Born to Lose

by James G. Hollock

  A rising crescendo of whispers, words, and even a few shouts swelled until the tipstaff waved for quiet. Edgar Snyder was on his feet, requesting that the jury be polled. Blank-faced but sitting up straight and appraising the jurors, Hoss listened to twelve nails pound into his coffin.

  During the polling, Hoss occasionally returned the stare of a juror, but for the most part his eyes wandered to the ceiling and back, hands clasped in his lap. He rocked nervously in his swivel chair but wore the enigmatic smile that had become his courtroom trademark.

  District Attorney Robert Duggan sat at counsel table. At his first appearance at the trial, he heard the first death sentence of his term. Later, Duggan praised the police work in the case. He failed to mention the FBI.

  The press tables emptied as newsmen and reporters raced for the phones and began crafting their stories. Jodine rushed up to Snyder and Baxter. Would they appeal? Fagan and Minahan were surrounded. “The type of case we had,” said Fagan, “the jury could only return a death verdict. The jury’s decision shows the death penalty is still here and it should be here.”

  Strauss permitted Stanley’s family a few words and hugs with Hoss, then ordered the condemned man returned to Western Penitentiary. Surrounded by deputies, Hoss started toward the door but stopped to ask the judge if he could have a word. It was an unlikely request but Strauss said Hoss could be brought to the bench. Hoss asked if he was going directly to the pen without going back the county jail. Strauss said that was the arrangement.

  “Well, in that case,” said Hoss, “I need to ask if I can talk to Warden Robinson before I go.”

  “This is most irregular, Stanley. And its importance?”

  “It’s just something he can do for me. It’s on the up-an’-up.”

  What possessed Strauss to call the warden? Perhaps some sympathy that even this hardened criminal was facing death? Perhaps a small kindness to someone whose fate has been set? Strauss gave over his chambers for this meeting. Hoss was shackled, deputies just outside the door, but the meeting was private.

  “Stasiu, how you holding up?” said Robinson.

  Hoss made a face, then joked, “Guess I’ll live.”

  Robinson chuckled at the gallows humor. “What’s up? What can I do for you?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “If it’s legal and no other problem, I’ll do it.”

  “You see these clothes, this suit I have on? I’d like you to wrap them up. Tomorrow at twelve noon there will be a woman standing at the foot of the steps of this courthouse. She’ll be in all white with white boots on.”

  From information that had come to him earlier, Robinson understood that this woman, who was from Germany, was thought to have been at the trial every day. “Every night during the trial, at a certain hour, she’d be present at the White Tower hamburger joint across from the jail, and regularly a telegram would arrive for Stanley which always said, ‘I’m playing your song now.’ She thought he would get the telegram right on the hour but he only got them at mealtime, but each night,” recalled Robinson, “she’d sit over there, drink coffee, and send those telegrams.”

  “Okay, Stasiu,” agreed Robinson, “though I’ll inspect the clothes and wrap them up but, all right, I’ll give her the clothes.”

  At noon the next day, Robinson walked down the courthouse steps, “and there she was. I handed her the clothes. She smiled—she was a gorgeous creature—and said, ‘Thank you’ in her German accent. Who she was, why she was there, who knows? She walked down the block, turned a corner, and that’s the last I ever saw of her.”

  20

  If the ill-starred prisoner had any thoughts trudging up the dozen broad steps to the massive steel door of the penitentiary, he said nothing. Once inside, a group of deputy sheriffs handed over their charge to prison authority; guards then took Hoss to the Behavior Adjustment Unit, commonly called the Home Block.

  As Hoss lay down on the bunk of his bleak cell, restaurant owner Fred Warner, 140 miles away in the village of Cresaptown, Maryland, was walking to a nearby field carrying ladder and knife. The good people of Pittsburgh had spoken, and endless hosannas to them. Hoss would die. Warner felt he could now cut down the “body” of Stanley Hoss. Warner had hanged Hoss in effigy, suspending it from a crossbar fixed near the top of a sixteen-foot post, in a fever of rage and grief a fortnight after the cur had kidnapped his employee, the shining Linda Peugeot. Warner’s action had won broad community support. “Something this egregious,” Warner explained, “it’s up to us to speak out, let our officials know what we think, and when Hoss comes here for trial I suspect we’ll repay in kind and protect ourselves.”

