of criminals in close alliance with the government. Then,
suddenly, some trifling incident occurs and your eyes are opened to the
truth, at first hardly realized, that the crust of modern civilization
is, in the case of southern Italy, superimposed upon conditions of
life no more enlightened than they were a thousand years ago, and that
hatred and distrust of government, ignorance, bigotry, and poverty make
it a field fertile for any sort of superstition or belief, be it in
the potency of the pulverized bones of young children for rheumatism,
the efficacy of a stuffed dove sliding down a wire as a giver of fat
harvest, or the deadly power of the Camorra. And where several million
people believe in and fear the Camorra, if for no other reason, the
Camorra or something akin to it is bound to exist.

Before long you will begin to find out things for yourself. You may
have your watch filched from your waistcoat pocket, and you may perhaps
get it back through the agency of a shabby gentleman—introduced by
the hotel porter—who, in spite of his rough exterior and threadbare
clothing, proves marvellously skilful in tracing the stolen
property—for a consideration.

You may observe that sometimes, when you take a cab, a mysterious
stranger will spring up beside the driver and accompany you to your
destination. This is the “collector” for the Camorra—the parasite that
feeds on every petty trade and occupation in the city. For the boatman
shares his hire with a man who loiters on the dock; the porter gives up
a soldo or two on every job; and the beggar divides with the Camorra
the profit from _la misericordia_.[10] Last of all, you may stumble into
one of the quarters of Naples where the keeping of order is practically
intrusted to the Camorra; where the police do not go, save in squads;
and where each householder or dive-keeper pays a weekly tax to the
society for its supposed “protection,” part of which goes higher up—to
some “_delegato_” or “commissary” of the “P. S.”[11]

Or you may enter into the Church of Santa Maria del Carmine and find
a throng of evil-faced men and women worshipping at the shrines and
calling for the benediction of the Holy Trinity upon their criminal
enterprises. It is said that sometimes they hang votive offerings of
knives and daggers upon the altars, and religiously give Heaven its
share out of the proceeds of their crimes, much as some of our own
kings of finance and merchant princes, after a lifetime of fraud and
violation of law, will seek to salve their consciences and buy an
entrance to Paradise by founding a surgical hospital or endowing a
chair of moral philosophy. But until, by chance, you meet a Camorrist
funeral, you will have no conception of the real horror of the Camorra,
with its procession of human parasites with their blinking eyes, their
shuffling gait, their artificial sores and deformities, all crawling
from their holes to shamble in the trail of the hearse that carries a
famous _basista_, a _capo paranze_, or a _capo in testa_ to his grave.

It is undoubtedly a fact that ease of living, which generates
indolence, induces moral laxity, and a society composed in part of a
hundred thousand homeless people, so poor that a few soldi represent
a feast or a festival, who sleep in alleys, on the wharves, in the
shrubbery of parks, or wherever night finds them, is a fertile
recruiting ground for criminals. The poverty of the scum of Naples
passes conception. Air and sky, climate and temperature, combine to
induce a vagabondage which inevitably is hostile to authority. The
strong bully the weak; the man tyrannizes the woman; the _padrone_
easily finds a ragged crew eager to do his bidding for a plate of
macaroni and a flask of unspeakable wine; a well-dressed scoundrel
becomes a demi-god by simple virtue of his clothes and paste-diamond
scarf-pin; the thief that successfully evades the law is a hero; and
the crook who stands in with the police is a politician and a diplomat.
The existence of the Camorra in its broad sense turns, not on the vigor
of the government or the honesty of the local functionaries, so much as
on the conditions of the society in which it is to be found.

Such is a glimpse of the Camorra, past and present, which, with its
secret relations to the police, its terrors for the superstitious and
timid, its attraction for the weak and evil-minded, its value to the
politicians, its appeal to the natural hatred of the southern Italian
for law and government, will continue so long as social conditions
in Naples remain the same—until reform displaces indifference and
incapacity, and education[12] and religion effectively unite to lift
the Neapolitans out of the stew of their own grease. This is the
sociological key to the Camorra, for _camorra_ means nothing but
moral delinquency, and moral delinquency is always the companion of
ignorance, superstition, and poverty. These last are the three bad
angels of southern Italy.

For the reasons previously stated it is not surprising that the
disclosures of 1900 had little or no permanent effect upon the
criminal activities of the Camorra. The Ring and the politicians had,
it is true, received a severe shock, but the minor criminals had not
been affected and their hold on the population remained as strong as
ever. Soon the Camorrists became as active at the elections, and the
authorities as complacent, as before, and after a spasmodic pretence
at virtue the “Public Safety” relapsed into its old relations to the
organization.[13]

The leaders of the new “Beautifully Reformed Society” were reported to
be Giovanni Rapi, a suave and well-educated gambler, the Cashier of
the organization and its chief adviser, surnamed “The Professor” for
having once taught modern languages in the public schools, at one and
the same time a member of both the high and the low Camorra, and an
international blackleg; Enrico Alfano, popularly known as “Erricone,”
the reorganizer of the society and its “Supreme Head,” the boss of
all the gangs, a fearless manipulator of elections, a Camorrist of the
new order—of the revolver instead of the knife, the confidant of his
godfather, Don Ciro Vittozzi,—the third of the criminal triumvirate,
the most mediæval of all these mediæval figures, and the Machiavelli of
Naples.

Known as the “Guardian Angel” or “Confessor” of the Camorra, this
priest was chaplain of the Naples Cemetery, and as such was accused
of unsavory dealings of a ghoulish nature,[14] but he exerted wide
power and influence, had the ear of the nobility and the entrée to
their palaces, and even claims to have been the confessor of the
late King. Once, a cabby, not recognizing Vittozzi, overcharged him.
The ecclesiastic protested, but the man was insistent. At length the
priest paid the fare, saying, “Remember that you have cheated Don
Ciro Vittozzi.” That night the cabman was set upon and beaten almost
beyond recognition. Next day he came crawling to the priest and craved
permission to drive him for nothing. Many such stories are told of
Vittozzi.

Besides these leaders, there were a score of lesser lights—de Marinis,
the “swell” of the Camorra, a mixer in the “smart set,” fond of horses
and of diamonds, a go-between for the politicians; Luigi Arena, the
scientific head of the corps of burglars; Luigi Fucci, the “dummy” head
of the Camorra; and Gennaro Cuocolo, a shrewd “basista” and planner of
burglarious campaigns, a little boss, grown arrogant from felonious
success. The cast, indeed, is too long for recapitulation.

These met and planned the tricks that were to be turned, assigned
each “picciotto” to his duty, received and apportioned the proceeds,
giving a due share to the police, and perhaps betraying a comrade or
two for good measure—a crowd of dirty rascals, at whose activities
the authorities connived more or less openly until the dual murder
that forced the Italian government to recognize the gravity of the
conditions existing in the criminal world of Naples.

Then, in the twilight of the early morning of June 6, 1906, two cartmen
found the body of Cuocolo, the “_basista_,” covered with stab-wounds
by a roadside on the slope of Vesuvius. At almost the same moment
in the Via Nardones, in Naples, in a house directly opposite the
Commissariat of Public Safety, the police discovered his wife, Maria
Cutinelli Cuocolo, stabbed to death in her bed. Both were well known
Camorrists, and the crime bore every indication of being a “vendetta.”
The first inquiries and formalities were conducted quite correctly.
The police arrived on the spot and reported. The magistrate came more
deliberately, but in due course. The two places where the crimes
had occurred were duly examined, the two autopsies made, and a few
witnesses heard. So far, everything had gone on just as it might have
in New York or Boston.

But then the Camorra got busy and things began to go differently.
Meantime, however, the police had received an anonymous letter, in
which the writer alleged that upon the night of the murder (June 5) a
certain dinner party had taken place at an inn known as “Mimi a Mare”
at Cupra Calastro in the commune of Torre del Greco, within a hundred
yards of the scene of the homicide, at which the guests present were
Enrico Alfano, Ciro Alfano, his brother, Gennaro Ibello, Giovanni
Rapi, and another. While they were drinking wine and singing, a man
suddenly entered—Mariano de Gennaro—and made a sign to Alfano, who
pledged the visitor in a glass of “Marsala” and cried, “All is well. We
will meet to-morrow.” This the police easily verified, and the diners
were thereupon all arrested and charged with being accomplices in the
murder, simply because it appeared that they had been near by. There
was no other evidence. Perhaps the wise police thought that if arrested
these criminals would confess. At any rate, the merry-makers were all
locked up and Magistrate Romano of Naples began an investigation. At
this juncture of the drama entered Don Ciro Vittozzi, girded in his
priestly robes, a “Holy Man,” in the odor of sanctity.

He hastened, not to the magistrate having the case in charge, but to
another, and induced him to begin an independent investigation. He
swore by his priestly office that his godson, Ciro Alfano, was innocent
as well as the others. He whispered the names of the real murders—two
ex-convicts, Tommaso De Angelis and Gaetano Amodeo—and told where
the evidence of their guilt could be obtained. He produced a witness,
Giacomo Ascrittore, who had overheard them confessing their guilt and
the motive for the murder—revenge because Cuocolo had cheated them
out of the proceeds of still another homicide. A police spy, Antonio
Parlati, and Delegato Ippolito, a Commissary of police, gave their
active assistance to the crafty priest. The prisoners were released,
while in their stead De Angelis and Amodeo were thrown into jail.

Then the storm broke. The decent men of Naples, the Socialists, the
honest public of Italy, with one voice, demanded that an end should
be put to these things—and the Camorra. The cry, taken up by the
unbought press, swept from the Gulf of Genoa to the Adriatic and to
the Straits of Messina. The ears of the bureaucracy burned. Even
Giolitti, the prime minister, listened. The government put its ear to
the ground and heard the rumble of a political earthquake. They are
shrewd, these Italian politicians. Instantly a bulletin was issued that
the government had determined to exterminate the Camorra once and for
all time. The honest and eager King found support ready to his hand
and sent for the General commanding the Carabinieri and intrusted the
matter to him personally. The General at once ordered Captain Carlo
Fabbroni to go to Naples and see what could be done. Fabbroni went,
summoning first Erminio Capezzuti and Giuseppi Farris, non-commissioned
officers of the rank of Maresciallo,[15] sleuths of no mean order.
In two months Capezzuti had ensnared Gennaro Abattemaggio, a petty
thief and blackmailer and an insignificant member of the Camorra,
and induced him to turn informer against the society, and the house
of Ascrittore was searched and a draft of what it was planned that he
should testify to upon the charges against De Angelis and Amodeo was
discovered _written in the hand of Ippolito, the Delegato of Police_!
Thereupon the spy, Parlati, and Ascrittore were both arrested and
thrown into prison on the charge of calumny. Vittozzi, the priest, was
arrested for blackmail, and his residence was rummaged with the result
that quantities of obscene photographs and pictures were discovered
among the holy man’s effects! Abattemaggio made a full confession
and testified that the five diners at “Mimi a Mare”—the first
arrested—had planned the murders and were awaiting at the inn to hear
the good news of their accomplishment.

According to his testimony, Cuocolo and his wife had been doomed
to death by the central Council of the Camorra for treachery to
the society and its decrees. Cuocolo, ostensibly a dealer in
antiquities, was known to have for many years planned and organized
the more important burglaries executed by his inferiors. Owing to
his acquaintance with many wealthy persons and aristocrats he was
able to furnish plans of their homes and the information necessary
successfully to carry out his criminal schemes. In course of time he
married Marie Cutinelli, a woman of doubtful reputation, known as “La
Bella Sorrentina.” She, for her part, purchased immunity for Cuocolo
by her relations with certain police officials, and her house became
the scene of Camorrist debauchery. Thus, gradually, Cuocolo in turn
affiliated himself with the police as a spy, and, to secure himself,
occasionally betrayed an inferior member of the society. He also grew
arrogant, defied the mandates of the heads of the society and cheated
his fellows out of their share of the booty. For these and various
other offences he was doomed to death by the Camorrist tribunal of high
justice, at a meeting held upon May 26, 1906, and presided over by
Enrico Alfano. He and his wife—who otherwise would have betrayed the
assassins to the police—were thereupon stabbed to death, as related
above, on the night of June 5, 1906, by divers members of the Camorra.
The adventures of Capezzuti, who, to accomplish his ends, became a
companion of the canaille of Naples, form a thrilling narrative. For
our present purposes it is enough to say that in due course he formed
the acquaintance of Abattemaggio, visited him in prison, and secured
from him a list of the Camorrists and full information relative to the
inner officers and workings of the organization.

