Seagrist stated he went the next day to Park Bank, cashed a check for $100, received a $100 bill, put it in an envelope, and walked to Old Slip station. He said Devery was not there in the morning but he found him in the afternoon and he shook Devery’s hand, palming the envelope over to him, while saying: “I want you to treat me like a gentleman.”
Those words might seem odd but Seagrist was trying to billboard to the court an important legal point—for his own preservation. He wanted everyone to know that with his $100 he was not buying illegal favors, merely courtesy. (In the earlier McLaughlin trials, the defense—also handled by Colonel E. C. James—had repeatedly stressed that if Seagrist paid bribes to violate demolition laws, then he too was liable to prosecution for bribery.) Seagrist also testified that the police never bothered him again on the site after his May 9 payment.
Wily Colonel James asked Seagrist whether detective Glennon did not indeed return on May 11 and tell him to send more water through the hose to keep down the dust. Answer: “I do not recollect.”
The lawyer also asked the witness to recall more details about handing the envelope to Captain Devery. After looking at the bank check to refresh his memory, Seagrist stated he handed the money to Devery between 4 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. on Saturday, May 9. The word Saturday brought a smile to Colonel James’s face. A calendar in the courtroom revealed that May 9, 1894, was a Wednesday.
After Colonel James completed his cross-examination, Colonel Fellows—the district attorney himself standing in for his minions—abruptly announced that the people rested their case. The court reporters were agog. This district attorney’s office had had a year to prepare since the original grand jury indictment on March 20, 1895; the city officials had rested after less than an hour of testimony. Judge Smyth adjourned the case till the following morning. The staff of the Broadway Central welcomed the jurors once again to the fifth floor.
On Wednesday morning, the courtroom was again packed with friends in blue uniforms.
Colonel James began the defense, outlining Devery’s version of events: first, the captain was out of town in the Midwest in early May, celebrating his victory in his last trial, when Seagrist claimed Glennon was hounding him to “come and see” the captain. Secondly, Devery was at a fire on May 9 at the moment when Seagrist claimed he was handshaking off to him a cash-filled envelope. “All of Mr. Seagrist’s testimony seems to be a series of mistakes, to call them by no more offensive name,” the lawyer pronounced.
The defense opened by calling local area workers—such as “elevator starter” Higginbotham of the Equitable Building—who testified that the police relayed their complaints and succeeded in forcing the demolition workers to keep down the dust clouds. The defense also brought to the stand some cops, a saloon owner, even the chief of the Fire Department to corroborate parts of the story, but this amounted more to window dressing.
The heart of the defense—the alibi—would be provided by three of Devery’s closest friends: wardman Glennon (also at risk on these same charges), ex-inspector Alexander “Clubber” Williams (former superior officer, retired grafter), and Frank Farrell (neighbor, and rising Tammany sports gambling czar).
Thirty-five-year-old Glennon—smug, tough-looking, hooded sleepy eyes and a sport’s black mustache with pointy ends curled down—took the stand. The sphinx spoke at last. He “glibly denied everything important in Seagrist’s testimony,” according to the World. No threats occurred, no meetings, no nothing. He grew indignant over the claim he had dragged Seagrist to a quiet spot by Trinity Church. He testified that the only time he saw Seagrist was when he went to the site in uniform on May 11 with patrolman Kiernan to tell the man to use more hose and water.
During cross-examination, the A.D.A. tried to chip away at Glennon’s swagger.
Q: How long did you do this “Special Duty” [plainclothes work for Devery]?
A: From February 1893 to May 1894.
Q: And during that time you never made one single arrest, did you?
A: I think. (pause) I might have. (pause) I don’t remember.
Q: You didn’t do patrol work, you didn’t do detective work. What did you do?
A: I did the precinct.
Loud snickers could be heard throughout the courtroom.
Glennon then explained that by that he meant he walked around the precinct ready to aid other policemen. Officer Kiernan subsequently corroborated Glennon’s testimony regarding the May 11 warning to Seagrist.
