Joe Hill: A Biographical Novel

by Wallace Stegner

  When the time came for my preliminary hearing, I decided to be my own attorney, knowing that it could be nothing against me. I thought Yd let them have it all their own way, and did not ask any questions. When the court went into session, I was asked if I objected to having the witnesses remain in the courtroom during the trial, and I replied that it was immaterial to me who remained in the courtroom. All the witnesses then remained inside, and I noted that there was a steady stream of messengers going back and forth between the witnesses and the county attorney during the whole trial, delivering their messages in a whisper. When the trial commenced, there were first some witnesses of little importance, but then a man came up that made me sit up and take notice. He put up his hand and swore that he positively recognized me and that he had seen me in the Morrison store in the afternoon of the same day that Morrison was shot. I did not say anything, but I thought something. This man was a tall lean man with a thin pale face, black hair and eyes, and a very conspicuous black shiny mustache. I don’t know his name and have never been able to find it out. (Bear this man in mind, please.)

  The little boy, Merlin Morrison, was the next witness that attracted my attention. He was the first one to come up and look at me in the morning of the day after my arrest. Being only a boy, he spoke his mind right out in my presence, and this is what he said: “No, that is not the man at all. The ones I saw were shorter and heavier set.”

  When he testified at the preliminary hearing, I asked him if he did not make that statement, but he then denied it.

  I accidentally found a description of the bandit in a newspaper, however, and the description says that the bandit was 5 feet 9 inches tall and weighed about 155 pounds. That description seems to tally pretty well with Merlin Morrison’s statement, “The ones I saw were shorter and heavier set.” My own height is six feet, and I am of a slender build.

  The next witness of importance was Mrs. Phoebe Seeley. She said she was coming home from the Empress Theater with her husband and she met two men in a back street in the vicinity of Morrison’s store. One of them had “small features and light bushy hair.” This description did not suit the county attorney, so he helped her along a little by saying, “You mean medium colored hair like Mr. Hillstrom’s, don’t you?” After leading her along that way for a while, he asked her this question: “Is the general appearance of Mr. Hillstrom anything like the man you saw?” She answered, “No, I wont … I cant say that.”

  This is the very same woman who at the district court proved to be the star witness for the prosecution. She not only described me in the smallest details, but she also told the jury that the man she saw had scars on both sides of his face, on his nose, and on his neck. I have such scars on my face, and that was practically the testimony that convicted me. Just think of it, a woman not knowing a thing about the murder passing a man in a back street in the dead of a winter night, and six months later she describes that man to the smallest details, hat and the cut and color of his clothes, height and build, color of eyes and hair, and a number of scars, and when asked, “Is the appearance of Mr. Hillstrom anything like the man you saw?” she answered, “No, I wont … I can’t say that.” Her husband, who was with her, was not even there to testify. It is true that the prosecuting attorney put his questions in such a way that all she had to say was “Yes sir,” and “All the same, Sir,” but she said that just the same. With a hostile judge, and attorneys who acted merely as assistant prosecuting attorneys, the prosecuting attorney had what in the parlance of the street would be called “Easy sailing.”

  The next witness was Mr. Zeese, detective. When I was sick in bed at the Erickson house in Murray, the lady gave me a red bandanna handkerchief to blow my nose on. At the trial she told that she had several dozen bandanna handkerchiefs that were used by her boys and brothers when they worked in the smelter. After my arrest Mr. Zeese went to the Erickson house looking for clues. He found this handkerchief, and with his keen eagle eye he soon discovered some “creases at the corners.” With the intelligence of a superman, he then easily drew the conclusion that this handkerchief had been used for a mask by some “bandit.” Then he capped the climax by going on the stand and telling his marvellous discovery to the judge. Mr. Zeese is well known in Salt Lake City, and comments are unnecessary.

  The next witness at the preliminary hearing, Mrs, Vera Hansen, said she saw two or three men outside the Morrison store shortly after the shooting. She heard one of the men exclaim “Bob,” or “O Bob,” and she thought that my voice sounded the same as the voice she heard on the street, I then asked Mrs, Hansen this question: “Do you mean to tell me that you, through that single word ‘Bob,’ were able to recognize my voice?” Now I am coming to the point.

  After the preliminary hearing I got a record of the hearings and took it to my cell in the county jail. I immediately discovered that it had been tampered with, that everything I had said had been misconstrued in a malicious way. It was a little hard to prove it at first but on page 47 I found the questions that I had put to Mrs. Vera Hansen, and there the tampering was so clumsy that a little child could see it. In the records the question reads like this, “Do you mean to tell me that you through the single word (mark, ‘single word’) ‘O Bob, I’m shot’,” etc. Four or five words. Here anyone can see that the official court records were altered for the express purpose of “proving” that someone was shot in the Morrison store. I then started to look for testimony of a man with a black shiny mustache but to my great surprise I could not find it anywhere in the records in spite of the fact that this man had positively recognized me at the preliminary hearing. No wonder this very dignified stenographer, Mr. Rollo, who is also stenographer for the supreme court, was shaking like a leaf when he put up his hand and swore that the records were “correct” in every detail. The strange part of it is that the state supreme court in a statement prepared by them for the press are, so my attorney told me (I am not allowed to see any papers) making the very same mistake. They say that Mrs. Vera Hansen said in her testimony, “O Bob, I’m shot,” which is not correct.