Meanwhile Enrico Alfano having been released from custody had for
a while lived in Naples in his usual haunts, but, on learning that
the Carabinieri had been ordered to take a hand in investigating the
situation, he had gone first into hiding at Afragola, a village near
Naples, and had afterward fled to New York, where he had been arrested
later in the year by Detective Petrosino and sent back to Havre, while
Italian police officers were on their way to America to take him
back to Naples. Luckily, the French government was notified in time,
so that he was turned over to the Italian government instead of being
set at liberty, and was delivered to the Carabinieri in June, 1907, at
Bardonacchia, on the frontier, together with fourteen other criminals
who were being expelled from French territory. Then Capezzuti, armed
with the confession of Abattemaggio, made a clean sweep of all the
Camorrists against whom any evidence could be obtained and conducted
wholesale raids upon their homes and hiding places, with the result
that Rapi and the others were all arrested over again.

During the next four years the Carabinieri found themselves blocked at
every turn owing to the machinations of the Camorra. Abattemaggio made
several independent confessions, and many false and fruitless leads
had to be run down. The police (“Public Safety”) were secretly hostile
to the Carabinieri and hindered instead of helped them. Indeed, they
assisted actively in the defence of the Camorra. Important documents
were purloined. Evidence disappeared. Divers magistrates carried on
separate investigations, kept the evidence to themselves, and connived
at the misconduct of the police. The Delegato Ippolito and his officers
were tried upon the denunciation of Captain Fabbroni, and _were all
acquitted_, for the Carabinieri were not called as witnesses, and the
public prosecutor who had asked for a three-year jail sentence did not
even appeal the case! Each side charged the other with incompetence and
corruption and—nothing happened.

The defendants, numbering thirty-six in all, were finally brought to
trial at the Assize Court at Viterbo, forty miles from Rome, in the
spring of 1911, and at the present time[16] the proceedings are still
going on. The case is, in fact, one of the most sensational on record
and the newspapers of the civilized world have vied with one another in
keeping it in the public eye during the year or more that has elapsed
since the jury were empanelled, but there is no direct evidence as
to the perpetrators of the homicides, and, unfortunately, unless the
jury find that some of the Camorristi in the cage actually planned
and executed the murder of the Cuocolos, the consequences to the
defendants will not be serious, as mere “association for delinquency”
with which most of them are charged is punishable with a shorter term
of imprisonment than that which will have been suffered by the accused
before the conclusion of their trial. Under Article 40 of the Italian
Penal Code, the defendants get credit for this period, so that in
most instances a verdict of guilty at Viterbo would be followed by
the immediate discharge of the prisoners.[17] This is the case with
Rapi—although the evidence has brought out a new offence for which he
may still be prosecuted. And, as blackmail, for which that astounding
rascal, Don Ciro Vittozzi, is being tried, is punishable with but three
to five years imprisonment, “that Holy Man,” as he is termed by Alfano,
will probably never be compelled to retire to a governmental cloister.

But whatever the result of the trial, it is quite unlikely that the
prosecution will have any lasting effect upon the Camorra, for while
this cage full of petty criminals has engaged and is engaging the
entire resources of the Italian government a thousand or so others
have come into being, and an equal number have grown to manhood
and as _picciotti_ have filled the places temporarily left vacant
by their incarcerated superiors. Nay, it is even probable that the
public exploitation of the activities of the society will give it a
new standing and an increased fascination for the unemployed youth of
Naples.




CHAPTER VIII

AN AMERICAN LAWYER AT VITERBO


IT is not unnatural that a young, enthusiastic, and self-confident
people should regard with condescension, if not contempt, the
institutions of foreign, if older, societies. Americans very generally
suffer from the illusion that liberty was not discovered prior to 1776,
and that their country enjoys a monopoly of it. Even experienced and
conservative editorial writers sometimes unconsciously fall victims
to the provincial trait of decrying methods, procedures, and systems
simply because they are not our own. Without, the writer believes, a
single exception, the newspapers of the United States have indulged
in torrents of bitter criticism at the manner in which the trial of
the Camorra prisoners at Viterbo is being conducted, and have commonly
compared the court itself to a “bear garden,” a “circus,” or a “cage
of monkeys.” Wherever the matter has been the subject of discussion
or comment, the tone has been always the same, with the implied, if
unexpressed, suggestion that if the prosecution were being conducted
here the world would see how quickly and effectively we would dispose
of the case—and this with the memory of the Thaw and Patterson trials
fresh in our minds. The following editorial from the New York _Times_,
printed in March of this year, is by no means extreme as compared with
the views expressed in other newspapers, and seems to indicate the
popular impression of the manner in which this trial is being carried
on:

  Our own methods of criminal procedure have long been the
  object of severe and just criticism, and in our exaggerated
  and insincere fear of convicting the innocent we have made
  the conviction of the guilty always difficult and often
  impossible. Quite unknown in our criminal courts, however,
  and fortunately, are such strange scenes as are presented
  daily at the trial of the Camorrists now going on in Italy.

  There the law is so little confident of its own powers that
  the accused are herded together in one steel cage, apparently
  with the idea of preventing attempts at rescue by a public
  largely sympathetic with organized robbery and assassination,
  while the witness for the prosecution is secluded in another
  cage, lest he be torn to pieces by the prisoners or their
  friends. The pleadings on each side seem to consist largely
  of denunciations and threats aimed at the other, tears of
  rage alternate with shrieks of the same origin, and order is
  only occasionally restored, when the din rises too high, by
  the curiously gentle expedient of suspending the session of
  the court.

  How justice is to be the outcome of proceedings such as
  these, and thus conducted, may be comprehensible to what is
  called—with little reason—the Latin mind, but others are
  lost in amazement. It is all highly interesting, no doubt,
  but one is no more likely to regret that we do not carry
  on our trials in this way than he is to be sorry that our
  criminals are not such important and powerful persons as the
  members of the Camorra seem to be.

  Only one fact stands out clearly at Viterbo—the fact that
  the attack on the banded brigands has been so long delayed
  that the authority of the law can not now be vindicated
  without producing a sort of civil war. Which ought to be
  humiliating for somebody.

Only one conclusion could have been reached by the half million readers
of this particular editorial, and that—the immense superiority of our
own legal procedure and method of handling criminal business over those
of Italy.

Yet (to examine the statements in this editorial _seriatim_) it is not
true that scenes similar to those enacted at Viterbo are unknown in
our criminal courts; that the lack of confidence of the authorities
in their own power is the cause of the prisoners being confined in
court in a steel cage; that the public is “largely sympathetic with
organized robbery and assassination”; and that tears and shrieks of
rage alternate to create a pandemonium which can be stilled only by
adjourning court; and, while there is enough justification in fact
to give color to such an editorial, the only extenuation for its
exaggeration and the false impression it creates lies in the charitable
view that the writer had an equally blind confidence in the sincerity
of his resident Italian correspondent and in the latter’s cabled
accounts of what was going on.

Unfortunately, the reporters at Viterbo have sent in only the most
sensational accounts of the proceedings, since, unless their “stuff” is
good copy, the expense of collecting and cabling European news deprives
it of a market. The press men at Viterbo have given the American
editors just what they wanted. Such opportunities occur only once or
twice in a lifetime, and they have fully availed themselves of it.

Then, to the false and exaggerated cable of the correspondent the
“write-up man” lends his imagination; significant and important facts
are omitted altogether, and the public is led to believe that an
Italian criminal trial consists of a yelling bandit in a straitjacket,
with a hysterical judge and frenzied lawyer abusing each other’s
character and ancestry.

Let the writer state, at the outset, that he has never in his legal
experience seen a judge presiding with greater courtesy, patience,
fairness, or ability, or keeping, as a general rule, under all the
circumstances, so perfect a control over his court, as the president of
the assize in which the prosecution of the Camorra is being conducted;
nor is he familiar with any legal procedure better fitted to ascertain
the truth of the charges being tried.

In studying the Camorra trial at Viterbo, or any other Italian or
French criminal proceeding, the reader must bear in mind that there
is a fundamental distinction between them and our own, and that
there are two great and theoretically entirely different systems of
criminal procedure, one of which is the offspring of the Imperial
Roman law and the other entirely Anglo-Saxon. One is the Roman or
inquisitorial system, and the other the English or controversial.
Under the former the officers of the state are charged with the duty
of ferreting out and punishing crime wherever found, and the means
placed at their disposal are those likely to be most effective for the
purpose. The theory of the latter is that, to some extent at least,
a criminal trial is the result of a dispute between two persons, one
the accuser and the other the accused, and that the proceeding savors
of a private law-suit. Now, it is obvious that, in principle at
least, the two systems differ materially. In the one, the only thing
originally considered was the best way to find out whether a criminal
were guilty and to lock him up, irrespective of whether or not any
private individual had brought an accusation against him. In the other,
somebody had to make a complaint and “get his law” by going after it
himself to a very considerable extent.

The history of the development of these diverse theories of criminal
procedure is too involved to be discussed here at any length, but
inasmuch as the most natural way of ascertaining whether or not
a person has been guilty of a crime is to question him about it,
the leading feature of the Continental system is the “question,”
or inquisitorial nature of the proceedings, whereby the police
authorities, who are burdened with the discovery and prosecution of
crime, initiate the whole matter and bring the defendant and their
witnesses before an examining magistrate in the first instance. The
_procureur_ (district attorney) in France and the _procuratore del re_
in Italy represent the government and _are part of the magistracy_.
They are actually quasi-judicial in their character, and their powers
are infinitely greater than those of our own prosecutors, who occupy a
rather anomalous position, akin in some ways to that of a _procureur_,
and at the same time, under our controversial practice, acting as
partisan attorneys for the people or the complainant.

The fundamental proposition under the inquisitorial system is that
the proceeding is _the government’s business_, to be conducted by
its officers by means of such investigations and interrogations as
will most likely get at the truth. Obviously, the quickest and surest
means of determining the guilt of a defendant is to put him through
an exhaustive examination as soon as possible after the crime, under
such surroundings that, while his rights will be safeguarded, the
information at his disposal will be elicited for the benefit of the
public. The fact that in the past the Spanish Inquisition made use of
the rack and wheel, or that to-day the “third degree” is freely availed
of by the American police, argues nothing against the desirability
of a public oral examination of a defendant in a criminal case. If
he be given, under our law, the _right_ to testify, why should he be
_privileged_ to remain silent?

The Anglo-Saxon procedure, growing up at a time when death was the
punishment for almost every sort of offence, and when torture was
freely used to extort confessions of guilt, developed an extraordinary
tenderness for accused persons, which has to-day been so refined and
extended by legislation in America that there is a strong feeling among
lawyers (including President Taft) that there is much in our practice
which has outlived its usefulness, and that some elements of Latin
procedure, including the compulsory interrogation of defendants in
criminal cases, have a good deal to recommend them.

A French or Italian criminal trial, therefore, must be approached with
the full understanding that it is a governmental investigation, free
from many of the rules of evidence which Bentham said made the English
procedure “admirably adapted to the exclusion of the truth.” The judge
is charged with the duty of _conducting_ the case. He does all the
questioning. There is no such thing as cross-examination at all in our
sense, that is to say, a partisan examination to show that the witness
is a liar. The judge is there for the purpose of determining that
question so far as he can, and the jury are not compelled to listen to
days of monotonous interrogation during which the witness is obliged
to repeat the same evidence over and over again, and testify as to the
most minute details, under the dawdling of lawyers paid by the day, who
not only “take time, but trespass upon eternity.”

Such a trial is conducted very much as if the judge were a private
individual who had discovered that one of his employees had been guilty
of a theft and was trying to ascertain the identity of the guilty
party. Practically anything tending to shed light upon the matter is
acceptable as evidence, and the suspected person is regarded as the
most important witness that can be procured. Finally, and in natural
course, comes the confronting of accuser and accused.

Then fellow-servant on the one hand, or formal accuser upon the other,
steps forward, and they go at it “hammer and tongs,” revealing to their
master, the public, or the jury, the very bottom of their souls; for no
man, least of all an Italian, can engage an antagonist in debate over
the question of his own guilt without disclosing exactly what manner of
man he is.

With these preliminary considerations upon the fundamental distinction
between the Latin and the Anglo-Saxon criminal procedure, and without
discussing which theory, on general principles, is best calculated to
arrive at a definite and effective conclusion as to the guilt of an
accused, let us enter the ancient Church of San Francesco at Viterbo,
and listen for a moment to the trial of the thirty-six members of the
Neapolitan Camorra.

It is a cool spring morning, and the small crowd which daily gathers
to watch the arrival of the prisoners in their black-covered wagons
has dispersed; the guard of infantry has marched back to the Rocca,
once the castle of the popes and now a barracks; and only a couple of
carabinieri stand before the door, their white-gloved hands clasped
before their belts. Inside, in the extreme rear of the church, you
find yourself in a small inclosure seating a couple of hundred people,
and a foot or so lower than the level of the rest of the building.
This is full of visitors from Rome, wives of lawyers, townspeople,
and a scattering of English and American motorists. A rail separates
this—the only provision for spectators—from the real court. (At the
Thaw and Patterson trials the guests of the participants and officials
swarmed all over the court-room, around and beside the jury-box, inside
the rail at which the prisoners were seated, and occasionally even
shared the dais with the judge.)

