The Lost Tribe of Coney Island

by Claire Prentice

  Barker smiled. It was exactly how he and Blum had planned it. What was the point in pursuing another case in Memphis? The courts were so corrupt it was bound to end in disappointment. The government’s best hope lay in having Truman extradited to New Orleans to stand trial there.

  Frayser hurried down the corridor to apply for a writ of habeas corpus in the hope of having Truman released. Judge Jacob Galloway said he would hear the case on Monday morning in the civil court. Truman would be held in custody until then.

  Blum was irritated but not surprised to hear of Frayser’s latest move. That night Blum met with some legal friends and acquaintances who gave him some troubling information: Judge Galloway was a member of the same Memphis Elks Lodge that Truman had frequented. This was bad news indeed. Blum sincerely hoped that Galloway was not as easily corrupted as some of his colleagues.

  The legal prosecution of Truman had taken many twists and turns. What happened next was extraordinary and unprecedented, even in the murky Memphis court system.

  On Monday, February 11, at just before eleven o’clock in the morning, Truman was brought into court. Sitting at the bench, Judge Galloway examined the requisition papers that had been sent by the governor of Louisiana. He then invited Frayser and Blum to speak. While Frayser kept his argument uncharacteristically short, Blum gave “an elaborate argument, setting forth the law”17 regarding the charges against Truman Hunt and outlining the facts of the case. The judge paused for a moment. Then, in a voice so quiet it was barely audible, Galloway said he was dismissing the writ and remanding the prisoner, who would be handed over to Inspector Kenner. With that Judge Galloway got up from the bench and left the courtroom, declaring the morning session over.

  Blum gave an audible sigh of relief.

  Truman looked at his attorney. This was not what the showman had been expecting. Frayser signaled to Truman to wait, then hurried after the judge.

  The court stenographer got up and left the room. So too did Barker. The officer who had brought Truman in to court left too, taking Truman out through another door, which led to the holding cells. Blum stayed behind to write out the order of the court. As he busied himself, the door swung open and a flustered-looking Judge Galloway reentered, followed by a smug-looking Frayser.

  Resuming his seat at the bench, the judge announced that he was reversing his decision. He was doing so on the basis of a legal technicality, namely that the governor of Tennessee had issued his warrant before the cases in Memphis were dismissed.18

  In his twenty-odd years in the legal profession, Blum had never seen a judge perform a U-turn like this. Truman’s trials had gone from tragedy to farce.

  Blum stormed to the front of the courtroom to protest. The sheriff, Frank Monteverde (another member of the Memphis Elks), was standing nearby and watched as Blum muttered something and Frayser appeared to lunge for him. Sensing that Blum, the largest man in the room, and Frayser, the smallest, were about to come to blows, Monteverde threw himself between them.19

  At that moment Truman reentered the room with his guard. The showman looked on at the scene before him with surprise and amusement. He would never be able to repay the generosity of the Memphis Elks.

  Blum demanded to know how Judge Galloway could say one thing one minute and then, after conferring with Truman’s attorney, return with the opposite decision. Such an immediate reversal didn’t make sense. The judge said he was merely following the law. He would not discuss it further. Truman Hunt was a free man.

  The deputy sheriff unlocked Truman’s handcuffs and the showman shook his wrists free. Without waiting a moment longer, Truman fled the courtroom before the judge could change his mind again.

  The cool air of a Memphis winter’s day tasted especially sweet after five months in jail. Truman would ordinarily have stopped in at the nearest saloon for a victory drink, but he didn’t want to chance his luck. It had been in short supply until that morning. He wanted to get as far away from the court as he could. Besides, he didn’t have any money to go drinking. What little he had he must use to tell Sallie his good news. Before he did anything else, Truman decided he would pay a visit to his friends in the Elks to see if they could give him a little money to tide him over. Truman had had enough of Memphis, but he sensed that he should stick around awhile longer. He had a lot of powerful friends there. If he stepped outside the state, or even left the city, who knew what might happen to him?