  Now, as Warner cut down the effigy, he noticed that it was worn by sun, rain, and snow, and torn by “crows pecking at it.” And Hoss was a condemned murderer, sentenced to death, with his crimes against the Peugeots still to account for. So stood Cresaptown, locked and loaded.

  Outrage against Hoss was so great in Cresaptown that Warner couldn’t fathom anyone feeling otherwise, so he was appalled when he saw a letter by N. L. Monnett in the Cumberland Times. “Forget the mother and child. Don’t get emotional. Hoss is sick and has his rights.”

  Warner countered, “Monster Hoss lost all rights with the rape of the first woman. He killed two of our neighbors. Two little girls. Our community has never been exposed to such a frightful deed. To hell with monster Hoss. I would be happy to pull the trigger on him myself.”

  Momentarily stymied, Stanley Hoss had no intention of accepting his fate. But even if Hoss had been resigned to the state’s deathblow, his attorneys wouldn’t hear of it. To Edgar Snyder and Fred Baxter, the character, even the actions, of their client were beside the point. His degree of villainy or error did not matter when the principle of law had been shortchanged—and this, they staunchly held, was the case with their suffering client. The first volley from the defense came almost immediately. Barely after Hoss had been issued bed sheets and a toothbrush following his sentencing, his lawyers initiated motions for a new trial. After all, they argued, who can ever be free if one man’s rights are trampled?

  The prosecution disagreed. Don Minahan said, “We played it by the book. From A to Z, Hoss was treated fairly.” Like the custody battle for Hoss between the feds and the state, and the evidentiary squabbles at trial, the verdict and sentence in the Zanella trial had opposing agendas and philosophies lining up. Each side, in its own way, sought protection of the public through justice. While Fred Warner may have typified the attitude of most local residents that the best way to protect the public was through Hoss’s execution, the defense team was equally convinced that the public would be better served by challenging prosecutorial excess, overthrowing Hoss’s conviction, and granting him a new trial, if not simply dropping the case altogether, all depending on how much protection the public needed. As things stood, though, Judge Strauss would formally render the jury’s decision— that is, formally sentence Hoss to death—six months hence, in September.

  Ten days after Stanley’s trial, the divorce suit filed in December by his wife was finalized. The grounds were indignities and her husband’s rape conviction. It was a long time coming, but of “his women,” Diane was the first to bail out—or try to.

  In this early period of her brother’s incarceration, sister Betty wrote him frequently to keep him up to date with family news. Her three older girls, Laurie, Susan, and Mary, were “all in scouts,” while her youngest, Tracie, was “getting fat and sassy.” Betty joked that “Susan has the Hoss ears.” As for her newborn, Billy, “You will know my happiness at having a boy.”

  Stanley also learned that his brother, Harry, had returned from Chicago and now lived just up the road from Betty. Of this, Betty wrote to Diane, “I don’t know why Harry came back here. His name is Hoss. You know how it is.”

  Betty tried to keep her letters newsy and upbeat. She rarely mentioned Stan’s predicament and kept from him worrisome items such as their mother’s high blood pressure or the fa
ct that their father had “aged ten years in the last six months.”

  Snyder and Baxter filed their appeal for a new trial for Hoss in late March, citing venue and testimony issues. A week later, Edgar Snyder, feisty and erudite first assistant of the Public Defenders Office, resigned his post.

  . . .

  Since Hoss escaped from the workhouse in September 1969, he had so dominated the news that his partner in that clever getaway was nearly forgotten. What of Tom Lubresky, initially thought to be the worse of the two?

