“Are the authorities always so reluctant to correct an injustice?”
“Judging from my experience I’d have to say yes. Four years after Harry was arrested, the NYPD framed a poor, illiterate Algerian sailor, Ameer Ben Ali, for the gruesome murder of an aging prostitute in the East River Hotel. Though the evidence was circumstantial, the prosecutor wanted to hang him. Still, a jury quickly convicted Ben Ali of second-degree murder, and he was sentenced to life in Sing Sing. He’s still there.”
“So where had justice gone wrong?”
“The killer had mutilated the prostitute’s body after the manner of Jack the Ripper in London. Our gutter press claimed that an American ripper was on the loose, and whipped up the public’s fears. Chief of Detectives Mr. Byrnes declared he’d do better than Scotland Yard and find the culprit in less than two weeks. Under pressure from Byrnes, the New York detectives quickly arrested the Algerian sailor, most likely because he looked suspicious—dark-skinned, foreign, and indigent. He had chanced to lodge in the room across the hall from the prostitute on the night of the murder. At the trial the detectives claimed to have followed a trail of blood between the rooms.”
“How did you become involved?”
“My friend, the journalist Jacob Riis, believed that the Algerian was wrongly convicted and asked me for help. Riis had gone to the murder scene with the detectives immediately after the body was discovered and hadn’t seen a trail of blood. The detectives had most likely planted it a day later. Furthermore, Mr. George Damon in Crawford, New Jersey, reported that his former Danish servant resembled the light-haired young man who had checked into the hotel with the prostitute and had vanished shortly after the crime. He left behind in Crawford the key to the victim’s hotel room, number thirty-one, as well as blood-stained clothing.”
Pamela remarked, “A few years earlier, police detectives might have forged an extortion letter and framed Harry in the same way as the Algerian. What did you do for the poor suspect?”
“I prepared two affidavits based on statements from Riis and Damon and submitted them to Governor Roswell P. Flower with a request for a pardon. He refused, saying merely that justice had been served.”
“Why do you suppose he ignored the affidavits?”
Prescott replied, his jaw tightening with anger, “The cynical—and perhaps most likely—reason is that Governor Flower, a Tammany Democrat, didn’t wish to embarrass his ally, Mr. Byrnes, or his detectives. Governor Flower might also have passed the petition to a busy assistant who decided that the Algerian was a man of no importance—social, political, or otherwise—and could be conveniently ignored. Governors do not give out pardons wholesale, but ration them only to the most worthy.”
Pamela took his point: He and she had a steep hill to climb to clear Harry. “The Algerian’s fate is distressing and could discourage me. But circumstances today might be more favorable to Harry. Thanks to civic-minded men like Reverend Charles Parkhurst, there’s a movement in the city for judicial and police reform.”
“Right,” Prescott conceded, still struggling to control his feelings. “We must seize this opportunity to clear Harry’s name.”
Pamela added, “Meanwhile, we should figure out a way to free Theresa and her son from her parents’ home and put her into safe lodgings.”
“I agree,” said Prescott. “Then we’ll need to restrain her brother, Michael, and perhaps her father in case they try to commit Theresa to an institution or take her boy away. Where should we look?”
“Beneath Michael’s polished surface,” Pamela replied, “he probably has a deeply flawed character that should disqualify him from becoming the boy’s guardian—which is what I think he’s after.”
“Then you should investigate him for a few days. He might steal from his law firm or frequent brothels or both. Yates will help you.”
“Shouldn’t we include Judge Fawcett in our investigation? He may be our biggest and most dangerous obstacle.”
Prescott appeared skeptical.
“I’m serious,” insisted Pamela. “In his verdict the judge went out of his way to blacken Harry’s character. If we are to restore his reputation, we must expose the judge’s possibly criminal behavior in the bench trial.” She paused. “By the way, why wasn’t Harry tried before a jury?”
“His lawyer feared that a jury would assume that Harry was corrupt, like much of the NYPD. Harry’s alleged attempt at extortion wouldn’t seem to differ from common police protection rackets, except that Harry was said to put his threats in writing. Neither Harry nor his lawyer suspected that Fawcett had been bribed. In the community he was reputed to be upright and philanthropic.”