  32

  The End of the Line

  OUTSKIRTS OF MEMPHIS, MARCH 20, 1907

  Steam locomotive, c. 1907

  TRUMAN STOOD AT the window, peering through a gap in the filthy drapes. The man was still there. Pulling the drapes closed, Truman sat on the edge of the bed. A spring poked through the mattress into his buttock. Callahan lay dozing on the narrow metal-framed bed on the other side of the room. Truman thought momentarily of some of the fine hotels he had slept in at the height of the Igorrotes’ fame. He picked up Callahan’s cigarette packet, which was lying on the nightstand between their beds. He would’ve given anything for one of the expensive cigars he used to smoke. He put the cigarette to his lips and, lighting it, took a long drag. The taste caught in the back of his throat, making him cough.

  The two men were holed up in a roadhouse four miles outside Memphis. Truman had grown a mustache and Callahan was sporting a full beard. Both men had adopted aliases when they checked in. Though Callahan was no longer a wanted man himself, he remained intensely loyal to the showman and was happy to do what he could to help his friend.

  The rooms were bare and looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned in years, but the place was cheap and out-of-the-way. They had been hiding there for a couple of weeks.1 Though if Truman’s suspicion was right that the man across the street was a private detective, it appeared that they’d been found. Truman had to hand it to Barker—he was a determined opponent. The showman wondered how much longer the government would pursue the cases against him.

  Truman’s plan was to hide out until the government tired of the expense and the trouble of pursuing him and dropped the charges. Knowing the tribespeople as well as he did, Truman imagined that they must be begging Barker to send them home by now. The showman sensed that Julio and Feloa would hold out the longest, but even they would have their limits. Frayser had advised Truman to stay in Memphis and lie low until he got word that the Igorrote witnesses were on a ship to Manila. With the Filipinos out of the country, he would have nothing to fear. Frayser cautioned against venturing across state lines until then. In another state he might not find as many friends in the police and the legal system as he had in Tennessee.

  The showman stubbed out his cigarette and began pacing the room. He could do with some air but he didn’t want to go out. There was nowhere to go around this dump, and besides he didn’t want to give the detective the satisfaction of following him. No, he’d rather stay indoors, even if it meant being cooped up with Callahan. He glanced over at his roommate, lying on his bed with his boots on. For weeks they had had no one for company except each other, spending their days playing cards, smoking, and drinking. Now they were out of liquor.

  Callahan was easy enough to get along with, but his conversation was limited. He had recently found out that his mother was sick. He was trying to get the money together to go and visit her in Washington, DC, calling in favors from old friends and relatives, but he hadn’t raised enough. Truman could have lent him a little but didn’t offer, figuring that his own need was greater than that of the friend who had testified to Truman’s good character in court.

  The enforced isolation was making Truman yearn for Sallie. When he was in jail, she and the baby had gone to stay with her father in Louisville. She had written to Truman regularly, declaring her love for him and updating him on how the baby was doing. She had named her Patty, after her father Patrick. Truman didn’t particularly like the name but he knew how much it meant to her. All Sallie’s anger about the terrible circumstances he’d left her in in Chicago had evapo
rated and she had believed him when he said he was an innocent man being persecuted by the government. She was a most loyal and loving companion. Truman pictured his wife in her favorite pink evening gown. He wondered if she still had it. From her letters it sounded as if she’d been forced to sell off much of what they owned. The rest she had presumably left behind when she fled Chicago. Truman’s stomach rumbled. He could do with some decent food. He must have lost twenty, maybe thirty pounds while he was incarcerated. Truman picked up the cigarette packet again and noticed there was only one left. He lit it and threw the packet on the floor.