We will assume that the proceedings have not yet begun, and that
the advocates in their black gowns are chatting among themselves or
conferring with their clients through the bars of the cage, which is
built into the right-hand side of the church and completely fills it.
This cage, by the way, is an absolute necessity where large numbers of
prisoners are tried together. The custom of isolating the defendant in
some such fashion is not peculiar to Italy, but is in use in our own
country as well; and if one attends a criminal trial in the city of
Boston he will see the accused elevated in a kind of temporary cell
in the middle of the court-room, and looking as if he were suspended
in a sort of human bird-cage. Where, as in most jurisdictions of
the United States, every defendant can demand a separate trial as
of right (which he almost inevitably does demand), no inconvenience
is to be anticipated from allowing him his temporary freedom while
in the court-room in the custody of an officer. But there are many
cases, where three or more defendants are tried together, when, even
in New York City, there is considerable danger that the prisoners may
seek the opportunity to carry out a vendetta against the witnesses or
to revenge themselves upon judge or prosecutor. There is much to be
said in favor of isolating defendants in some such way, particularly
where they are on trial for atrocious crimes or are likely to prove
insane. The Camorrists at Viterbo have already been incarcerated for
over four years—one of them died in prison—and were they accessible
in the court-room to their relatives or criminal associates and could
thus procure fire-arms or knives, there is no prophesying what the
result might be to themselves or others. Certain it is that the chief
witness, the informer Abbatemaggio, would have met a speedy death
before any of his testimony had been given.

On the opposite or left side of the church, in an elevated box, sit
the jury, who keep their hats on throughout the proceedings. They are
respectable-looking citizens, rather more prepossessing than one of our
own petit juries and slightly less so than twelve men drawn from one of
the New York City special panels. At the end or apex of the church is
a curved bench or dais with five seats. In the middle, under the dome,
are four rows of desks, with chairs, at which sit the advocates, one
or more for each prisoner. The only gallery, which is above and behind
the jury-box, is given over to the press. At all the doors and the ends
of the aisles, at each side of the judges’ dais, and in front of the
prisoners’ cage stand carabinieri, in their picturesque uniforms and
cocked hats with red and blue cockades, and a captain of carabinieri
stands beside each witness as he gives his testimony. Thus the court,
which is in the form of a cross, is naturally divided into four parts
and a centre: in front the spectators, on the right the prisoners, on
the left the jury, between them the lawyers, and at the end the judges
and officers of the assize. A mellow light filters down from above,
rather trying to the eyes.

The Camorrists, heavily shackled, are brought in from a side entrance,
each in custody of two carabinieri, their chains are removed, the
prisoners are thrust behind the bars, and the guards step to one side
and remain crowded around and behind the cage during the session. In
a separate steel cage sits Abbatemaggio, the informer, at an oblique
distance of about five feet from the other prisoners. A guard stands
between the two cages. If one meets a file of these prisoners in one
of the corridors, he will be surprised, and perhaps embarrassed, to
find that each, as he approaches, will raise his shackled hands to his
head, remove his hat, and bow courteously, with a “_Buon giorno_” or
“_Buona sera_.” While this may be one of the universal customs of a
polite country, one cannot help feeling that it is partly due to an
instinctive desire of the accused for recognition as human beings.
All are scrupulously clean and dressed in the heights of Italian
fashion. In fact, the Camorrists are much the best-dressed persons
in the court-room, and the judicial officials, when off duty and in
fustian, look a shade shabby by contrast. The funds of the Camorrists
seem adequate both for obtaining witnesses and retaining lawyers; and
the difference between one’s mental pictures of a lot of Neapolitan
thieves and cutthroats and the apotheosized defendants on trial is at
first somewhat startling. Looking at them across the court-room, they
give the impression of being exceptionally intelligent and smartly
dressed men—not unlike a section of the grandstand taken haphazard at
a National League game. Closer scrutiny reveals the merciless lines in
most of the faces, and the catlike shiftiness of the eyes.

As for the lawyers,—the _avvocati_,—they seem very much like any
group of American civil lawyers and distinctly superior to the
practitioners in our criminal courts. Many are young and hope to win
their spurs in this celebrated case. Others are old warhorses whose
fortunes are tied up with those of the Camorra. At least one such,
Avvocato Lioy, is of necessity giving his services for nothing. But it
is when the _avvocato_ rises to address the court that the distinction
between him and his American brother becomes obvious; for he is an
expert speaker, trained in diction, enunciation, and delivery, and
rarely in our own country (save on the stage or in the pulpit) will
one hear such uniform fluency and eloquence. Nor is the speech of the
advocate less convincing for its excellence, for these young men put a
fire and zeal into what they say that compel attention.

Now, if the prisoners are all seated, the captain of carabinieri raps
upon the floor with his scabbard, and the occupants of the room,
prisoners, advocates, jury, and spectators, rise as the president,
vice-president, prosecutor, vice-prosecutor, and _cancelliere_ enter in
their robes. The president makes a bow, the others bow a little, the
lawyers bow, and everybody sits down—that is to say, everybody who has
arisen; for Don Ciro Vitozzi and “Professor” Rapi, who sit outside and
in front of the cage (the “professor” has already been confined longer
than any term to which he could be sentenced, and both have pleaded
sickness as an excuse for leniency), make a point of showing their
superiority to the vulgar herd by waiting until the last moment and
then giving a partial but ineffectual motion as if to stand.

The five men upon the dais are, however, worthy of considerable
attention. The president, who occupies the centre seat, is a stout,
heavily built, “stocky” man with a brownish-gray beard. In his robes
he is an imposing and dignified figure, in spite of his lack of
height. All wear gowns with red and gold braid and tassels, and little
round caps with red “topknots” and gold bands. This last ornament is
omitted from the uniform of the _cancelliere_, who is the official
scribe or recorder of the court. And just here is noticeable a feature
which tends to accelerate the proceedings, for there are no shorthand
minutes of the testimony, and only a rough digest of what goes on is
made. This is, for the most part, dictated by the president, under
the correction of the advocates and the officers of the court, who
courteously interrupt if the record appears to them inaccurate. If they
raise no objection the record stands as given. Thus thousands of pages
of generally useless matter are done away with, and the record remains
more like the “notes” of a careful and painstaking English judge. Any
particular bit of testimony or the gist of it can usually be found very
quickly, without (as in our own courts of law) the stenographer having
to wade through hundreds of pages of questions and answers before the
matter wanted can be unearthed, buried, like as not, under an avalanche
of objections, exceptions, wrangles of counsel, and irrelevant or
“stricken out” testimony.

At the left of the semicircle sits the acting _procuratore del
re_—another small man who, on the bench, makes a wonderfully
dignified impression. He plays almost as important a part in the
proceedings as the president himself, and is treated with almost equal
consideration. This is Cavaliere Santaro, one of the most learned and
eloquent lawyers in Italy. To hear him argue a point in his crisp,
clean-cut, melodious voice is to realize how far superior Italian
public speaking is to the kind of oratory prevalent in our courts,
and national legislature, and on most public occasions throughout the
United States. Beside both the president and the _procuratore del re_
sits a “vice,” or assistant, to each, to take his place when absent and
to act as associate at other times. The _cancelliere_ occupies the seat
upon the right nearest the prisoners’ cage.

The president having taken his place, the first order of the day is
the reading or revision of all or part of the record of the preceding
session. This is done by the _cancelliere_ who, from time to time,
is interrupted by the lawyers, Abbatemaggio, or the prisoners. These
interruptions are usually to the point, and are quickly disposed
of by the judge, although he may allow an argument thereon at some
length from one of the advocates. The court then proceeds with the
introduction of evidence, documentary or otherwise, the examination of
the witnesses, or the confronting of the prisoners with their accusers.
Now is immediately observable for the first time the characteristic
of Italian criminal procedure which has been so much misrepresented
and has been the cause of such adverse criticism in the United States
and England—namely, the constant interruption of the proceedings by
argument or comment from the lawyers, and by remarks and contradictions
from the prisoners and witnesses. These occasionally degenerate into
altercations of a more or less personal nature; but they are generally
stilled at a single word of caution from the judge, and serve to bring
out and accentuate the different points at issue and to make clear the
position of the different parties. When such interruptions occur, the
proceedings ordinarily resemble a joint discussion going on among a
fairly large gathering of people presided over by a skilful moderator.

A witness is testifying. In the middle of it (and “it” consists of not
only what the witness has seen, but what he has been told and believes)
one of the prisoners rises and cries out:

“That is not so! He is a liar! Abbatemaggio swore thus and so.”

“Nothing of the kind!” retorts the witness impatiently.

“Yes! Yes!” or “No! No!” chime in the advocates.

“Excellency! Excellency!” exclaims Abbatemaggio himself, jumping to his
feet in his cage. “I said in my testimony that Cuocolo _did_ accuse
Erricone,” etc. And he goes on for two or three minutes, explaining
just what he did or did not say or mean, while the president listens
until he has had sufficient enlightenment, and stops him with a sharp
“_Basta!_” (“Enough!”).

The incident (whatever its nature) usually tends to elucidate the
matter, and while to an outsider, especially one not familiar with
Italian dialects, the effect may be one of temporary confusion, it is
nevertheless not as disorderly as it seems, and the president rarely
(so far as the writer could see during many days of observation) loses
complete command of his court, or permits any one to go on talking
unless for a clear and useful purpose. At times, when everybody
seemed to be talking at once, and several lawyers, Abbatemaggio, and
one or two prisoners were on their feet together, his handling of
the situation was little short of marvellous, for he would almost
simultaneously silence one with a sharp “S-s-s!” shake his head at
another, direct a third to sit down, and listen to a fourth until
he stilled him with a well-directed “_Basta_!” When the shouting is
over, one usually finds that who is the liar has been pretty clearly
demonstrated.

In this connection, however, it should be said that the writer was
perhaps fortunate (or unfortunate, as the reader may prefer) in not
being present on those days when the scenes of greatest excitement
and confusion occurred. Several times, it is true, President Bianchi
has preferred to adjourn court entirely on account of the uproar,
rather than take extreme measures against individual defendants or
witnesses. Thus, during the entire conduct of the case and in spite
of the grossest provocation, he has ordered the forcible removal of
only three defendants—that of Morro on June 21, 1911, and of Alfano
and Abbatemaggio on July 21, 1911. On several other occasions he
has adopted the more gentle expedient of adjourning the proceedings
and clearing the court, and this has resulted in a certain amount of
criticism from the Italian bar, which otherwise regards his presiding
as a model of efficiency. The only adverse comment that the writer has
heard in Italy, either of the president or the _procuratore del re_, is
that both are somewhat lenient toward the conduct of the prisoners and
their advocates, and lack strength in dealing with exigencies of the
character just described. In the long run, however, if such criticism
be just, such an attitude is bound to be in favor of justice, and will
irresistibly convince the public and the world at large that this is no
attempt on the part of the government to “railroad” a lot of suspected
undesirables at any cost, whatever the evidence may be.

Before commenting too harshly upon this mote in the eye of Italian
procedure, it may not be unwise to consider whether any similar
beam exists in our own. Certainly there is a deal of interruption,
contradiction, and disputation in our own criminal courts which
sometimes is not only undignified, but frequently ends in an unseemly
dispute between judge and lawyers. Contempt of court is very general
in the United States, and we have practically no means for punishing
it. Moreover, these scenes in our own courts do not usually assist
in getting at the truth. With us, once a witness has spoken and his
testimony has become a matter of record, whether he has said what he
meant to say or not (under the complicated questions put in examination
and cross-examination), or whether or not he has succeeded in giving
an accurate impression of what he saw or knows, he is hustled out of
the way and made to keep silence. He has little, if any, chance to
explain or annotate his testimony. A defendant may go to jail or be
turned loose on the community because the witness really didn’t get a
chance to tell his own story in his own way. Now, the witness’s own
story in precisely his own way is just what they are looking for under
the inquisitorial procedure, and if he is misinterpreted they want
to know it. The process may take longer, but it makes for getting at
the truth, and the Italians regard a criminal trial as of even more
importance than do some of our judges, who often seem more anxious to
get through a record-breaking calendar and “dispose of” a huge batch
of cases than to get at the exact facts in any particular one. There
is nothing “hit or miss” about the Continental method. Whatever its
shortcomings, whatever its limitations to the cold Anglo-Saxon mind,
it brings out all the details and the witness’s reasons. At an Italian
trial a witness might testify (and his evidence be considered as
important) that he heard sounds of a scuffle and a man’s voice exclaim,
“You have stabbed me, Adolfo!” that somebody darted across the street
and into an alley, that an old woman whom he identifies in court as the
deceased’s mother, and who was standing beside him, cried out, “That is
my son’s voice!” and that three or four persons came running up from
several different locations, each of whom described, circumstantially
and independently, a murder which he had seen perpetrated, identifying
the assassin by name.