“Nonetheless,” Pamela countered, “Harry’s lawyer must have known that Fawcett was elected to his judgeship, thanks to Tammany Hall, and could be expected to do Tammany’s bidding. Harry should have gambled with a jury. I would like to see Fawcett and form my own impression of his character.”
“Then join me for lunch at Delmonico’s. The judge is usually there at noon.”
They arrived at the restaurant shortly before the noonday crowd. A waiter greeted Prescott in a politely familiar manner. He asked for a table at the far end of the dining room, near a middle-aged man with thick, wavy silver hair.
Prescott murmured to Pamela, “That’s him, Noah Fawcett.” As the waiter handed them a menu, Prescott whispered, “Tell me what the judge is up to.” The waiter flashed a thin smile and left.
Intrigued, Pamela asked, “What’s going on?”
“Our waiter spies for me. His wife is deaf, so he has learned to read lips. He’ll serve the judge’s table, take note of anything of interest, and report back to me.”
“Have you defended clients in Fawcett’s court?”
“Occasionally. He’s a demanding magistrate—intelligent but narrow-minded. When the law isn’t clear or the evidence is sparse or ambiguous, he usually rules in favor of the prosecution. And if the convicted man or woman also has a criminal record or looks shabby, Fawcett imposes the maximum sentence.”
“That’s too bad for your pro bono clients, isn’t it?”
Prescott nodded grimly. “I’ve questioned his judgments, especially in Harry’s case. Fawcett took the prosecution’s trumped-up charges against Harry at face value and sentenced him to five years in prison. Adding insult to injury, he accused Harry of betraying a sacred trust and undermining the public’s respect for the police. When I secured Harry’s release on probation a year early and hired him, Fawcett objected. I’m sure he was personally offended.”
After Pamela had studied the judge, she agreed with Theresa’s verdict: “a pompous ass.” A well-dressed man soon joined the judge. The waiter handed him a menu and hovered near the table, offering advice about the food.
“The judge’s acquaintance is John C. Sheehan, Tammany Hall’s temporary boss,” Prescott remarked. “The former boss, Richard Croker, figured out that the current wave of reform would sink him. So he has prudently retired to an estate in England with wealth looted from New York City. They say he lives like a duke, indulging his love of racehorses and bulldogs.”
“Mr. Sheehan looks unhappy. Why should he?” Pamela asked.
“I’ll soon find out. Here comes our waiter.”
He arrived with vegetable omelets and white wine. While serving the food, he murmured, “Mr. Sheehan has received a telegram from Mr. Croker and is relating its contents to Judge Fawcett. Tammany Hall’s heavy losses in Tuesday’s election have displeased Croker, and he orders Sheehan to shake up the organization.”
For years, Pamela hadn’t paid attention to city politics and usually discounted the misleading or inflated rhetoric coming from Republican and Democratic politicians. Their political organizations appeared equally bent on power and patronage to the detriment of both state and municipal government. If she had to choose, she’d favor Tammany, because its neighborhood clubs often helped the needy people she worked with—in return for their votes, of course.
“What’s your op
inion of Tammany Hall?” Pamela asked Prescott.
He studied his wine thoughtfully. “It’s an ingenious political machine for winning elections and distributing patronage. Tammany’s leaders come from the people and know their strengths and weaknesses. Richard Croker, the boss at the time of Harry’s arrest, was a poor Irish immigrant boy who clawed his way to the top of the organization. Though he became rich, he didn’t lose the common touch.”
With a side-glance toward Fawcett and Sheehan, Pamela asked Prescott, “Since Tammany lost the election, will it lose control of the city’s police and judicial system?”
He shook his head. “This election will have only a temporary effect. Still, Mr. William Strong, the incoming mayor, may appoint progressive reformers like young Theodore Roosevelt to the commission overseeing the police. That could give us a window of opportunity to vindicate Harry. But Tammany Hall will surely survive because of its deep roots in almost every neighborhood of the city. Even while wealthy, educated folks complain that Tammany corrupts civic life, they make cozy business deals with Tammany’s politicians and solicit Tammany’s help in breaking strikes and protecting property.”
