Haywood gave a docile, flat smile accompanied by a deep sigh, as if watching someone else’s mildly amusing, petulant child in need of a good ass kicking.
“I see him,” said Adams.
Judge Wood continued, “Did he ever, at any time, give you any orders of any kind, written or verbal, to do anything?”
“Well, Mister Judge, like I told this tall feller here,” Adams said, motioning toward Borah, “I don’t know ol’ one-eye there. He never told me to do nothin.”
“Hell, I’ll read it for you,” said Borah. “You put your mark in agreement to the following statement: ‘Mr. Haywood told me to lend a hand, and that if I didn’t think Harry Orchard could do the thing through, then I was to do it. Either way, after the governor was dead, I was to kill Harry.’ That’s what you signed, Mr. Adams, agreeing that it was a true and accurate account of your testimony, given on the first of April of this year. Isn’t that right?”
“April fool’s day?” asked Adams.
Borah was flabbergasted.
Darrow held his composure, refusing to reveal anything.
Adams looked at the judge, then at Haywood, and back at Borah. “I didn’t say nothin like that. Didn’t agree to it, neither.”
“Why then, Mr. Adams, did you sign this statement?” asked Borah, his nose twitching, neck reddening.
“’Cause that Pink there”—Adams pointed at McParland—“told me I had to, or he’d drown me more.”
Judge Wood tilted down toward Adams. “I don’t know what game you’re playing here, Mr. Adams, but I won’t have it. You’re under oath, Sir. Just as you were when you signed that paper. Have you been asked to change your testimony in this case?”
“No, Sir.”
Wood continued, “Has anyone approached you with a reward or a threat of any sort in an effort to induce you to give the testimony you are giving here today—saying that you don’t know Mr. Haywood?”
“No, Sir.”
Wood looked at the special prosecutor who’d already collapsed in his chair. “Any more questions, Mr. Borah?”
Borah shook his head. “No, Your Honor.”
Judge Wood looked at Darrow.
Darrow shrugged. “No questions.”
“Well,” began the judge, “in that case, you’re excused as a witness, Mr. Adams, and remanded to the custody of—”
“Your Honor?” asked Sheriff Sutherland, standing with the deputies who had escorted Adams in. His badge was clearly visible.
“Yes? You are?”
“Angus Sutherland, Shoshone County Sheriff, up in Wallace.”
“I’m familiar.”
“I’ve got a warrant—sworn arraignment and writ—for that man, Mr. Steven Adams. To my knowledge, mine is prior to any claim by any other court or law enforcement agency. Therefore, I ask that he be remanded to my custody.”
Judge Wood waved Sutherland forward and examined the papers. “You swear to this, Sheriff?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Wood then looked at the two Ada County deputies. “Deputies, has your office received any other warrants for this man?”
“Not as of yet, Your Honor.”
“All right, then he’s yours, Sheriff Sutherland.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Sutherland.
The deputies handcuffed Adams, and the group exited through the anteroom.
***
Soon thereafter, Darrow and Borah were at the bench, whispering with Judge Wood. Borah had announced the State rested, followed by Darrow announcing the defense ready. But first, Darrow had requested a directed verdict from the judge.
“No, Mr. Darrow,” said Wood. “I don’t see it.”
“Your Honor,” insisted Darrow, “as the Idaho criminal code requires, in a capital murder case such as this, seeking the accused to be held culpable as an accessory, the State must produce no less than two corroborating witnesses as to their central claim. But the State rested having failed to produce two such witnesses.”
Borah protested. “Maybe Mr. Darrow has not been paying attention, but we presented a host of witnesses—”
“Not to their case in prime,” said Darrow. “Not to the linkage of Mr. Haywood in such a manner as to warrant any capital charge.”
“We presented—”
“All you gave this jury was Mr. Orchard, Senator,” scowled Darrow. “That’s all. And that’s only one.” He lifted a single finger.
Judge Wood cocked his head and shook it. “No, Mr. Darrow, I’m thoroughly satisfied the case should be submitted to the jury.”
“Your Honor, the code is clear,” said Darrow.
“That’s my ruling. The motion for a directed verdict is denied. Counsel will step back.”