In America it is doubtful whether in most jurisdictions the witness
would be permitted to testify to anything except that he heard a
scuffle, saw a man run away, and that an old woman and several other
people thereupon said _something_.

It must not be supposed that the trial of the Camorra is being
conducted with the calm of a New England Sabbath service; but the
writer wishes to emphasize the fact that the confusion, such as it
is, serves a certain purpose, and that the yellings and heartrending
outcries described by the newspaper correspondents are only occasional
and much exaggerated—except in so far as they might occur at an
Italian trial in America. Any one who has been present at many murder
trials in New York knows that outbreaks on the part of Italian
prisoners are to be anticipated and are frequent if not customary.
The writer recalls more than one case where the defendant shrieked
and rolled on the floor, clutching at the legs of tables, chairs, and
officers, until dragged by main force from the court-room. And at
Viterbo they are trying thirty-six Italians at the same time; and every
person participating in or connected with the affair is an Italian,
sharing in the excitability and emotional temperament of his fellows.

A noteworthy feature of this particular prosecution is that (due
doubtless to the strength and ability of the presiding judge), in
spite of all interruptions and the freedom of discussion, the taking
of evidence proceeds with a rapidity greater than in America, for
the reason that there are no objections or exceptions, or attendant
argument, and, above all, no cross-examination, except such questions
as are put by the judge himself at the request of the advocates.

Finally, the system of the _confronto_, or confronting of the accused
by his accuser, deserves a word of commendation, for no method could
possibly be devised whereby the real character and comparative
truthfulness of each would be so readily disclosed. The defendant is
given on this occasion free scope to cross-examine the witness and
deny or refute what he says, and it takes ordinarily but a few minutes
before the mask is torn aside and each pictures himself in his true
colors. Our procedure tends to deprive the witnesses of personality
and to reduce them all to a row of preternaturally solemn and formal
puppets. It is probably true that in most criminal cases in America
the defendant is convicted or acquitted without the jury having any
very clear idea of what sort of person he really is. On the day of
his trial the prisoner makes a careful toilet, is cleanly shaved, and
dons a new suit of clothes and fresh linen. The chances are that, as
he sits at the bar of justice, he will make at least as good and very
possibly a more favorable impression upon the jury than the witnesses
against him, who have far less at stake than he. Each takes the stand
and is sworn to tell the truth, so far as they will be permitted to do
so under our rules of evidence. Then the district attorney proceeds to
try to extract their story of the crime under a storm of objections,
exceptions, and hasty rulings from the judge. Then the prisoner’s
lawyer (who can take all the liberties he wants, as the State has no
appeal in case of an acquittal) proceeds to mix things up generally
by an unfair and confusing cross-examination. At last the defendant
is called, and marches to the stand, looking like an early Christian
martyr. He is carefully interrogated by his lawyer, who permits him (if
he be wise) to do nothing but deny the salient facts against him. The
district attorney, to be sure, has the right of cross-examination, but
a skilful criminal lawyer has plenty of opportunities to “nurse” his
client along and guide him over pitfalls; and when all is over the jury
have formed no valuable or accurate impression of the defendant’s real
character and personality—whether or not, in other words, he is the
kind of man who _would have done_ such a thing.

In Italy (to use vulgar English) they “sic” them at each other and
let them fight it out, and while the language of the participants is
often not parliamentary, the knowledge that they are being watched
by the judge and jury has a restraining effect, and the presence of
the carabinieri makes violence no more likely than in our own courts.
Occasionally, in America, where a prisoner insists on conducting his
own defence, a similar scene may be witnessed—always, it may be
affirmed, to the enlightenment of the jury. On the other hand, most
confrontations are attended with few sensational incidents or emotional
outbreaks.

The writer was fortunate enough to be present when “Professor”
Rapi was confronted by Gennaro Abbatemaggio, and, to his surprise,
found that the proceeding, instead of being interspersed with yells
of rage and vehement invocations to Heaven, closely resembled a
somewhat personal argument between two highly intelligent and deeply
interested men of affairs. Whatever may be Rapi’s real character (and
he is said to supply a large part of the brains of the Camorra, as
well as handling all its funds), he is, as he stands up in court, a
fine-looking, elegantly dressed man, of polished manners and speech.
If the evidence against him is to be believed, however, his mask of
gentility covers a heart of mediæval cruelty and cunning, for he is
alleged to have made the plans and given the final directions to
Sortino for the murder of the Cuocolos. Rapi is a celebrated gambler,
and as such may have had the acquaintance of some decadent members of
the Italian aristocracy, who not only knew him in the betting ring at
the races, but frequented his establishment in Naples, which he called
the “Southern Italy Club.” In 1875, at the age of eighteen, he won
against four hundred candidates the position of instructor in classical
languages in the municipality of Naples. Some ten years later, in 1884,
he moved with his parents to France. At this time he was suspected of
having something to do with the murder of a Camorrist youth, named
Giacomo Pasquino, who, in fact, was killed in a duel with a fellow
member of the society.

From that time on Rapi became a professional gambler, and as such was
expelled from France in 1902. Later he returned to Naples and opened
a sort of “Canfield’s” there. At any rate, he boasts that it was the
centre of attraction for dukes and princes. That he had any sort of
acquaintance with or admission to aristocratic circles is entirely
untrue; but he certainly was a figure in the fast life of the town, and
used what position he had to further the ends of the Camorra. It is
alleged that he was the actual treasurer of the Camorra, and disbursed
the funds of its central organization, apportioning the proceeds of
robberies and burglaries among the participants, and acting as head
receiver for all stolen goods. Certainly he was a friend of “Erricone”
and an associate of well-known Camorrists, and he was one of the
five arrested immediately after the Cuocolo murders on suspicion of
complicity, because of his known presence on the night of the crime at
Torre del Greco, not far from the place where the murder of Gennaro
Cuocolo was perpetrated. For fifty-two days he remained in prison, and
was then set at liberty through the efforts of Father Ciro Vitozzi.
He continued to reside in Naples until April, 1908, when the French
decree against him was cancelled and he returned to Paris, after
holding a sort of informal levee at the Naples railroad station, where
many persons of local distinction, journalists, and others came to see
him off. It was in the following June that he says he read in a Paris
paper that his departure from Naples was regarded as a flight. He
wired to the _procuratore del re_ at Naples, offering to place himself
absolutely at the disposition of the authorities; but, receiving no
response, he returned by train to Naples to present himself before the
magistrates. He was promptly arrested _en route_, and for four years
has been in jail, being questioned by the authorities on only three
occasions during that period. He claims that at the time of the murder
he was living in England, and his elaborate alibi is supported by a
number of witnesses whose testimony is more or less relevant.

Without dilating on the individual history of this sleek gentleman, be
he merely gambler or full-fledged accomplice in many murders, it is
enough to say that when confronted by Abbatemaggio he conducted himself
with the most suave and courteous moderation. Alternately he would
politely engage the informer in argument or ask him a question or two,
and then in polished sentences would address the jury and spectators.

He is the antithesis of Abbatemaggio, who has an insolent confidence
and braggadocio about him that carry with them a certain first-hand
impression of sincerity. In fact, the fiery little black-haired
coachman has proved so convincing to the public that the Camorrists
have been driven to allege that he is mad. He gives no indication
of madness, however, although the government, to refute any such
contention, has an alienist, Professor Otto Lenghi, in court to
keep him under constant surveillance. His memory is astonishing and
uncannily accurate. His mind works with marvellous rapidity, and had
he been born in a different environment he would have made his mark in
almost any line that he might have chosen. He has all the instincts
and tricks of the actor, is a master of repartee, extremely witty, with
a tongue like a razor, and delights the spectators with his sallies
and impertinences. Altogether Abbatemaggio is the centre of attraction
at Viterbo—and knows it. He makes the court wait on his health and
convenience, and has evidently made up his mind that, if his life is to
be short, he will at least make it as merry as possible. Naturally he
is a sort of popular idol, and a _confronto_ in which he is one of the
participants draws a crowd of the townspeople, who applaud his gibes
and epigrams and jeer at his Camorrist opponent.

On the afternoon of the Rapi-Abbatemaggio _confronto_ the “Professor”
arose with great dignity, bowed low to the court and jury, folded his
hands over his stomach, and faced the audience with an air of patient
resignation. Then the captain of carabinieri unlocked Abbatemaggio’s
cage, and the little coachman sprang to his feet, gave a twirl to his
moustache and a contemptuous glance at Rapi as if to say, “Look at the
old faker! See how I shall show him up!”

With an attitude respectful toward the court and scornful toward
Rapi, he takes his stand by the _procuratore del re_ and awaits his
antagonist’s attack. The “Professor” accosts him gently, almost
pathetically. Abbatemaggio answers in cold, unsympathetic tones that
tell the spectators that they must not be deceived by the oily address
of this arch-conspirator. But Rapi, with his magnificent voice, is a
foe to be reckoned with, and presently he enters upon a denunciation of
the informer that is distinctly eloquent and full of vehement sarcasm.
Abbatemaggio flushes and interrupts him, the “Professor” attempts to
proceed, but the little coachman sweeps him out of the way and pours
forth a rapid-fire volley of Neapolitan dialect in which he accuses
Rapi of being a hypocrite and a liar and a man who lives on the
criminality of others, referring specifically to various enterprises in
which they have both been engaged as partners. He pauses for breath,
and Rapi plunges in, contradicting, denouncing, and accusing in turn.
The prisoners by interjectory exclamations show their approval.

“Sh-sh-sh!” remarks _il presidente_, raising a finger.

“Excellency! Excellency!” exclaims Abbatemaggio deprecatingly, as if
pained that the judge should be compelled to listen to such an outburst.

Presently he can restrain himself no longer, and both he and Rapi
begin simultaneously to harangue the court, until the president orders
Abbatemaggio to stop and the captain of carabinieri touches Rapi on the
shoulder. The latter is now reduced to tears and wrings his hands as
he calls his aged mother to witness that he is an innocent man! Soon
order is restored, and the _confronto_ concludes with a sort of summing
up of his defence on the part of the “Professor.” It is a model of
rhetoric, rather too carefully calculated to appear as sincere as his
previous outbursts. He calls down the curses of God upon Abbatemaggio,
who listens contemptuously; he protests the purity of his life and
motives; he weeps at the irony of fate that keeps him—the merest
object of suspicion—confined in a loathsome prison. Then he bows and
resumes his seat by the side of Father Ciro Vitozzi, to whom, amid the
laughter of the spectators, he has referred as “that holy man there.”
And, apart from the argument between him and Abbatemaggio, there has
really been no more denunciation, no more emotion, no more tears, than
if an ordinary criminal attorney in a New York City court were summing
up an important case.

Court adjourns. No sooner has the judge departed than an outcry is
heard from the cage.

“I am tired—_tired_—_tired_!” exclaims an agonized voice. “I have
been in prison for five years! Everybody else talks and I have to
listen. I am not allowed to speak, and nothing ever happens! It is
interminable! I cannot stand it!”

It is “Erricone” having one of his periodical moments of relief. After
all, one is not inclined to blame him very much, for there is a good
deal of truth in what he says—owing to the way the case was bungled
in its earlier stages. The carabinieri rush up, “Erricone” is pacified
by his fellow Camorrists, and quiet is restored. One inquires if there
is generally any more excitement than has just occurred, and is told
that it has been quite a sensational day, but then—that “Erricone” is
always “yelling.” A good many defendants make a noise and carry on—and
so do their relatives—after court has adjourned, in America.

One is in doubt whether to believe Abbatemaggio on the one hand or
Rapi on the other, and ends by concluding that it would be utterly
impossible to believe either. Both were acting, both playing to the
gallery. You know Rapi is a crook, and—well you wouldn’t trust
Abbatemaggio, either, around the corner. And, after all, it is the word
of the one against that of the other so far as any particular defendant
is concerned. But one fixed impression remains—that of the aplomb,
intelligence, and cleverness of these men, and the danger to a society
in which they and their associates follow crime as a profession. Once
more you study the faces of the well-dressed prisoners in the cage,
of the four alleged assassins of Cuocolo—Morra, Sortino, de Gennaro,
and Cerrato; of Giuseppe Salvi, the murderer of Maria Cutinelli; of
Luigi Fucci, the dummy head of the Camorra; of “Erricone” Alfano, the
wolfish supreme chief and dictator of the society; of Luigi Arena, the
captain of the Neapolitan burglars; of that mediæval rascal, “Father”
Ciro Vitozzi, the most picturesque figure of the lot; of Desiderio,
head of petty blackmailing and tribute-levying industry; of Maria
Stendardo, whose house was a Camorrist hell; and of Rapi, the gambling
“professor” and “Moriarty” of Naples—and you know instinctively that,
whether as an abstract proposition Abbatemaggio conveys an impression
of absolute honesty or not, what he has said is true and that this is
the Camorra—the real Camorra, vile, heartless, treacherous!