The assistant district attorney did not probe Glennon’s obvious incentive to lie and exonerate himself. The New York World viewed the district attorney’s efforts as halfhearted at best: “So it drifted along. There was no sharp cross-questioning, no attempt to puzzle the witness, no efforts to surprise him, no objections from counsel.”
Next up: ex-inspector Williams, tall, strong, lean, an impressive physical specimen. Despite his November defeat on the Republican ticket for the assembly, he still exuded cockiness.
Williams testified that he was an inspector on May 9, 1894, when he picked up Devery in a carriage at five minutes before 2 p.m. and carried him to the massive fire at Clyde Line pier at the foot of Catherine Street. They watched as drums of heating oil exploded and police fought to keep back the curious crowds.
When Williams left at five minutes to 4 p.m., he was “almost positive” that Devery was still there; a saloon keeper at 188 South Street testified that Devery was drinking seltzer just after 4 p.m.
Devery still needed another half hour on May 9 for a rock-solid alibi.
Frank Farrell supplied the crucial missing minutes. Farrell—thirty years old, slight of build, neatly dressed, low key, fond of derby hats—testified that he was a saloon owner. He failed to mention running any sports betting joints for Big Tim Sullivan or that he was a neighbor of Devery. He stated that he had sought the captain that afternoon at the station house but had been told to look for him at the Clyde Line pier. He asserted under oath that they had stayed together in the blaze area till around 5 p.m., then slowly walked to the Old Slip station house, arriving at 5:30 p.m., sitting on the stoop until 6 p.m.
Farrell explained he had called on Devery that day because he sought his advice on securing a liquor license for a hotel at 52nd Street and Third Avenue.
Devery’s trio of chums had delivered the alibi … if the jury believed them.
Devery took the stand. He was “cool” and “calm” and “answered questions distinctly,” stated the Times and Sun. He gave his age as forty, his home address as 327 West 28th Street. His lawyer guided him back over the days in question. Devery told the jury that in April 1894 he had been acquitted of charges brought by the Parkhurst Society and that he had requested and received a twenty-day leave of absence. He stated that he was vacationing in Chicago through May 4.
Devery emphatically denied ever receiving money from Seagrist. “I never saw him until I saw him on the stand in this court room,” stated Devery in a loud, dramatic voice.
Cross-examination for the people was handled by former judge D. G. Rollins, his dome ringed with curly white hair, his voice “bland and solicitous.” Somewhat oddly, Devery hesitated at an early softball question over how long he had lived at his present address. The Herald reporter viewed him as flushed and agitated. Devery stage-whispered to Judge Smyth, “what month is this?” before responding.
From then on, the cross-examiner Rollins “handled him gently and considerately” even when he forced Devery to admit he might have seen Seagrist for the first time at the job site and not in the courtroom.
Colonel James spent an hour and forty minutes making his closing statement. The New York World found the Colonel’s tone confident and maybe overly calm. “The [spectators could] count the wrinkles in the back of Colonel James’s neck and estimate the baldness of each lawyer in square inches. And they sleep without snoring, which is a concession to the dignity of the court.”
Colonel James emphasized Devery’s alibi; he stressed that Seagrist had repe
atedly been fined by the police, which nurtured animosity in the demolition man. At some point, Parkhurst agent E. A. Whitney broke the unwritten rules of decorum and began snoring; court officers threw him out.
The judge sent the jury to deliberate at 9:40 p.m. that Thursday night, after explaining the exact definition of extortion—that the defendant made a “threat to do injury” and that Seagrist paid $100 to the defendant to “avoid that injury.”
Devery walked up and down the courthouse corridors, smoking long black cigars and talking to friends. He looked animated and “hopeful.” At midnight, the judge asked an officer to inquire whether the jury had reached a verdict; they had not. He ordered the twelve men locked in the small jury room, to sleep on the floor or chairs, with deliberations to resume at 10:30 the next morning.