  That evening a messenger came to the roadhouse with a note for Truman. It was from Frayser. The attorney had just learned that an officer was on his way from New Orleans with the intention of taking Truman to Louisiana to stand trial. The detective hanging around outside had presumably tipped Barker off that Truman was there, and Barker had told the New Orleans police where to find him. He had to get out of there. He threw the few possessions he had in a bag and told Callahan he was going out. He didn’t know when he’d be back.

  Detective Smiddy was lurking in a doorway across the street when Truman exited the roadhouse. Pulling the brim of his hat down, Smiddy followed Truman at a safe distance. Conscious he was being followed, Truman did his best to give the detective the slip. He walked quickly, dodging down side streets and dark alleys. A few minutes later, he jumped aboard a streetcar. Smiddy got on too. At the railroad station, Truman alighted, still tailed by the detective. The showman looked around. Momentarily losing sight of Smiddy, Truman hurried into the ticket office and bought a one-way ride to Louisville.

  The agent told him to hurry, the 8:40 p.m. train was leaving shortly. Truman rushed over to the platform. Smiddy followed and watched Truman board the train. The conductor looked across at Smiddy and asked if he was getting on. No, said Smiddy, taking a step back. Inside, Truman caught sight of the detective and frowned. What was he doing? Wasn’t he getting on the train?

  The conductor signaled to the driver and the train squealed and lurched forward. Truman could hardly believe his luck. With a grin he lifted his hat and tipped it toward Smiddy, who was still standing on the platform, a confused expression on his face. As if suddenly realizing his mistake, Smiddy turned and rushed toward the telegraph office. The detective hadn’t wanted to cross state lines without first getting permission from Barker. But now, with Truman as good as lost again, he knew his split-second decision had been the wrong one.

  Barker reread Smiddy’s telegram, shaking his head in disbelief. He wired back immediately, ordering the detective to get on the next train to Louisville. But the next train didn’t depart until noon the following day, four hours after Truman was due to arrive in Sallie’s hometown. The showman had been given a generous head start, which they could ill afford. Barker would need to inform Col. Edwards, chief of the bureau. He dreaded his reply. Edwards had recently been taking an increased interest in the Truman Hunt–Igorrote case and Barker sensed that he was rapidly growing tired of it.

  The following morning as Detective Smiddy waited for the train, Truman turned in to South Seventh Street. The showman felt invigorated. Spring was in the air, and despite the rain, it was a nice time to be in Louisville. Over the roofs of the modest shotgun houses where most of the Irish immigrants lived, he could see the copper-domed roof and cross of the St. Louis Bertrand Catholic Church in the next street, the very church in which Sallie’s parents had married thirty years earlier. Truman found himself absentmindedly walking toward it.

  Taking off his hat, he strode up the half dozen steps and entered. Inside, he made his way down the aisle toward the altar. Light streamed through the stained-glass windows. This was the first time Truman had set foot inside a church since the day he and Sallie were married. He’d never been a believer in the power of prayer and that hadn’t changed. But he’d had the feeling that someone or something had been looking out for him recently and being alone in the church felt strangely comforting. He hadn’t slept on the journey and his head ached from tiredness. He sat down in a pew and let the silence envelop him.

  The sound of footsteps startled him. He must’ve dozed off. A voice over his shoulder made Truman jump. He turned to see the priest standing behind him in his robes. Did he want him to take confession? The showman stood bolt upright. There was no need, he said, picking up his hat. He was late for an appointment.

  Truman turned back on to South Seventh Street. Sallie didn’t know he was coming and he hoped she would be at home. He knocked firmly on the door and, after a moment or two, heard a voice asking who was there. Good old Sallie. He’d told her not to speak to anyone she didn’t know and he was glad to see she was following his instructions. He replied that it was him, Truman. With that Sallie opened the door and threw her arms around him. Truman stepped inside and, explaining that he couldn’t stay long, closed the door.