  At the time when I was shot I was unarmed. I threw my hands up in the air just before the bullet struck me. That accounts for the fact that the bullet hole in my coat is four inches and a half below the bullet hole in my body. The prosecuting attorney endeavors to explain that fact by saying “that the bandit would throw one hand up in surprise when Arlin Morrison got hold of his fathers pistol.” He also states that the bandit might have been leaning over the counter when he was shot. Very well. If the bandit “threw up his hands in surprise” as he said, that would of course raise the coat some, but it would not raise it four inches and a half. “Leaning over the counter” would not raise it at all. Justice McCarthy agrees with the prosecuting attorney and says that throwing his hands up would be just the very thing that the bandit would do if the boy Arlin made an attempt to shoot him. Let me ask Mr. McCarthy a question. Suppose that you would some dark night discover that there was a burglar crawling around in your home, then suppose that you would get your gun and surprise that burglar right in the act. If the burglar should then reach for his gun, would you throw up your hands and let the burglar take a shot at you and then shoot the burglar afterward? Or would you shoot the burglar before he had a chance to reach for his gun? Think it over. It is not a question of law but of human nature. I also wish Mr. McCarthy would try to find if it is possible to raise a coat on a person four and a half inches in the manner described by the prosecuting attorney.

  We will now go back to the bullet. After the bullet had penetrated the bandit, the prosecuting attorney says that it “dropped to the floor” and then disappeared. It left no mark anywhere as an ordinary bullet would. It just disappeared, that’s all. Now gentlemen, I don’t know a thing about this bullet, but I will say this, that if I should sit down and write a novel, I certainly would have to think up something more realistic than that, otherwise I would never be able to sell it. The story of a bullet that first makes an upshoot
of four inches and a half at an angle of go degrees, then cuts around another corner and penetrates a bandit and finally makes a drop like a spit ball and disappears forever, would not be very well received in the twentieth century. And just think that the greatest brains in Utah can sit and listen to such rot as that and then say that “Hillstrom” got a fair and impartial trial.

  I have heard this case rehashed many times and I wish to state that I have formed my own opinion about this shooting. My opinion is this: Two or three bandits entered the Morrison store for the express purpose of killing Mr. Morrison. As they entered, both of them shouted “We’ve got you now!” and started to blaze away with automatic Colt pistols caliber .38, and having the advantage of surprise it does not seem reasonable that they would allow a boy to shoot them. The story about that remarkable disappearing bullet; the fact that the official records were changed for the purpose of proving that someone was shot in that store; all that goes to show that there is a decided lack of evidence to prove that anybody was shot in that store outside the two victims. Nobody saw the Morrison gun fired. Merlin Morrison ran in deadly fright into some back room and hid himself. In spite of the fact that he was almost scared to death he “counted seven shots” and that is supposed to be some more proof that the Morrison gun was discharged. Six shots were fired by the bandits and all the bullets found. But there had to be seven shots fired, otherwise there would be no case against me. The boy “counted seven shots” and that “evidence” is introduced by the state as “proof” that the Morrison gun was discharged. Any sensible person can readily see what chance a frightened boy, or anybody else for that matter, would have to count the shots when two bandits are blazing away with automatic pistols. There were some officers there who claimed that they smelled the end of the gun and that thereby they could tell that the gun had been recently discharged, but the gun expert from the Western Arms Company exploded that argument. He stated that it was a physical impossibility to determine with any degree of certainty at what time a gun had been discharged, in a case where smokeless powder is used, on account of the fact that the odor of powder is always there. Then there was that empty chamber in the Morrison gun. An officer testified that it was customary among police officers to keep an empty chamber under the hammer of their guns. Morrison used to be a sergeant of police, I was told.

  Then there was a “pool of blood” found two or three blocks away from the Morrison store and the prosecution made a whole ocean out of it in spite of the fact that the Utah state chemist would not say that it was human blood. He said that the blood was of “mammalian origin.”

  Then there is Miss Mohan, who is supposed to have heard somebody say “I’m shot.” At the preliminary hearing she was very uncertain about it. She said she thought she heard somebody say those words but she was not by any means sure about it.

  Now, that’s all there is, to my knowledge, and I am positively sure that all this so-called “evidence” which is supposed to prove that the Morrison gun was discharged on the night of January 10, 1914, would not stand the acid test of a capable attorney, such as I am now in a position to get. At the time of my arrest I did not have money enough to employ an attorney. Thinking that there was nothing to my case, and always being willing to try anything once, I decided to go it alone and be my own attorney, which I did at the preliminary hearing.