Then, if you were asked to give your impressions of the way the
trial was being carried on, you would probably say that, considering
the magnitude of the task involved, the mass of evidence (there are
forty volumes of the preliminary examinations), the great number of
prisoners and the multitude of witnesses, and the latitude allowed
under the Italian law in the matter of taking testimony, the trial
was being conducted considerably faster than would be probable in
America under like conditions; that the methods followed are admirably
calculated to ascertain the truth or falsity of the charges; that the
judge presides with extreme fairness, courtesy, and ability; that, all
things considered, there is, as a rule, less confusion or disorder than
would be naturally expected—that, in a word, the Italian government is
making a good job of it, and deserves to be congratulated.

Indeed, so far as the procedure is concerned, it is not so very
different from our own, and, were it not for the presence of the
uniforms of the carabinieri and the officers of infantry in the
court-room, and the huge cage in which the prisoners are confined, one
could easily imagine one’s self in a court in America. The conduct
of the trial is far more free, far less formal, than with us—a fact
which, the writer believes, makes in the end for effectiveness,
although the excitability of the Italian temperament occasionally
creates something of an uproar, which calls for a suspension of
proceedings. Doubtless the prisoners give vent to cries of rage and
humiliation; perhaps one or two of them in the course of the trial may
faint or have fits (such things happen with us); the judge and lawyers
may squabble, and accuser and accused roundly curse each other. Such
things could hardly help occurring in a trial lasting, perhaps, a year.
In fact, deaths and births have occurred among them during this period,
for Ciro Alfano has passed away and Maria Stendardo has given birth to
a child; but, on the whole, there is probably no more excitement, no
more confusion, no more bombast, and vastly less sensationalism than if
thirty-six members of the Black Hand were being tried _en masse_ in one
of our own criminal courts for a double murder, involving the existence
of a criminal society whose ramifications extended into the national
legislature and whose affiliations embraced the leaders of a local
political organization and many officials and members of the New York
police.




CHAPTER IX

THE MALA VITA IN AMERICA


THERE are a million and a half of Italians in the United States, of
whom nearly six hundred thousand reside in New York City—more than in
Rome itself. Naples alone of all the cities of Italy has so large an
Italian population; while Boston has one hundred thousand, Philadelphia
one hundred thousand, San Francisco seventy thousand, New Orleans
seventy thousand, Chicago sixty thousand, Denver twenty-five thousand,
Pittsburgh twenty-five thousand, Baltimore twenty thousand, and there
are extensive colonies, often numbering as many as ten thousand, in
several other cities.

So vast a foreign-born population is bound to contain elements of both
strength and weakness. The north Italians are _molto simpatici_ to the
American character, and many of their national traits are singularly
like our own, for they are honest, thrifty, industrious, law-abiding,
and good-natured. The Italians from the extreme south of the peninsula
have fewer of these qualities, and are apt to be ignorant, lazy,
destitute, and superstitious. A considerable percentage, especially
of those from the cities, are criminal. Even for a long time after
landing in America, the Calabrians and Sicilians often exhibit a lack
of enlightenment more characteristic of the Middle Ages than of the
twentieth century.

At home they have lived in a tumble-down stone hut about fifteen feet
square, half open to the sky (its only saving quality); in one corner
the entire family sleeping in a promiscuous pile on a bed of leaves;
in another a domestic zoo consisting of half a dozen hens, a cock, a
goat, and a donkey. They neither read, think, nor exchange ideas. The
sight of a uniform means to them either a tax-gatherer, a compulsory
enlistment in the army, or an arrest, and at its appearance the man
will run and the wife and children turn into stone. They are stubborn
and distrustful. They are the same as they were a thousand or more
years gone by.

When the writer was acting as an assistant prosecutor in New York
County, a young Italian, barely twenty years of age, was brought to
the bar charged with assault with intent to kill. The complainant was
a withered Sicilian woman who claimed to be his wife. Both spoke an
almost unintelligible dialect. The case on its face was simple enough.
An officer testified that on a Sunday morning in Mulberry Bend Park, at
a distance of about fifty feet from where he was standing, he saw the
defendant, who had been walking peaceably with the complaining witness,
suddenly draw a long and deadly looking knife and proceed to slash her
about the head and arms. It had taken the officer but a moment or two
to seize the defendant from behind and disarm him, but in the meantime
he had inflicted some eleven wounds upon her body. No explanation
had been offered for this terrible assault, and the complainant had
appeared involuntarily before the Grand Jury and afterward had to
be kept in the House of Detention as a hostile witness. The woman,
who appeared to be about fifty years old, was sworn, and on being
questioned stated that she had been married to the defendant in Sicily
three years before. She declined to admit that he had attacked or
harmed her in any way, constantly mumbling: “He is my husband. Do not
punish him!”

The defendant, however, seemed eager to get on the stand and to tell
his story; nor did the introduction of the knife in evidence or the
exhibition of the woman’s wounds embarrass him in the slightest degree.
His manner was that of a man who had only to explain to be entirely
exonerated from blame. He nodded at the jury and the judge, and scowled
at the complainant, who was speedily conducted to a place where no harm
could possibly come to her. When at last he was sworn, he could hardly
restrain himself into coherency.

“Yes—that woman forced me to marry her!” he testified in substance.
“But in the eyes of God I am not her husband, for she bewitched me!
Else would I have married an old crone who could not have borne me
children? When her spells weakened I left her and came to America.
Here I met the woman I love,—Rosina,—and as I had been bewitched
into the other marriage, we lived together as man and wife for two
years. Then one day a friend told me that the old woman had followed
me over the sea and was going to throw her spells upon me again. But
I did not inform Rosina of these things. The next evening she told me
that an old woman had been to the house and asked for me. For days my
first wife lurked in the neighborhood, beseeching me to come back to
her. But I told her that in the eyes of God she was not my wife. Then,
in revenge, she cast the evil eye upon the child—_sul bambino_—and
for six weeks it ailed and then died. Again the witch asked me to go
with her, and again I refused. This time she cast her evil eye upon
my wife—and Rosina grew pale and sick and took to her bed. There was
only one thing to do, you understand. I resolved to slay her, just as
you—_giudici_—would have done. I bought a carving-knife and sharpened
it, and asked her to walk with me to the park, and I would have killed
her had not the police prevented me. Wherefore, _O giudici!_ I pray you
to recall her and permit me to kill her or to decree that she be hung!”

This case illustrates the depths of ignorance and superstition that
are occasionally to be found among Italian peasant immigrants. Another
actual experience may demonstrate the mediæval treachery of which the
Sicilian Mafiuso is capable, and how little his manners or ideals have
progressed in the last five hundred years or so.

A photographer and his wife, both from Palermo, came to New York and
rented a comfortable home with which was connected a “studio.” In the
course of time a young man—a Mafiuso from Palermo—was engaged as
an assistant, and promptly fell in love with the photographer’s wife.
She was tired of her husband, and together they plotted the latter’s
murder. After various plans had been considered and rejected, they
determined on poison, and the assistant procured enough cyanide of
mercury to kill a hundred photographers, and turned it over to his
mistress to administer to the victim in his “Marsala.” But at the last
moment her hand lost its courage and she weakly sewed the poison up for
future use inside the ticking of the feather bolster on the marital bed.

This was not at all to the liking of her lover, who thereupon took
matters into his own hands, by hiring another Mafiuso to remove the
photographer with a knife-thrust through the heart. In order that the
assassin might have a favorable opportunity to effect his object, the
assistant, who posed as a devoted friend of his employer, invited the
couple to a Christmas festival at his own apartment. Here they all
spent an animated and friendly evening together, drinking toasts and
singing Christmas carols, and toward midnight the party broke up with
mutual protestations of regard. If the writer remembers accurately,
the evidence was that the two men embraced and kissed each other.
After a series of farewells the photographer started home. It was a
clear moonlight night with the streets covered with a glistening fall
of snow. The wife, singing a song, walked arm in arm with her husband
until they came to a corner where a jutting wall cast a deep shadow
across the sidewalk. At this point she stepped a little ahead of him,
and at the same moment the hired assassin slipped up behind the victim
and drove his knife into his back. The wife shrieked. The husband
staggered and fell, and the “bravo” fled.

The police arrived, and so did an ambulance, which removed the
hysterical wife and the transfixed victim to a hospital. Luckily the
ambulance surgeon did not remove the knife, and his failure to do so
saved the life of the photographer, who in consequence practically
lost no blood and whose cortex was skilfully hooked up by a dextrous
surgeon. In a month he was out. In another the police had caught the
would-be murderer and he was soon convicted and sentenced to State
prison, under a contract with the assistant to be paid two hundred and
fifty dollars for each year he had to serve. Evidently the lover and
his mistress concluded that the photographer bore a charmed life, for
they made no further homicidal attempts.

So much for the story as an illustration of the mediæval character of
some of our Sicilian immigrants. For the satisfaction of the reader’s
taste for the romantic and picturesque it should be added, however,
that the matter did not end here. The convict, having served several
years, found that the photographer’s assistant was not keeping his part
of the contract, as a result of which the assassin’s wife and children
were suffering for lack of food and clothing. He made repeated but
fruitless attempts to compel the party of the first part to pay up,
and finally, in despair, wrote to the District Attorney of New York
County that he could, if he would, a tale unfold that would harrow up
almost anybody’s soul. Mr. Jerome therefore, on the gamble of getting
something worth while, sent Detective Russo to Auburn to interview
the prisoner. That is how the whole story came to be known. The case
was put in the writer’s hands, and an indictment for the very unusual
crime of attempted murder (there are only one or two such cases on
record in New York State) was speedily found against the photographer’s
assistant. At the trial the lover saw his mistress compelled to turn
State’s evidence against him to save herself. She testified to the
Christmas carols and the cyanide of mercury.

“Did you ever remove this terrible poison from the bolster?” demanded
the defendant’s counsel in a sneering tone.

“No,” answered the woman.

“Have you ever changed the bolster?” he persisted.

“No.”

“Then it’s there yet?”

“I—I think so,” falteringly.

“I demand that this incredible yarn be investigated!” cried the lawyer.
“I ask that the court send for the bolster and cut it open here in the
presence of the jury.”

The writer had no choice but to accede to this request, and the bolster
was hunted down and brought into court. With some anxiety both sides
watched while the lining was slit with a penknife. A few feathers
fluttered to the floor as the fingers of the witness felt inside and
came in contact with _the poison_. The assistant was convicted of
attempted murder on the convict’s testimony, and sentenced to Sing Sing
for twenty-five years. That was the end of the second lesson.

About a month afterward the defendant’s counsel made a motion for a new
trial on the ground that the convict now admitted his testimony to have
been wholly false, and produced an affidavit from the assassin to that
effect. Naturally so startling an allegation demanded investigation.
Yes, insisted the “bravo,” it was all made up, a “camorra”—not a word
of truth in it, and he had invented the whole thing in order to get a
vacation from State prison and a free ride to New York. However, the
court denied the motion. The writer procured a new indictment against
the assassin—this time for perjury—and he was sentenced to another
additional term in prison. What induced this sudden and extraordinary
change of mind on his part can only be surmised.

These two cases are extreme examples of the mediævalism that to a
considerable degree prevails in New York City, probably in Chicago and
Boston, and wherever there is an excessive south Italian population.

The conditions under which a large number of Italians live in this
country are favorable not only to the continuance of ignorance,
but to the development of disease and crime. Naples is bad enough,
no doubt. The people there are poverty-stricken and homeless. But
in New York City they are worse than homeless. It is better far to
sleep under the stars than in a stuffy room with ten or twelve other
persons. Let the reader climb the stairs of some of the tenements in
Elizabeth Street, or go through those in Union Street, Brooklyn, and
he will get first-hand evidence. This is generally true of the lower
class of Italians throughout the United States, whether in the city
or country. They live under worse conditions than at home. You may go
through the railroad camps and see twenty men sleeping together in a
one-room hut of lath, tar-paper, and clay. The writer knows of one
Italian laborer in Massachusetts who slept in a floorless mud hovel
about six feet square, with one hole to go in and out by and another
in the roof for ventilation—in order to save $1.75 per month. All
honor to him! Garibaldi was of just such stuff, only he suffered in a
better cause. In Naples the young folks are out all day in the sun.
Here they are indoors all the year round. For the consequences of this
change see Dr. Peccorini’s article in the _Forum_ for January, 1911,
on the tuberculosis that soon develops among Italians who abroad were
accustomed to live in the country but here are forced to exist in
tenements.