  In Washington, DC, the government had recently come under a series of blistering attacks about its involvement in the Philippines. Senator Alexander Clay of Georgia had introduced a resolution in the US Senate that sought to ascertain the cost to the people of the United States of holding the Philippine Islands. Senator Clay estimated that it cost America between sixty-five and seventy-five million dollars a year to run the Philippines, a pronouncement that had stirred up a hornet’s nest. The Labor World newspaper was just one of many that had pounced on the figure. Under an article headlined COST TO OUR NATION OF PHILIPPINE ISLANDS, the paper accused the government of intentionally deceiving the public and withholding the accounts. “These figures naturally raise the question in the mind of the average American voter whether the Philippines are worthwhile? Financially, they are not,” concluded the article.2

  Naturally, Edwards, as chief of the Bureau of Insular Affairs, felt under pressure to clear up the Truman Hunt problem promptly, before it cost the American taxpayer any more money. He sat at his desk in Washington with pages of figures spread out in front of him. At the request of his superior in the War Department, the bureau chief was calculating the amount spent by the government trying to prosecute Truman Hunt. Taking in to account all the expenses, from providing accommodations and travel for the Igorrotes and other witnesses, to legal and detective fees, and the costs of shipping the Igorrotes who had already left back to the Philippines, the total came to $8,499.65 ($212,500 in today’s money).3 This was a large amount of public money spent on cleaning up a mess caused by the Philippine Commission’s decision to grant Truman permission to import the tribe. If the figure ever became public, it would be a serious political embarrassment.

  There were still five Filipinos in America and more money would have to be found to send them home. Barker had been put on the case nine months ago with a brief to round up the Filipinos quickly, send them home, and get some form of financial settlement from Truman. Now Truman had given them the slip again. The bureau had been eager to make an example of the showman. But as far as Edwards could tell, they were no closer to securing a conviction than they had been nine months ago. The whole thing was getting out of hand. The time had come to call the search off and send the Filipinos home.

  Barker’s explosion of rage took him by surprise. Damn him, he shouted, crushing the telegram into a ball and hurling it across the room. He lunged forward, angrily knocking everything off his desk. Only the lamp was left standing. Barker grabbed it and threw it to the floor. Still shaking from his outburst, he sat down on his bed and buried his head in his hands. Slowly, he looked up and glanced around the room. His face reddened. His meticulously transcribed notes were scattered everywhere. A drop of ink from his pen bled into the rug. He walked over to pick up the desk lamp. There was a dent in the shade and the glass was shattered. Kneeling down, he carefully began picking up the pieces and cursed as a bright bead of blood appeared on the tip of his index finger.

  Barker had always feared the bureau would tire of the chase, but he had not been prepared for how the news would make him feel.

&
nbsp; The Igorrotes were sitting around their Memphis lodgings when Barker called. They looked up at him expectantly. It was with a heavy heart that he told them the government was closing the investigation and dropping all the charges against Truman. They were going back to the Philippines. Really? Today? Feloa looked at Barker, his eyes wide with disbelief. Maria buried her face in Julio’s chest and began to sob tears of relief. Barker caught the interpreter’s eye and the two men exchanged a look. Barker knew that Julio had been every bit as determined as him to see it through. He couldn’t help but feel as if he had led them on with his promises of a conviction. Barker expressed his profound regret that Truman had not faced a longer, more severe punishment. Truman’s crimes will catch up with him one day, he said, but the words sounded hollow in his ears. He sensed that Julio was the only one who was listening. He looked at the others. The joy on the faces of Dengay, Feloa, Maria, and Tainan should have helped ease his burden, but somehow it didn’t.

  Leaping in the air, Tainan shouted, “We’re going home,” over and over in English. Then he began to sing. Loud and clear the words rang out through the room. The reference to the pilgrims aside, the song struck Barker as an oddly fitting choice:

  My country, ’tis of thee,

  Sweet land of liberty,

  Of thee I sing;

  Land where my fathers died,

  Land of the pilgrims’ pride,

  From ev’ry mountainside

  Let freedom ring!4

  The government agent frowned. He could hardly grudge the tribespeople the freedom they wanted above all else.