The judge was now smiling and nodding at something the Tammany boss had said. Pamela asked Prescott, “Do you think Fawcett is corrupt? Did Tammany pay him off in Harry’s case?”
“I don’t know yet. Unlike some of his Tammany colleagues, Fawcett was rich before he became a judge, so he might have been less tempted to take bribes. His admirers claim he’s a strict Christian, leads a blameless private life, and gives generously to worthy causes.”
“Is he married?” she asked. Pamela’s mind was uneasy about the judge. He was obviously intelligent, and he seemed to be an island of integrity in a sea of corruption. Still, there must be something wrong with the man if he couldn’t acknowledge Harry’s innocence and dismiss the charges against him.
Prescott shrugged. “He’s a bachelor and claims he’s married to Lady Justice. A few skeptics insinuate that he satisfies his carnal desires on his housekeeper, a distant female cousin.”
Over coffee at the end of the meal, Pamela said that she needed a better understanding of Harry’s story if she was to carry out a serious investigation.
Prescott hesitated a moment. “Let’s return to the office. I’ll send Harry to you.”
Back at the office, Pamela browsed in her notes on Harry and recalled the hardships of his early life. He was born into a poor family in upstate New York, and his mentally ill mother died in an asylum in 1863 when he was eight. His father placed him in an orphanage, joined the Union army for the enlistment bonus, and was killed in battle shortly afterward.
Adversity seemed to spur Harry on. In the orphanage, he proved to be a good student and a resourceful worker. At eighteen, he joined the NYPD as a patrolman in the Five Points, the most crime-ridden and dangerous district in the city. Bright, inquisitive, and fearless, he showed a talent for investigation and worked his way up to police detective.
As Harry walked into the office, Pamela put aside the notes and asked, “When did your problem with the law begin?”
“Early in January 1887,” he replied, sitting across from her at the desk. “Inspector ‘Clubber’ Williams assigned me to check the police report of a cabdriver’s death in the late afternoon outside a saloon in Chelsea. Eyewitnesses told Michael Malone, the investigating officer at the scene, that the cabdriver, Tony Palermo, had pulled out a knife and threatened Dan Kelly, a patron at the saloon, who then had drawn his own knife and killed Palermo. The officer accepted Kelly’s claim of self-defense and concluded that the killing was justifiable homicide.”
“What kind of man was Tony Palermo?”
“That’s what I asked his aunt. He had boarded with her for two years and sometimes confided in her. She told me that he came from the Italian slum on Mulberry Bend but had learned to read and write and to seize an opportunity when it came his way. A big, rough man, he let everyone know that he carried a knife and knew how to use it.”
“Why did you suspect that Officer Malone’s report was wrong?”
“The cabdriver’s aunt planted a seed of doubt in my mind. She mentioned that, one morning, a gentleman from Tammany Hall had left a portfolio in her nephew’s cab. Palermo had come home afterward, hugging the shiny black portfolio as if it were precious. Its owner’s initials, H. C., were printed in gold in the leather. Palermo had said he would receive a large reward when he returned the portfolio.”
“How did he know it belonged to Tammany Hall?”
“She said he had looked inside, but he didn’t tell her what he found.”
“Did the references to Tammany Hall and the reward make you feel uneasy?” Pamela understood that Tammany had a notorious reputation for cheating where money was involved.
Harry nodded. “My suspicion grew when I learned that the killer, Dan Kelly, worked as a guard at Tammany Hall and had spent a few years in prison in his youth for manslaughter. Released, he was soon arrested again for assault with a knife. The charge was dismissed. The police had probably recruited Kelly to collect the proceeds in their protection rackets.”
“Did you discover the gentleman H. C. and his lost portfolio?”
“I inquired at Tammany Hall and hit a stone wall of denial. Alarm bells went off in my head. I reported to Inspector Williams that Palermo’s death looked suspiciously like a carefully planned killing involving Tammany Hall and deserved a thorough investigation. The inspector flatly refused and took me off the case.”