Now, for historic reasons, these south Italians hate and distrust all
governmental control and despise any appeal to the ordinary tribunals
of justice to assert a right or to remedy a wrong. It has been justly
said by a celebrated Italian writer that, in effect, there is some
instinct for civil war in the heart of every Italian. The insufferable
tyranny of the Bourbon dynasty made every outlaw dear to the hearts
of the oppressed people of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. Even if
he robbed them, they felt that he was the lesser of two evils, and
sheltered him from the authorities. Out of this feeling grew the
“Omertà,” which paralyzes the arm of justice both in Naples and Sicily.
The late Marion Crawford thus summed up the Sicilian code of honor:

  According to this code, a man who appeals to the law against
  his fellow man is not only a fool but a coward, and he who
  cannot take care of himself without the protection of the
  police is both.... It is reckoned as cowardly to betray an
  offender to justice, even though the offence be against one’s
  self, as it would be not to avenge an injury by violence. It
  is regarded as dastardly and contemptible in a wounded man
  to betray the name of his assailant, because if he recovers
  he must naturally expect to take vengeance himself. A rhymed
  Sicilian proverb sums up this principle, the supposed speaker
  being one who has been stabbed. “If I live, I will kill
  thee,” it says; “if I die, I forgive thee!”

Any one who has had anything to do with the administration of criminal
justice in a city with a large Italian population must have found
himself constantly hampered by precisely this same “Omertà.” The south
Italian feels obliged to conceal the name of the assassin and very
likely his person, though he himself be but an accidental witness of
the crime; and, while the writer knows of no instance in New York City
where an innocent man has gone to prison himself rather than betray a
criminal, Signor Cutera, formerly chief of police in Palermo, states
that there have been many cases in Sicily where men have suffered long
terms of penal servitude and even have died in prison rather than give
information to the police.

In point of fact, however, the “Omertà” is not confined to Italians.
It is a common attribute of all who are opposed to authority of any
kind, including small boys and criminals, and with the latter arises no
more from a half chivalrous loyalty to their fellows than it does from
hatred of the police and a uniform desire to block their efforts (even
if a personal adversary should go unpunished in consequence), fear that
complaint made or assistance given to the authorities will result in
vengeance being taken upon the complainant by some comrade or relative
of the accused, distrust of the ability of the police to do anything
anyway, disgust at the delay involved, and lastly, if not chiefly, the
realization that as a witness in a court of justice the informer as a
professional criminal would have little or no standing or credence, and
in addition would, under cross-examination, be compelled to lay bare
the secrets of his unsavory past, perhaps resulting indirectly in a
term in prison for himself.[18] Thus may be accounted for much of the
supposed “romantic, if misguided, chivalry” of the south Italian. It is
common both to him and to the Bowery tough. The writer knew personally
a professional crook who was twice almost shot to pieces in Chatham
Square, New York City, and who persistently declined, even on his dying
bed, to give a hint of the identity of his assassins, announcing that
if he got well he “would attend to that little matter himself.” Much
of the romance surrounding crime and criminals, on examination, “fades
into the light of common day”—the obvious product not of idealism, but
of well-calculated self-interest.

As illustrating the backwardness of our Italian fellow-citizens in
coming forward when the criminality of one of their countrymen is at
stake, the last three cases of kidnapping in New York City may be
mentioned.

About a year and a half ago the little boy of Dr. Scimeca, of 2 Prince
Street, New York, was taken from his home. From outside sources the
police heard that the child had been stolen, but, although he was
receiving constant letters and telephonic communications from the
kidnappers, Dr. Scimeca would not give them any information. It is
known on pretty good authority that the sum of $10,000 was at first
demanded as a ransom, and was lowered by degrees to $5,000, $2,500, and
finally to $1,700. Dr. Scimeca at last made terms with the kidnappers,
and was told to go one evening to City Park, where he is said to have
handed $1,700 to a stranger. The child was found wandering aimlessly in
the streets next day, after a detention of nearly three months.

The second case was that of Vincenzo Sabello, a grocer of 386 Broome
Street, who lost his little boy on August 26, 1911. After thirty days
he reported the matter to the police, but shortly after tried to throw
them off the track by saying that he had been mistaken, that the boy
had not been kidnapped, and that he wished no assistance. Finally he
ordered the detectives out of his place. About a month later the child
was recovered, but not, according to reliable information, until Mr.
Sabello had handed over $2,500.

Pending the recovery of the Sabello boy, a third child was stolen from
the top floor of a house at 119 Elizabeth Street. The father, Leonardo
Quartiano, reported the disappearance, and in answer to questions
stated that he had received no letters or telephone messages. “Why
should I?” he inquired, with uplifted hands and the most guileless
demeanor. “I am poor! I am a humble fishmonger.” In point of fact,
Quartiano at the time had a pocketful of blackmail letters, and after
four weeks paid a good ransom and got back his boy.

It is impossible to estimate correctly the number of Italian
_criminals_ in America or their influence upon our police statistics;
but in several classes of crime the Italians furnish from fifteen to
fifty per cent of those convicted. In murder, assault with intent
to kill, blackmail, and extortion they head the list, as well as in
certain other offences unnecessary to describe more fully but prevalent
in Naples and the South.

Joseph Petrosino, the able and fearless officer of New York police who
was murdered in Palermo while in the service of the country of his
adoption, was, while he lived, our greatest guaranty of protection
against the Italian criminal. But Petrosino is gone. The fear of him no
longer will deter Italian ex-convicts from seeking asylum in the United
States. He once told the writer that there were five thousand Italian
ex-convicts in New York City alone, of whom he knew a large proportion
by sight and name.[19] Signor Ferrero, the noted historian, is reported
to have stated, on his recent visit to America, that there were thirty
thousand Italian criminals in New York City. Whatever their actual
number, there are quite enough at all events.

By far the greater portion of these criminals, whether ex-convicts
or novices, are the products or by-products of the influence of the
two great secret societies of southern Italy. These societies and the
unorganized criminal propensity and atmosphere which they generate, are
known as the “Mala Vita.”

The Mafia, a purely Sicilian product, exerts a much more obvious
influence in America than the Camorra, since the Mafia is powerful all
over Sicily, while the Camorra is practically confined to the city of
Naples and its environs. The Sicilians in America vastly outnumber the
Neapolitans. Thus in New York City for every one Camorrist you will
find seven or eight Mafiusi. But they are all essentially of a
piece, and the artificial distinction between them in Italy disappears
entirely in America.

Historically the Mafia burst from a soil fertilized by the blood of
martyred patriots, and represented the revolt of the people against all
forms of the tyrannous government of the Bourbons; but the fact remains
that, whatever its origin, the Mafia to-day is a criminal organization,
having, like the Camorra for its ultimate object blackmail and
extortion. Its lower ranks are recruited from the scum of Palermo,
who, combining extraordinary physical courage with the lowest type of
viciousness, generally live by the same means that supports the East
Side “cadet” in New York City, and who end either in prison or on the
dissecting-table, or gradually develop into real Mafiusi and perhaps
gain some influence.

It is, in addition, an ultra-successful criminal political machine,
which, under cover of a pseudo-principle, deals in petty crime,
wholesale blackmail, political jobbery, and the sale of elections, and
may fairly be compared to the lowest types of politico-criminal clubs
or societies in New York City. In Palermo it is made up of “gangs” of
toughs and criminals, not unlike the Camorrist gangs of Naples, but
without their organization, and is kept together by personal allegiance
to some leader. Such a leader is almost always under the patronage of
a “boss” in New York or a _padrone_ in Italy, who uses his influence
to protect the members of the gang when in legal difficulties and find
them jobs when out of work and in need of funds. Thus the “boss” can
rely on the gang’s assistance in elections in return for favors at
other times. Such gangs may act in harmony or be in open hostility
or conflict with one another, but all are united as against the
police, and exhibit much the same sort of “Omertà” in Chatham Square
as in Palermo. The difference between the Mafia and Camorra and the
“gangs” of New York City lies in the fact that the latter are so much
less numerous and powerful, and bribery and corruption so much less
prevalent, that they can exert no practical influence in politics
outside the Board of Aldermen, whereas the Italian societies of the
Mala Vita exert an influence everywhere—in the Chamber of Deputies,
the Cabinet, and even closer to the King. In fact, political corruption
has been and still is of a character in Italy luckily unknown in
America—not in the amounts of money paid over (which are large
enough), but in the calm and matter-of-fact attitude adopted toward the
subject in Parliament and elsewhere.

The overwhelming majority of Italian criminals in this country come
from Sicily, Calabria, Naples, and its environs. They have lived,
most of their lives, upon the ignorance, fear, and superstitions of
their fellow-countrymen. They know that so long as they confine their
criminal operations to Italians of the lower class they need have
little terror of the law, since, if need be, their victims will harbor
them from the police and perjure themselves in their defence. For the
ignorant Italian brings to this country with him the same attitude
toward government and the same distrust of the law that characterized
him and his fellow-townsmen at home, the same Omertà that makes it so
difficult to convict any Italian of a serious offence. The Italian
crook is quick-witted and soon grasps the legal situation. He finds his
fellow countrymen prospering, for they are generally a hard-working
and thrifty lot, and he proceeds to levy tribute on them just as he
did in Naples or Palermo. If they refuse his demands, stabbing or
bomb-throwing show that he has lost none of his ferocity. Where they
are of the most ignorant type he threatens them with the “evil eye,”
the “curse of God,” or even with sorceries. The number of Italians who
can be thus terrorized is astonishing. Of course, the mere possibility
of such things argues a state of mediævalism. But mere mediævalism
would be comparatively unimportant did it not supply the principal
element favorable to the growth of the Mala Vita, apprehended with so
much dread by many of the citizens of the United States.

Now, what are the phases of the Mala Vita—the Camorra, the Black Hand,
the Mafia—which are to-day observable in the United States and which
may reasonably be anticipated in the future?

In the first place, it may be safely said that of the Camorra in its
historic sense—the Camorra of the ritual, of the “_Capo in Testa_” and
“_Capo in Trino_,” highly organized with a self-perpetuating body of
officers acting under a supreme head—there is no trace. Indeed, as has
already been explained, this phase of the Camorra, save in the prisons,
is practically over, even in Naples. But of the Mala Vita there is
evidence enough.

Every large city, where people exist under unwholesome conditions,
has some such phenomenon. In Palermo we have the traditional Mafia—a
state of, mind, if you will, ineradicable and all-pervasive. Naples
festers with the Camorra as with a venereal disease, its whole body
politic infected with it, so that its very breath is foul and its
moral eyesight astigmatized. In Paris we find the Apache, abortive
offspring of prostitution and brutality, the twin brother of the
Camorrista. In New York there are the “gangs,” composed of pimps,
thugs, cheap thieves, and hangers-on of criminals, which rise and wane
in power according to the honesty and efficiency of the police, and
who, from time to time, hold much the same relations to police captains
and inspectors as the various gangs of the Neapolitan Camorra do to
commissaries and _delegati_ of the “Public Safety.” Corresponding to
these, we have the “Black Hand” gangs among the Italian population of
our largest cities. Sometimes the two coalesce, so that in the second
generation we occasionally find an Italian, like Paul Kelly, leading a
gang composed of other Italians, Irish-Americans, and “tough guys” of
all nationalities. But the genuine Black Hander (the real Camorrist or
“Mafioso”) works alone or with two or three of his fellow-countrymen.

Curiously enough, there is a society of criminal young men in New York
City who are almost the exact counterpart of the Apaches of Paris. They
are known by the euphonious name of “Waps” or “Jacks.” These are young
Italian-Americans who allow themselves to be supported by one or two
women, almost never of their own race. These pimps affect a peculiar
cut of hair, and dress with half-turned-up velvet collar, not unlike
the old-time Camorrist, and have manners and customs of their own. They
frequent the lowest order of dance-halls, and are easily known by their
picturesque styles of dancing, of which the most popular is yclept the
“Nigger.” They form one variety of the many “gangs” that infest the
city, are as quick to flash a knife as the Apaches, and, as a cult by
themselves, form an interesting sociological study.

The majority of the followers of the Mala Vita—the Black Handers—are
not actually of Italian birth, but belong to the second generation. As
children they avoid school, later haunt “pool” parlors and saloons,
and soon become infected with a desire for “easy money,” which makes
them glad to follow the lead of some experienced _capo maestra_. To
them he is a sort of demi-god, and they readily become his clients
in crime, taking their wages in experience or whatever part of the
proceeds he doles out to them. Usually the “boss” tells them nothing of
the inner workings of his plots. They are merely instructed to deliver
a letter or to blow up a tenement. The same name is used by the Black
Hander to-day for his “assistant” or “apprentice” who actually commits
a crime as that by which he was known under the Bourbons in 1820. In
those early days the secondgrade member of the Camorra was known as
a _picciotto_. To-day the apprentice or “helper” of the Black Hander
is termed a _picciott’_ in the clipped dialect of the South. But the
_picciotto_ of New York is never raised to the grade of _Camorrista_,
since the organization of the Camorra has never been transferred to
this country. Instead he becomes in course of time a sort of bully or
bad man on his own hook, a criminal “swell,” who does no manual labor,
rarely commits a crime with his own hands, and lives by his brain. Such
a one was Micelli Palliozzi, arrested for the kidnapping of the Scimeco
and Sabello children mentioned above—a dandy who did nothing but
swagger around the Italian quarter.