  On the last Friday in March, 1970, on the other side of the country from the newly convicted Hoss, a drunk sat inside a Burbank, California, tavern, sucking on cigarettes, blowing smoke rings, and catching peeks of himself in the wall mirror behind all the bottles of booze. Every so often, he’d vacate his bar stool and walk around a bit before ordering another drink. He grew increasingly loud, obnoxious, and intimidating. The big blond man with tangled hair, bulging muscles, and a look in his eyes that was devious or plain crazy, was an unknown in this watering hole. He didn’t fit, didn’t belong. The bar manager kept track of the stranger as he swaggered around, his muscles dancing at the slightest exertion. The newcomer was boorish to other patrons and rudely familiar with the girls, even those accompanied by dates or friends. Smelling trouble, the bar manager tried to reel him in. “Hey ol’ buddy, come on back over, next drink’s on me.” Not bothering to turn around, the lout grabbed a tankard from a table of four, took a long swig, then set it down with a bang. It was this that finally brought a call to the cops.

  Four Burbank officers showed up. Asked to put his hands on the bar, the culprit pulled a gun, pointing it up in the air. Two officers pulled their guns while the other two talked sense to the guy. He fired two rounds into the ceiling, prompting the cops to rush him.

  Subdued, the inebriate said his name was James Francis Drake but could produce no ID. In his pocket was some marijuana. “Drake” was taken to the station for booking and fingerprints, which proved him to be Thomas J. Lubresky, wanted by Pennsylvania for escaping from prison. Lubresky’s name was also linked to Stanley Hoss, making the catch all the more serendipitous for Burbank’s finest.

  . . .

  Prior to the divorce, during the trial period, Stanley had written his wife.

  “I look for you every day in the courtroom, but no luck.”

  Indeed, Diane did not attend any of the proceedings, and she didn’t know what to make of hearing from him. There were the children, of course, but fatherhood had never influenced him much before. Stanley’s ways had ensured that his ten-year marriage with Diane had been turbulent or empty. At first, Diane had hoped he would change, but by 1965, “the feelings were gone. It was mutual.” Since then, Stanley’s absences had been more frequent, and during the past year Diane and the kids had hardly seen him at all. Then there was Jodine Fawkes. He’d been with her for sure, and, according to the papers, wasn’t she his great love? Didn’t he risk his life to see her again? Diane didn’t answer his letters.

  Therefore, Diane was surprised when he wrote to her again after the divorce became final. Conciliation, hope, love. Anyhow, that’s how it began.

  Dear Diane, I would love to keep the kids knowing me as their father. I hope your new life is better than what I gave you. But I will always consider you my wife. Betty wrote and told me Steven said if he can’t have his old dad back, he does not want any. I can’t tell you how that made me fill [sic]. Will you send me pictures of the kids? Love, Stan

  Dear Diane, I get 10 letterheads a month. As you can see, they are only one page. Do you remember out in Illinois? I was happy in those days but we both knew my life would end this way. I know you have seen too much of me on TV and radio. It was like my own show every night. Please give the kids a kiss for me. Like I say, I did not divorce you, so your still my wife. Remember our song. “Please Love Me Forever.”

  P.S. I never leave my cell or have anyone to talk to so please write as much as you can. I have a lot of time to think but my thinking is always wrong. I get one book a week. I am reading Les Miserables. It’s about a lot of poor kids with no parents who live in the streets.

  On April 7, 1970, Diane gave birth to a daughter, Marcie, born of a relationship that had lasted about a year, in the period Stanley was never home, locked up, or on the run. Hoss remained unaware of this milestone.

  In the meantime, he wrote often, sometimes daily, apparently finding a way to procure more letterheads. From a sense of obligation, from pity, charity, or some other reason, Diane reciprocated, but not in the same quantity. His letters were filled with nostalgia, mush, and regret for the way he’d treated her. “You were the best wife and mother,” he wrote. “So meny [sic] times I did not want to leave the house at night. If you would have just put your foot down and said no.”

  In mid-April a letter arrived holding a particular question that alarmed her. “I hear you were in the hospital. Well, what is it? I will be waiting to hear all about it.”

  Diane supposed it inevitable that Stanley would learn of the baby, but nonetheless fretted over what to say. Still, how did he know? She hadn’t seen him in a year and those close to her were sworn to secrecy. A following letter made Diane wonder if she could ever be free to live a normal life.