“Did Williams give a reason for his decision?” Pamela asked.
Harry shook his head. “Williams said my suggestion was foolish. Tammany Hall was a legitimate political club and wouldn’t countenance murder. I saw no point in arguing with him. Certain Tammany politicians had probably paid him to suppress the report.”
“How did you react?”
“At the time, I was outraged. Unwisely, I went over Williams’s head to Chief of Detectives Mr. Byrnes and complained of a cover-up. News of my protest leaked to the press. Shortly afterward, I was arrested and charged with secretly demanding a bribe from Tim Smith of Tammany Hall in return for dropping the investigation.”
Harry poured himself a glass of water. For a moment, the room fell silent while he seemed lost in the past. With a sigh he resumed his story. “Smith gave the police an extortion letter in my handwriting. Someone at Tammany Hall or in the NYPD must have fabricated the letter to Smith. Inspector Williams declared the letter to be authentic. At the bench trial, Judge Fawcett convicted me of extortion and sentenced me to five years in Sing Sing.”
“What evidence did the judge have?” Pamela asked.
“Not much,” Harry replied. “Chiefly the letter to Smith, but also testimony from Williams and several NYPD officers describing me as overly ambitious, reckless, and insubordinate. One of the officers claimed that I had said more than once I would make Smith pay.”
“A remark obviously taken out of context,” Pamela said, then asked Harry, “What happened in prison and afterward?”
“Tammany Hall’s agents tried to silence me. I managed to defend myself, but I couldn’t clear my name. After four years, Prescott got me out on probation, and I joined the firm.”
“It’s a distressing story,” said Pamela. “We need to find out why the cabdriver was killed and who was responsible for the false extortion letter that framed you. Now is the time to begin.”
Harry smiled. “For the first time in seven years I’m hopeful. What can be done for my friend, Theresa?”
Pamela reflected for a moment. “If she were to escape from the Sullivan house with her son, she could temporarily live in my empty room. She might prefer to stay with her sister, but the White family’s apartment is crowded and would suit her only in an emergency. We must act soon before Michael’s harassment causes Theresa’s mental state to deteriorate.”
“What can I do to help?”
“While I speak to Theresa’s sister, Trish, you could in
vestigate Michael Sullivan.”
Harry rubbed his hands with relish. “I’ll find someone in his office who sees through his respectability, and I’ll check out his nightlife for a pattern of immorality and/or crime. A man who treats his younger sister so badly may also have injured other women.”
“Yes, we’ll prove that he’s unfit to judge Theresa or to assume custody of her boy.”
CHAPTER 3
Victim of Abuse
Saturday, November 10
“How shall we free Theresa and James from her family’s grip?” Trish asked Pamela. It was midmorning, and they were at tea in the White family kitchen.
“I must gauge the level of her distress and her will to become her own master. When can I meet her again?”
“Let’s go to her now,” Trish replied. “Earlier this morning, I expected her here, but she didn’t show up. I should enquire about her. She lives nearby.”
They walked the short distance to the Sullivan home on a side street off Union Square. Though an older building, it still would have cost more than a retired bank clerk like Theresa’s father could afford. His son, Michael, must be paying the mortgage and other bills, and thus controlling the family.
Pamela waited across the street behind a parked carriage where she could observe the front of the house. A sour-looking maid opened the door, spoke brusquely to Trish, and shut the door in her face.
Livid with anger, Trish rejoined Pamela. “That bitch of a maid said my sister was ill and would not receive any visitors. I asked if I could speak to my nephew. The maid said no, he was also ill.”
“That was a lame excuse,” said Pamela. “They’ve locked up Theresa and her boy in the house. Michael will provoke her to the point of despair where she would appear mad. Can you trust anyone in the house?”
Trish thought for a moment. “Mrs. Donovan, the cook, knows Theresa’s story and hates Michael. But she’s afraid of him and fears he would throw her out on the street without references if she displeased him in the slightest way. At this time of day, she’s usually in the market on Union Square.”
Death at Tammany Hall Page 2