He ordered Devery to the Tombs. Devery had been out on bail but the law required that if a jury continued deliberations overnight, he must spend that night in custody. Since Inspector McLaughlin had been caught going to a Turkish bath instead of spending the night in the Tombs, the sheriff’s department couldn’t risk letting Devery skip out. Deputy sheriff Kelly guided the former captain toward the “Bridge of Sighs” over Franklin Street to the Tombs prison. For half an hour, Devery lingered at the bridge’s entrance talking to his lawyer’s colleague Abram Elkus and to friends; then, finally, he bid them farewell and trudged into the covered walkway, a route taken by so many of New York City’s most notorious criminals.
Devery would spend the night in cell number 3 on Condemned Row.
The World, waiting in vain for an apology from Roosevelt, found space—opposite a Devery trial story—to cover the arrest of a knapsack-toting peddler who was selling “Teddy Roosevelt teeth” tin whistles. The novelty item featured pressed-metal red lips flanking “abnormal,” oversized, “dazzling white” teeth, with a whistle tucked behind. Acting captain John R. Groo arrested John Kennedy, who was hawking them for a nickel a couple of blocks from 300 Mulberry.
After passing the night in his suit clothes on a prison cot, Devery decided to avoid the Tombs breakfast and instead ordered “chops, eggs, rolls and coffee” from a nearby restaurant.
A deputy sheriff escorted him back to the courtroom. He learned from courthouse gossips that the first jury ballot was seven for acquittal, two to convict, and three blank. Devery paced. At 10:45 a.m., the jury, blaming irreconcilable opinions caused by two holdouts, sent a note to Justice Smyth asking to be discharged. A hung jury would extend Devery’s exile and up his legal fees.
Judge Smyth sternly sent them back for more deliberations, saying he would hold them till they reached a verdict. At 11:30 a.m., the jury requested that the testimony of clerk Bissell and owner Seagrist be read aloud. That took an hour. At 1 p.m. the judge allowed them lunch back at Broadway Central.
Around 5:30 p.m. the jury sent a note that it had reached a verdict. Judge Smyth warned those in the courtroom that he would have the sheriff arrest anyone making an outburst.
The foreman, Anton J. Lehman, a manufacturer of canvas goods, announced: “Not guilty.”
Devery’s friends engulfed him; they “almost shook his right hand off.” The judge thanked the jurors and told them their verdict was a “just and proper conclusion and no other result could have been reached.” Devery lit up a cigar and inhaled hard, angling the long red fiery tip upward. He told the reporters he was too happy to talk.
A few minutes later, the Tammany Hall district attorney announced that the four bribery counts against Devery would be dropped.
Reporters rushed to police headquarters for a comment but could find only Commissioner Andrews. “[Devery] is not the kind of man we are making captains of,” intoned the police reformer. “There is no reason why [Devery] should not be tried by the commissioners on any of the indictments that are now and have been pending against him.”
Devery’s last remaining hurdle was the bickering Police Board.
ROOSEVELT KING IN NAME ONLY, ran a headline in the Journal. HIS THE VOICE OF AUTHORITY BUT PARKER’S THE HAND THAT HOLDS THE ROD. And the paper explained that Parker had dug up “an old law that everybody had forgotten, giving the Chief of Police, backed by a single Commissioner, practically complete authority over the force.”
Commissioner Andrews, a huge fan of Roosevelt, wrote a half century later in his unpublished memoirs: “It was a political shenanigan of a high order and put Roosevelt for the moment in the ridiculous position of an extremely vocal but wholly impotent figurehead.”
mid all the quarreling and the twitting by the press, Roosevelt received what he thought was some very good news indeed.
The Republicans in Albany delivered on their promise to inflict stricter statewide liquor regulations. The Raines Liquor Tax Law, which went into effect April 1, granted Roosevelt his wish: saloons were now legally required to keep their curtains open on Sundays to give policemen an unobstructed view into the empty barrooms. The new law also stipulated that saloons and restaurants and clubs not sell liquor from midnight on Saturday to 5 a.m. on Monday. “[This] will effectively and promptly solve whatever remained of the problem of Sunday closing,” predicted Roosevelt.
Many in Manhattan, from budget beer drinkers on the Bowery to swells sipping haut champagne at the Hoffman House, feared the worst.