  At the county jail last June, the cops took me to the Justice of the Peace to put more charges on me. They had me chained up like a wild animal. At the JP there is Rich (partner to the Defino rape) with his mom talking real nice to the cops. A woman was in there with her husband getting papers filled out. She kept looking at me. The next day at the jail I had a visitor. It was this woman. She said she couldn’t get me out of her mind. Well, this woman fell in love with me. She buys me anything I want and does anything I want. She has been around your place a lot of times. I really don’t care for this girl but she keeps me up on things. Well, I will be waiting to hear all about the hospital.

  The story of a spy in Stanley’s pocket was probably a fabrication. Paperwork to visit a prisoner takes time. Still, Stanley knew things. Though locked in a dim cell deep in the bowels of a prison—a redoubt—he could receive information, could get word.

  “Rich got word to me a while ago,” he wrote. “He asked me to take all the blame and set him free. A real punk.”

  Diane wanted out, but she was still afraid. It was not so easy to break clean away. Yes, she’d had an affair. If the thought had crossed her mind before, it was dismissed. But in recent years, Stanley had been barely more than a visiting stranger, what with his mistress a town over, the other girls, and the carefree lifestyle that had taken precedence over her and their children. The man she’d met was like an elixir. She felt again like someone to somebody. She smiled more. She laughed with him. Yes, it would end, but she didn’t regret that it had happened.

  Diane worried she’d again fall prey to Stanley’s influence. Already he wanted her to visit him, bring the kids, and do favors. “Darling,” he wrote, “it would mean so much if you could get a Valley News subscription for me.”

  Ought she tell him to go to hell, where he’d be going anyway? But sometimes his words got to her. “It would be better to let you go but I cannot stop loving you. You and the children are everything.”

  “This time, though,” Diane told her sister, “he’s in prison, not for a week or a few months like before. This is it!” Diane got up her resolve to completely sever ties, then the jitters set in. She recalled the time Stanley, against her protest, had marched into the elementary school and threatened the principal. No one would discipline any of his kids. Or the time when Stanley, perceiving that the milkman was sweet on her, grabbed him around the throat. Also, she’d heard about Stanley—while in jail—setting his dastardly pals upon the Defino family. Did he still have this reach? Was there a female spy hanging around? It came down to “Goodbye, Stan”—or getting that subscription for him.

  Diane scrounged up the money, which included cash from returning pop bottles, then signed him up not for a full year, but f
or half. Maybe he’d be dead by then.

  For the time being, it seemed to work out. Stanley continued to write. He had his highs and lows but “I do not know what I would do without you in my life” was the prevailing sentiment of his letters. Diane finally informed Stan of the birth of infant Marcie by another man, and was relieved when he signaled acceptance of the situation. “I know what I put you through,” he wrote. “None of this would have happened if I was a better husband. Now I have three girls to love, and I mean it.”

  It was in these moments that Diane, still with plans to inch away, wondered if Stan could make decent changes within himself? But then another letter arrived. “I heard some wonderful news on the radio today. Two good guys shot two pigs, you would say cops. That made me so happy I could have danced. I hope all the pigs had big families. Please hug the boys and kiss the girls for me.”

  . . .

  On May 25, 1970, the legal battle to save Stanley Hoss began. Even though Edgar Snyder had resigned from the Public Defenders Office, he felt morally bound not to leave Stanley hanging, as it were. Teamed as before with Fred Baxter, Snyder continued along pro bono.

  The court listened to an assault upon the Split Verdict Act, the procedure where, after a conviction, the same jury hears additional testimony to determine punishment. “In this particular case,” said Baxter, “the jury should not have been informed [that] Mr. Hoss was a suspect in the kidnap-slaying of Mrs. Peugeot and her daughter. We were not prepared to defend our client on the Peugeot charges.”

  “Baloney,” replied Samuel Strauss, the trial judge, who sat en blanc with judges Loran L. Lewis and Robert Van der Voort. “You had no defense and you know it. The Peugeots were not mentioned prior to the guilty verdict for Officer Zanella. Established precedent was followed.”

  Snyder characterized the months’-long media coverage preceding the trial as inflammatory and prejudicial. “The case should not have been heard in Allegheny County,” he argued. The court seemed little swayed. Ending the proceeding, Strauss announced that prosecutor Ted Fagan had until July 1 to submit the state’s brief.