Generally each _capo maestra_ works for himself with his own handful
of followers, who may or may not enjoy his confidence, and each gang
has its own territory, held sacred by the others. The leaders all know
each other, but never trespass upon the others’ preserves, and rarely
attempt to blackmail or terrorize any one but Italians. They gather
around them associates from their own part of Italy, or the sons of
men whom they have known at home. Thus for a long time Costabili was
leader of the Calabrian Camorra in New York, and held undisputed sway
of the territory south of Houston Street as far as Canal Street and
from Broadway to the East River. On September 15, last, Costabili was
caught with a bomb in his hand, and he is now doing a three-year bit up
the river. _Sic transit gloria mundi!_

The Italian criminal and his American offspring have a sincere
contempt for American criminal law. They are used by experience or
tradition to arbitrary police methods and prosecutions unhampered by
Anglo-Saxon rules of evidence. When the Italian crook is _actually
brought to the bar of justice_ at home, that he will “go” is generally
a foregone conclusion. There need be no complainant in Italy. The
government is the whole thing there. But, in America, if the criminal
can “reach” the complaining witness or “call him off” he has nothing to
worry about. This he knows he can easily do through the terror of the
Camorra. And thus he knows that the chances he takes are comparatively
small, including that of conviction if he is ever tried by a jury of
his American peers, who are loath to find a man guilty whose language
and motives they are unable to understand. All this the young Camorrist
is perfectly aware of and gambles on.

One of the unique phenomena of the Mala Vita in America is the
class of Italians who are known as “men of honor.” These are native
Italians who have been convicted of crime in their own country and
have either made their escape or served their terms. Some of these
may have been counterfeiters at home. They come to America either as
stokers, sailors, stewards, or stowaways, and, while they can not get
passports, it is surprising how lax the authorities are in permitting
their escape. The spirit of the Italian law is willing enough, but its
fleshly enforcement is curiously weak. Those who have money enough
manage to reach France or Holland and come over first or second-class.
The main fact is that they get here—law or no law. Once they arrive
in America, they realize their opportunities and actually start in to
turn over a new leaf. They work hard; they become honest. They may have
been Camorrists or Mafiusi at home, but they are so no longer. They are
“on the level,” and stay so; only—they are “men of honor.” And what is
the meaning of that? Simply that they keep their mouths, eyes, and ears
shut so far as the Mala Vita is concerned. They are not against it.
They might even assist it passively. Many of these erstwhile criminals
pay through the nose for respectability—the Camorrist after his kind,
the Mafius’ after his kind. Sometimes the banker who is paying to a
Camorrist is blackmailed by a Mafius’. He straightway complains to his
own bad man, who goes to the “butter-in” and says in effect: “Here!
What are you doing? Don’t you know So-and-So is under my protection?”

“Oh!” answers the Mafius’. “Is he? Well, if that is so, I’ll leave him
alone—as long as he is paying for protection _by somebody_.”

The reader will observe how the silence of “the man of honor” is not
remotely associated with the Omertà. As a rule, however, the “men of
honor” form a privileged and negatively righteous class, and are let
strictly alone by virtue of their evil past.

The number of south Italians who now occupy positions of respectability
in New York and who have criminal records on the other side would
astound even their compatriots. Even several well-known business men,
bankers, journalists, and others have been convicted of something
or other in Italy. Occasionally they have been sent to jail; more
often they have been convicted in their absence—_condannati in
contumacia_—and dare not return to their native land. Sometimes the
offences have been serious, others have been merely technical. At
least one popular Italian banker in New York has been convicted of
murder—but the matter was arranged at home so that he treats it in a
humorous vein. Two other bankers are fugitives from justice, and at
least one editor.

To-day most of these men are really respectable citizens. Of course
some of them are a bad lot, but they are known and avoided. Yet the
fact that even the better class of Italians in New York are thoroughly
familiar with the phenomena surrounding the Mala Vita is favorable
to the spread of a certain amount of Camorrist activity. There are
a number of influential bosses, or _capi maestra_, who are ready to
undertake almost any kind of a job for from twenty dollars up, or on a
percentage. Here is an illustration.

A well-known Italian importer in New York City was owed the sum of
three thousand dollars by another Italian, to whom he had loaned the
money without security and who had abused his confidence. Finding
that the debtor intended to cheat him out of the money, although he
could easily have raised the amount of the debt had he so wished, the
importer sent for a Camorrist and told him the story.

“You shall be paid,” said the Camorrist.

Two weeks later the importer was summoned to a cellar on Mott
Street. The Camorrist conducted him down the stairs and opened the
door. A candle-end flaring on a barrel showed the room crowded with
rough-looking Italians and the debtor crouching in a corner. The
Camorrist motioned to the terrified victim to seat himself by the
barrel. No word was spoken and amid deathly silence the man obeyed. At
last the Camorrist turned to the importer and said:

“This man owes you three thousand dollars, I believe.”

The importer nodded.

“Pay what you justly owe,” ordered the Camorrist.

Slowly the reluctant debtor produced a roll of bills and counted them
out upon the barrel-head. At five hundred he stopped and looked at the
Camorrist.

“Go on!” directed the latter.

So the other, with beads of sweat on his brow, continued until he
reached the two thousand-dollar mark. Here the bills seemed exhausted.
The importer by this time began to feel a certain reticence about his
part in the matter—there might be some widows and orphans somewhere.
The bad man looked inquiringly at him, and the importer mumbled
something to the effect that he “would let it go at that.” But the bad
man misunderstood what his client had said and ordered the bankrupt
to proceed. So he did proceed to pull out another thousand dollars
from an inside pocket and add it to the pile on the barrel-head. The
Camorrist nodded, picked up the money, recounted it, and removed three
hundred dollars, handing the rest to the importer.

“I have deducted the _camorra_,” said he.

The bravos formed a line along the cellar to the door, and, as the
importer passed on his way out, each removed his hat and wished him a
_buona sera_. That importer certainly will never contribute toward a
society for the purpose of eradicating the “Black Hand” from the city
of New York. He says it is the greatest thing he knows.

But the genuine Camorrist or Mafius’ would be highly indignant at being
called a “Black Hander.” His is an ancient and honorable profession;
he is no common criminal, but a “man peculiarly sensitive in matters
of honor,” who for a consideration will see that others keep their
honorable agreements.

The writer has received authoritative reports of three instances of
extortion which are probably prototypes of many other varieties. The
first is interesting because it shows a Mafius’ plying his regular
business and coming here for that precise purpose. There is a large
wholesale lemon trade in New York City, and various growers in
Italy compete for it. Not long past, a well-dressed Italian of good
appearance and address rented an office in the World Building. His name
on the door bore the suffix “Agent.” He was, indeed, a most effective
one, and he secured practically all the lemon business among the
Italians for his principals, for he was a famous _capo mafia_, and
his customers knew that if they did not buy from the growers under his
“protection” that something might, and very probably would, happen to
their families in or near Palermo. At any rate, few of them took any
chances in the matter, and his trip to America was a financial success.

In much the same way a notorious crook named Lupo forced all the retail
Italian grocers to buy from him, although his prices were considerably
higher than those of his competitors.

Even _Americans_ have not been slow to avail themselves of Camorrist
methods. There is a sewing-machine company which sells its machines to
Italian families on the instalment plan. A regular agent solicits the
orders, places the machines, and collects the initial dollar; but the
moment a subscriber in Mulberry Street falls in arrears his or her name
is placed on a black list, which is turned over by this enterprising
business house to a “collector,” who is none other than the leading
Camorrist, “bad man,” or Black Hander of the neighborhood. A knock on
the door from his fist, followed by the connotative expression on his
face, results almost uniformly in immediate payment of all that is due.
Needless to say, he gets his _camorra_—a good one—on the money that
otherwise might never be obtained.

It is probable that we should have this kind of thing among the
Italians in America even if the Neapolitan Camorra and the Sicilian
Mafia had never existed, for it is the precise kind of crime that
seems to be spontaneously generated among a suspicious, ignorant, and
superstitious people. The Italian is keenly alive to the dramatic,
sensational, and picturesque; he loves to intrigue, and will imagine
plots against him when none exists. If an Italian is late for a
business engagement the man with whom he has his appointment will be
convinced that there is some conspiracy afoot, even if his friend
has merely been delayed by a block on the subway. Thus, he is a good
subject for any wily Iago that happens along. The Italians in America
are the most thrifty of all our immigrant citizens. In five years
their deposits in the banks of New York State amounted to over one
hundred million dollars. The local Italian crooks avail themselves of
the universal fear of the vendetta, and let it be generally known that
trouble will visit the banker or importer who does not “come across”
handsomely. In most cases these Black Handers are ex-convicts with a
pretty general reputation as “bad men.” It is not necessary for them
to phrase their demands. The tradesman who is honored with a morning
call from one of this gentry does not need to be told the object of
the visit. The mere presence of the fellow is a threat; and, if it
is not acceded to, the front of the building will probably be blown
out by a dynamite bomb in the course of the next six weeks—whenever
the gang of which the bad man is the leader can get around to it. And
the bad man may perhaps have a still badder man who is preying upon
_him_. Very often one of these leaders or bosses will run two or three
groups, all operating at the same time. They meet in the back rooms
of saloons behind locked doors, under pretence of wishing to play a
game of _zecchinetta_ unmolested, or in the gloaming in the middle of a
city park or undeveloped property on the outskirts. There the different
members of the gang get their orders and stations, and perhaps a few
dollars advance wages. It is naturally quite impossible to guess
the number of successful and unsuccessful attempts at blackmail
among Italians, as the amount of undiscovered crime throughout the
country at large is incomputable. No word of it comes from the lips
of the victims, who are in mortal terror of the vendetta—of meeting
some casual stranger on the street who will significantly draw the
forefinger of his right hand across his throat.

There is rather more chance to find and convict a kidnapper than a
bomb-thrower, so that, as a means of extortion, child-snatching is
less popular than the mere demand for the victim’s money or his life.
On the other hand it is probably much more effective in accomplishing
its result. But America will not stand for kidnapping, and, although
the latter occurs occasionally, the number of cases is insignificant
compared with those in which dynamite is the chief factor. In 1908,
there were forty-four bomb outrages reported in New York City. There
were seventy arrests and nine convictions. During the present year
(1911) there have been about sixty bomb cases, but there have been
none since September 8, since Detective Carrao captured Rizzi, a
_picciott’_, in the act of lighting a bomb in the hallway of a
tenement house.

This case of Rizzi is an enlightening one for the student of social
conditions in New York, for Rizzi was no Orsini, not even a Guy Fawkes,
nor yet was he an outlaw in his own name. He was simply a _picciott’_
(pronounced “pish-ot”) who did what he was told in order that some
other man who did know why might carry out a threat to blow up somebody
who had refused to be blackmailed. It is practically impossible to get
inside the complicated emotions and motives that lead a man to become
an understudy in dynamiting. Rizzi probably got well paid; at any rate,
he was constantly demonstrating his fitness “to do big things in a big
way,” and be received into the small company of the elect—to go forth
and blackmail on his own hook and hire some other _picciott’_ to set
off the bombs.

Whoever the _capo maestra_ that Rizzi worked for, he was not only
a deep-dyed villain, but a brainy one. The gang hired a store and
pretended to be engaged in the milk business. They carried the bombs in
the steel trays holding the milk bottles and cans, and, in the costume
of peaceful vendors of the lacteal fluid, they entered the tenements
and did their damage to such as failed to pay them tribute. The manner
of his capture was dramatic. A real milkman for whom Rizzi had worked
in the past was marked out for slaughter. He had been blown up twice
already. While he slept his wife heard some one moving in the hall.
Looking out through a small window, she saw the ex-employee fumble
with something and then turn out the gas on the landing. Her husband,
awakened by her exit and return, asked sleepily what the matter was.

“I saw Rizzi out in the hall,” she answered. “It was funny—he put out
the light!”

In a moment the milkman was out of bed and gazing, with his wife, into
the street. They saw Rizzi come down with his tray and pass out of
sight. So did a couple of Italian detectives from Head-quarters who
had been following him and now, at his very heels, watched him enter
another tenement, take a bomb from his tray, and ignite a time fuse.
They caught him with the thing alight in his hand. Meanwhile the other
bomb had gone off and blown up the milkman’s tenement.