  A few days after that hearing an attorney by the name of McDougall came to see me at the county jail. He said he was a stranger in town and had heard about my case and would be willing to take the case for nothing. Seeing that the proposition was in perfect harmony with my bankroll, I accepted his offer. I will say for McDougall, though, that he was honest and sincere about it and would no doubt have carried the case to a successful finish if he had not got mixed up with that miserable shyster Mr. Scott. Before my trial, I pointed out the fact that the preliminary hearing records had been altered, but they said that the said record did not amount to anything anyway, and that it would do no good to make a holler about it.

  Then the trial commenced. The first day went by with the usual questioning of jurors. The second day, however, something happened that did not look right to me. There was a jury of eight men entered the courtroom. They had been serving on some other case and came in to deliver their verdict, which was one of “guilty.” Then the court discharged all the jurors and they started to go home, but for some reason Judge Ritchie changed his mind and told three of them to come book and go up in the jury box and be examined for my case. I noted that these three men were very surprised and that they did not expect to be retained for jury service. I have therefore good reason to believe that they were never sub-poenaed for the case, but just simply appointed by the court. One of these men, a very old man by the name of Kimball, was later on made “foreman” of the jury. During the course of the trial I was surprised to see that some of the witnesses were telling entirely different stories from the ones told by them at the preliminary hearing and I asked my attorneys why they did not use the records of the preliminary hearing and pin the witnesses down to their former statements. They then told me that the preliminary hearing had nothing to do with the district court hearing and that the record did not amount to anything. They did, however, use said records a little, but only for a bluff. After I had watched this ridiculous grandstand play for a while I came to the conclusion that I had to get rid of these attorneys and either conduct the case myself or else get some other attorney. I therefore stood up the first thing in the morning one day and showed them the door. Being the defendant in the case, I naturally thought I should have the right to say who I wanted to represent me, but to my surprise I discovered that the presiding judge had the power to compel me to have these attorneys in spite of all my protests. He ruled that they remain as “friends of the court” and that settled it. Mr. Scott went after one of the state witnesses in a way that convinced me he really could do good work when he wanted to. After he got through with this witness (Mrs. Seeley) he came up to me and said, “Now then, how did you like that?” I said, “That’s good, but why didn’t you do some of that before?” “Well, er …” he hesitated. “This was the first witness we had marked for cross-examination.” If that is not a dead give-away, then I don’t know anything. It will be noted that Mrs. Seeley is one of the last witnesses for the state.

  I will now say something about the pistol which I had in my possession when I called at Dr. McHugh’s office to have my wound dressed. That pistol was a Luger caliber .30, a pistol of German make. I laid my pistol on the table while the doctor dressed my wound and I thought that he would be able to tell it from other pistols on account of its peculiar construction. He said he did not know, however, what kind of pistol mine was. That was an even break, and whenever I get an even break I am not complaining. He did not, like most of the state witnesses, commit perjury, and is therefore in my opinion a gentleman. There was another doctor, however, by the name of Bird, who dropped in while Dr. McHugh was dressing my wound. He only saw the pistol as I put it in my pocket, and he said so at the preliminary hearing, but at the district court hearing he came up and deliberately swore that my pistol was exactly the same kind of pistol as the one that Morrison and his son were killed with.

  As I said before, my pistol was a Luger .30. It was bought a couple of months before my arrest in a second hand store on West South Temple street, near the depot. I was brought down there in an automobile by three officers and the record of the sale was found on the books: price, date of sale, and everything just as I had stated. The books did not show what kind of a gun it was, however, and as the clerk who had sold it was in Chicago at the time a telegram was sent to him to which he sent this answer: “Remember selling Luger gun at that time. What’s the trouble?” I bought the pistol on Sept. 15, 1913, for $16.50. Anybody may go to the store and see the books.

  Now anyone can readily understand that I am not in a position where I could afford to make any false statements. I have stated the facts as I know them in my own sim
ple way. I think I shall be able to convince every fair-minded man and woman who reads these lines that I did not have a fair and impartial trial in spite of what the learned jurists may say to the contrary. If you don’t like to see perjurors and dignified crooks go unpunished, if you don’t like to see human life being sold like a commodity on the market, then give me a hand. I am going, to stick to my principles no matter what may come. I am going to have a new trial or die trying.

  Yours for Fair Play,

  JOE HILL

  Under Lund’s window the street lights had come up. Across an acreage of roofs and chimneys he saw the sky die swiftly from blood-red to rust to slate gray. There were gaps in Joe’s argument, sophistries, substitutions of plausibilities for fact, a jesuitical seizing of technicalities, a profound and perhaps significant silence about the crucial circumstances of his wound, his throwing away of the gun, his sharp whistles outside the Erickson house before Dr. Bird took him in, the suspicious flight of Otto Applequist. Yet the statement was plausible too; it had, even in its sophistries, the ring of a man who believed what he said. The gaps could easily be there because he was honorably hiding something, woman business or union business, that prevented frankness. Despite the gaps, Lund believed. Whatever Joe was hiding it was not guilt, or at least the guilt for the crime he was charged with.