The Raines Law, which ran to forty-five subsections, superseded all excise laws in New York State. It raised the drinking age from sixteen to eighteen years old; it banned platters of “free lunch”; it forbade bartenders from selling or giving liquor to “intoxicated persons,” “habitual drunkards,” or to “Indians”; it forbade pharmacies from dispensing alcohol-laced medicine without a doctor’s prescription.
The Raines Law, dubbed High Excise, raised the annual taxes on all liquor-dispensing establishments in New York City to $800 from the $75 for beer-and-ale-only joints and the $300 for standard saloons. Experts expected the likely demise of 2,000 of New York City’s lowest joints, the dimly lit, foul-smelling, rickety-chaired, stale-beer dives—meeting place of vagrants, shipless sailors, incompetent thieves, aging streetwalkers.
The bill’s sponsor, Senator John W. Raines—tall, taciturn, with fierce blue eyes, the loner son of a Methodist minister—also aimed to sew shut the club loophole that had allowed the wealthy to drink on Sundays. Private clubs would henceforth be treated like saloons: they must pay the high $800 annual tax, display their liquor license in the front, and on Sundays make their empty barrooms visible from the street. This latter requirement seemed staggering. Would the barmen at J. P. Morgan’s exclusive Metropolitan Club or at Roosevelt’s Union League really pull open the curtains so passing beat cops or any gawker could peer in on Sundays? The 300 prominent clubs thrived on denying entrance; they promised privacy and unlimited collegial drinking.
Hotels with ten rooms or more, however, could still serve alcohol with a meal to guests all seven days of the week. (New York City then had about 300 hotels with liquor licenses.) No new saloon could open within 200 feet of a church or a school. Steep fines of $1,600 and a year in prison loomed for violators.
The new law would also create a “secret service” with sixty agents, a state-run enforcement unit forecast to become a patronage mill for Republicans in Albany. One paragraph of fine print appeared a potential goldmine. The Raines Law required that all payers of this excise tax take out a “performance bond” (i.e., an insurance policy) equal to double the amount of their tax. Henry B. Platt, son of the Republican boss, and Charles Raines, the son of state senator Raines, set up a “bonding” office for Fidelity and Deposit Company of Maryland, a floor below the New York State Liquor Tax Collectors in the Metropolitan Life Building. (Roosevelt, when first meeting Raines in Albany in the early 1880s, once privately commented: “he [has]…the same idea of public life and the civil service that a vulture has of a dead sheep.”) Revenues for writing this two-page minimal risk boilerplate contract ($80 a saloon) were expected to hit $400,000.
Roosevelt’s Union League Club anno
unced it would close its bar on Sundays. On Wednesday, April 1, the police began enforcing the ban on “free lunch.” Overnight, a catering industry that was supplying $15 million of food a year to bars, including more than two tons of potato salad a day, disappeared. The World grew misty over the departure of “hundreds of gallons of beef stew [that] sent its perfume like a benediction over the heads bowed in mid-day meditation of its mysteries.” Word of the ban spread quickly among tramps and down-and-outers. The Times reported that “like a horde of locusts,” they “alighted in a body on the pickled herring, potato salad and liver pudding, and devoured it in a jiffy.”
That first Sunday in April, the police continued to enforce Roosevelt’s saloon crackdown; in addition, a few clubs and most restaurants stopped liquor sales as well. The New York World punned in its headline on Monday, April 5: RAINES MAKES A THIRST. The paper dubbed that Sunday the driest day of Roosevelt’s reign. The police also began enforcing the “unobstructed view of the bar” law, and rowdy Mike Callahan hired men to remove a pane of frosted glass from his Chatham Square front window and replace it with clear. Even wives could now peer inside.
As predicted, some of the poorer bars failed to renew their licenses. Owner Charlie Reuss, after fourteen years sliding beers at 106 Eldridge Street in Devery’s 11th Precinct, couldn’t afford the tenfold tax increase. “I am going to Canarsie to see if I can make a living selling fishing tackle,” he told a reporter. “What a cruel world it is.”
Back in the police boardroom, the ugly bickering between “secretive and evasive” Parker and “open and emphatic” Roosevelt grew fiercer.
Island of Vice Page 30