There is some ancient history in regard to these matters which ought to
be retold in the light of modern knowledge; for example, the case of
Patti, the Sicilian banker. He had a prosperous institution in which
were deposited the earnings of many Italians, poor and wealthy. Lupo’s
gang got after him and demanded a large sum for “protection.” But Patti
had a disinclination to give up, and refused. At the time his refusal
was attributed to high civic ideals, and he was lauded as a hero.
Anyhow, he defied the Mafia, laid in a stock of revolvers and rifles,
and rallied his friends around him. But the news got abroad that Lupo
was after Patti, and there was a run on Patti’s bank. It was a big run,
and some of the depositors gesticulated and threatened—for Patti
couldn’t pay it all out in a minute. Then there was some kind of a row,
and Patti and his friends (claiming that the Mafia had arrived) opened
fire, killing one man and wounding others. The newspapers praised Patti
for a brave and stalwart citizen. Maybe he was. After the smoke had
cleared away, however, he disappeared with all his depositors’ money,
and now it has been discovered that the man he killed was a _depositor_
and not a Black Hander. The police are still looking for him.

This case seems a fairly good illustration of the endless opportunity
for wrong-doing possible in a state of society where extortion is
permitted to exist—where the laws are not enforced—where there is a
“higher” sanction than the code. Whether Patti was a good or a bad man,
he might easily have killed an enemy in revenge and got off scot-free
on the mere claim that the other was blackmailing him; just as an
American in some parts of our country can kill almost anybody and rely
on being acquitted by a jury, provided he is willing to swear that the
deceased had made improper advances to his wife.

The prevention of kidnapping, bomb-throwing, and the other allied
manifestations of the Black Hand depends entirely upon the activity
of the police—particularly the Italian detectives, who should form
an inevitable part of the force in every large city. The fact of the
matter is that we never dreamed of a real “Italian peril” (or, more
accurately, a real “Sicilian peril”) until about the year 1900. Then
we woke up to what was going on—it had already gone a good way—and
started in to put an end to it. Petrosino did put an end to much of it,
and at the present time it is largely sporadic. Yet there will always
be a halo about the heads of the real Camorrists and Mafiusi—the
Alfanos and the Rapis—in the eyes of their simple-minded countrymen in
the United States.

Occasionally one of these big guns arrives at an American port of
entry, coming first-class via Havre or Liverpool, having made his exit
from Italy without a passport. Then the Camorrists of New York and
Brooklyn get busy for a month or so, raising money for the boys at home
and knowing that they will reap their reward if ever they go back. The
popular method of collecting is for the principal _capo maestra_, or
temporary boss of Mulberry Street, to “give” a banquet at which all
“friends” must be present—at five dollars per head. No one cares to
be conspicuous by reason of his absence, and the hero returns to Italy
with a large-sized draft on Naples or Palermo.

Meanwhile the criminal driven out of his own country has but to secure
transportation to New York to find himself in a rich field for his
activities; and once he has landed and observed the demoralization
often existing from political or other reasons in our local forces of
police and our uncertain methods of administering justice (particularly
where the defendant is a foreigner), he rapidly becomes convinced that
America is not only the country of liberty but of license—to commit
crime.

Most Italian crooks come to the United States not merely some time or
other, but _at intervals_. Practically all of the Camorrist defendants
on trial at Viterbo have been in the United States, and all will be
here soon again, after their discharge, unless steps are taken to
keep them out. Luckily, it is a fact that so much has been written in
American newspapers and periodicals in the past few years about the
danger of the Black Hand and the criminals from south Italy that the
authorities on the other side have allowed a rumor to be circulated
that the climate of _South_ America is peculiarly adapted to persons
whose lungs have become weakened from confinement in prison. In fact,
at the present time more Italian criminals seek asylum in the Argentine
than in the United States. Theoretically, of course, as no convict can
procure a passport, none of them leave Italy at all—but that is one
of the humors of diplomacy. The approved method among the continental
countries of Europe of getting rid of their criminals is to induce them
to “move on.” A lot of them keep “moving on” until they land in America.

Of course, the police should be able to cope with the Black Hand
problem, and, with a free use of Italian detectives who speak the
dialects and know their quarry, we may gradually, in the course of
fifteen years or so, see the entire disappearance of this particular
criminal phenomenon. But an ounce of prevention is worth several tons
of cure. Petrosino claimed—not boastfully—that he could, with proper
deportation laws behind him, exterminate the Black Hand throughout the
United States in _three_ months.

But, as far as the future is concerned, a solution of the problem
exists—a solution so simple that only a statesman could explain why
it has not been adopted long years ago. The statutes in force at
Ellis Island permit the exclusion of immigrants who have been guilty
of crimes involving moral turpitude in their native land, but do
not provide for the compulsory production of the applicants’ “penal
certificate” under penalty of deportation. Every Italian emigrant is
obliged to secure a certified document from the police authorities
of his native place, giving his entire criminal record or showing
that he has had none, and without it he can not obtain a passport.
For several years efforts have been made to insert in our immigration
laws a provision that every immigrant from a country issuing such a
certificate _must_ produce it before he can be sure of admission to the
United States. If this proposed law should be passed by Congress the
exclusion of Italian criminals would be almost automatic. But if it or
some similar provision fails to become law, it is not too much to say
that we may well anticipate a Camorra of some sort in every locality
in our country having a large Italian population. Yet government moves
slowly, and action halts while diplomacy sagely shakes its head over
the official cigarette.

A bill amending the present law to this effect has received the
enthusiastic approval of the immigration authorities and of the
President. At first the Italian officials here and abroad expressed
themselves as heartily in sympathy with this proposed addition to
the excluded classes; but, once the bill was drawn and submitted to
Congress, some of these same officials entered violent protests against
it, on the ground that such a provision discriminated unfairly against
Italy and the other countries issuing such certificates. The result of
this has been to delay all action on the bill which is now being held
in committee. Meanwhile the Black Hander is arriving almost daily, and
we have no adequate laws to keep him out.




APPENDIX


  ANXIOUS for the actual facts, the writer asked an Italian
  friend to secure an interview with Cavalier Tarantelli,
  Questor of Florence, who for a long time was a functionary of
  the Public Safety in Naples, and testified in this capacity,
  at Viterbo, on August 9, 1911. In discussing the power of
  the Camorra, the Questor, after having given it as his
  opinion that the actual criminal organization had lost most
  of its unity, said: “At present there exist what are called
  ‘_combricole di quartiere_’ (_conventicles of the quarters_)
  small secret associations of ‘camorristi’ belonging to the
  same quarter of Naples. Naturally the different _combricole_
  in the different quarters of Naples assist each other, as
  likewise do the different chiefs of the quarters. Perhaps
  there is still a kind of hierarchy among the chiefs as
  there may still exist a hierarchy among the ‘camorristi’ in
  the different quarters. These ‘camorristi’ are, as a rule,
  bad characters, whose chief characteristics are immorality
  and overbearing insolence, and who live accordingly. They
  impose upon women and get money out of them; they practice
  usury; they receive and hide stolen things. Naples has now
  a special and intense criminality. The ‘camorristi’ are
  at present almost all habitual criminals. But the real
  so-called ‘act of camorra’ (_atto d’camorra_) is _extortion_,
  namely, a price imposed upon those who fear individual or
  collective imposition, either occult or open, on the part
  of the ‘Camorra.’ Every morning a ‘camorrista’ will go to
  the shopkeepers and tradesmen of the quarter (_quartiere_)
  and collect the price paid by him to be let alone. There
  are instances even nowadays of people who go to the chief
  ‘camorrista’ of their quarter in order to have their persons
  and property protected. This protection, however, is now more
  apparent than real. For instance, it is much more difficult
  now than it was formerly to find people who try to recover
  stolen property by having recourse to the ‘Camorra’ rather
  than to the police. The ‘camorristi’ are extremely numerous
  in Naples; at funeral processions, for example, you may see
  thousands of them. Songs are sung beneath the windows of
  prisons by the friends and relatives of the prisoners as a
  means of communicating with the latter. But this custom of
  ‘the songs’ is now disappearing and the same may be said of
  the ‘dichiaramenti’ (kinds of challenges), and of the tribunal
  of the ‘Camorra.’ Some large meetings of ‘camorristi’ still
  take place now and then. They will meet in some deserted
  place in the country far away from the city or among the
  mountains. I shall not deny that the judiciary of Naples is
  somewhat different from that of Northern Italy. The former is
  sometimes exceedingly indulgent, perhaps corrupt; that will
  explain the influence of the ‘Camorra.’ It is no exaggeration
  to state that magistrates in Naples are at times in awe of
  the ‘camorristi,’ and especially of their friends who always
  appear as perfectly honorable persons. It is a fact that the
  police now endeavor to destroy the ‘Camorra,’ a thing which
  they would not even have dreamt of a few years ago, and we
  must not forget that the police consist for the most part of
  men from the South of Italy. That there are officials and
  agents taking bribes from secret associations for delinquency
  is well known, but, of course, that does not occur in Naples
  or in Italy alone. In Naples the ‘Camorra’ places itself
  at the disposal of those who pay it, even in the case of
  elections. As a rule, it is the candidates of the conservative
  parties who avail themselves of the ‘Camorra.’ Thus, you see,
  even ministers and prefects may avail themselves of it! At
  all events, these deplorable facts are becoming less and less
  frequent. Let us hope they may completely disappear! To the
  Socialist party, however, must be given the credit of fighting
  against the ‘Camorra’ to the best of its ability.”

  This is an extraordinary admission for a public functionary
  to make, and it is only fair to the Questor to state that his
  interview was not made intentionally for publication. It is
  what would be called in law an “admission against interest”
  and is evidence of the weightiest character. One can read
  between the lines that he but hints at the real state of
  things. His opinion that the solidarity of the Camorra has
  been greatly weakened seems to be borne out by many other
  evidences. For example, the depositions of the informer
  Abattemaggio are filled with detailed accounts of how various
  local “camorristi” quarrelled over the division of their petty
  spoils, tricked and cheated one another, and often betrayed
  each other to the police. The day of the real camorrista,—he
  of the swift dagger, the man of “heart,”—seems to be over
  and to have given place to an era of filthy traders in vice,
  petty grafters, blackmailers, and cheap thieves. But popular
  imagination still surrounds these with the halo of romance and
  regards the Camorra as “the friend of the people.”

FOOTNOTES.

[Footnote 1: Now abolished.]

[Footnote 2: In the State of New York.]

[Footnote 3: The following table gives the yearly percentages of
convictions and acquittals by verdict in New York County since 1901:

  +------+-------------+------------+-------------+------------+
  |      | NUMBER      | NUMBER     |             |            |
  | YEAR | CONVICTIONS | ACQUITTALS | CONVICTIONS | ACQUITTALS |
  |      | BY VERDICT  | BY VERDICT | PER CENT    | PER CENT   |
  +------+-------------+------------+-------------+------------+
  | 1901 | 551         | 344        | 62          | 38         |
  | 1902 | 419         | 349        | 55          | 45         |
  | 1903 | 485         | 307        | 61          | 39         |
  | 1904 | 495         | 357        | 58          | 42         |
  | 1905 | 489         | 299        | 62          | 38         |
  | 1906 | 464         | 246        | 65          | 35         |
  | 1907 | 582         | 264        | 69          | 31         |
  | 1908 | 649         | 301        | 68          | 32         |
  | 1909 | 463         | 235        | 66          | 34         |
  | 1910 | 649         | 325        | 66          | 34         |
  +------+-------------+------------+-------------+------------+]

[Footnote 4: Written in 1909.]

[Footnote 5: Naples and Sicily were united under that name in 1734.]

[Footnote 6: G. M. Trevelyan, “Garibaldi and the Thousand,” c. iii, p.
45. De Cesares F. di P., p. lxix.]

[Footnote 7: Compare the Florentine _carcisfo_ “artichoke” for
gendarme.]

[Footnote 8: H. D. Sedgwick, “Letters from Italy.”]

[Footnote 9: G. M. Trevelyan, “Garibaldi and the Thousand,” c. i., p.
19.]

[Footnote 10: Compassion.]

[Footnote 11: _Publica Securezza_, or Public Safety—the regular
police.]

[Footnote 12: The Italian Parliament approved in June last a bill
proposed by the government authorizing the establishment of 6,000
schools, mainly in the southern provinces, at a cost of 250,000,000
lire ($50,000,000).]

[Footnote 13: See appendix.]

[Footnote 14: In stolen burial shrouds and the bones of children.]

[Footnote 15: About equivalent to our “quartermaster-sergeant.”]

[Footnote 16: May, 1912.]

[Footnote 17: Ten or more have been liberated already on this ground.]

[Footnote 18: Much more likely in Italy than in the United States.]

[Footnote 19: Petrosino is a national hero in Italy, where he was known
as “Il Sherlock Holmes d’Italia”—“the Italian Sherlock Holmes.”
Many novels in which he figures as the central character have a wide
circulation there.]




       *       *       *       *       *




Transcriber’s note:

  1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
     errors.

  2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.





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