As the two attorneys returned to their tables, Wood gaveled the day to a close, saying the trial would commence the next morning when the defense would begin its case.
From the time Adams took the stand, Haywood had been relaxed, but now his face appeared ashen. The deputies cuffed him and led him from the courtroom.
***
That evening, Darrow sat on a chair in Haywood’s locked cell, watching his client who sat on the bed crosswise, reclining against the back wall, eating his dinner of fried chicken off a tin plate. They were silent. Darrow glanced to his left, through the cell’s floor-to-ceiling bars and into the sheriff’s office. A deputy stood there, leaning over a desk, his back to Darrow.
“I can’t talk with my client till you clear out,” said Darrow.
“Yeah, I know,” grumbled the deputy, shuffling some papers. “Guess you’ll have to wait a moment longer.”
“It’s been a long day for all of us, so the sooner—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Darrow looked back at Haywood. The big man smacked his lips and sucked his fingers as he devoured the chicken.
“Got a question for you, Mr. Darrow,” said the deputy. Darrow looked at the younger man who had turned.
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ve been working for the sheriff’s office here for a time. Seen my share of robbers, killers, and rapists come through.”
“What’s a man’s share of those?” snarked Darrow.
“What?”
“Go ahead. Especially if it’ll lead to you getting out of here.”
“Just answer me this,” said the deputy, “then I’ll go.”
“Ok.”
“With all them came their lawyers. I seen em all. Some too dumb to climb from a tipped bucket. Some smart, like you.”
“Oh, you’re talking about the lawyers?”
“Yeah,” the deputy continued. “I know some of em. But you came all this way from Chicago to—”
“Let me get you to your question: How can I represent a man if I believe he’s guilty?”
Haywood turned, fixing his dead eye on Darrow.
“Yeah, that’d be it,” said the deputy. “See, right there—you’re smarter than them others, that you knew—”
“His guilt or innocence isn’t mine to decide,” said Darrow. “That’s for the—”
“Deputy,” Haywood interrupted, his voice deep and breathy as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If someday you find yourself on this side of these bars, you’ll be glad your lawyer doesn’t bother with that question.”
Darrow shrugged toward the deputy while motioning toward Haywood, as if to say: There’s your answer.
The deputy kept his mouth closed.
Haywood continued, “And if you’re lucky, you can afford a lawyer as good as Clarence Darrow. Especially when the law itself is corrupt—the judge already siding with the government, the corporate puppets. You know that’s who you work for, don’t you? I don’t mean your sheriff, God rest his soul.”
“He was a good man,” said the deputy.
&nb
sp; Darrow just listened. He knew they were referring to the death two weeks prior of the elderly Ada County Sheriff, leaving this young deputy in uncertain command and out of his depth. Judge Wood said he’d appoint a new sheriff after the trial finished.
Haywood continued, “Who you actually work for is who pays your wage—that’s the corporations, the mine owners. Might usually be the taxpayers, as it should be, but in this trial, it’s fat capitalists, far from here.”
“You think so?” asked the deputy.
“I know so. What’s your name?” Haywood pressed.
“Billy. Billy Jones.”
“What’d your father do, Deputy Jones?”
“Pappy’s got a general mercantile, in Cheyenne.”
“He’s a working man. He answers to himself?”
The deputy nodded. “He started with less than nothing. When my momma died, he brought me out west, from that stinkin city.”
“Which city?” asked Haywood. “‘Stinkin doesn’t narrow it.”
The deputy’s expression lightened. “New York. I was in britches, but I remember it smelled something awful.”
“Now, your pappy’s got his own store. An American man, self-made, not the slave to some New York corporation or bank. Not risking his life for their greed.”
“That’s right.”
“But tens of thousands of other men, just like him, also came west for honest work.” Haywood stood and moved to the bars. “They had a vision for their lives, same as your pappy had—only they got crushed or gassed in the mines out here, or lost an eye”—he pointed at his own—“for those sons-a-bitches on Wall Street.”
Deputy Jones nodded. “School mate of mine died last year.”
“He was a miner?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you understand. These owners didn’t care about your friend. He was just a machine to them. Goddamn em, is what I say. The owners overworked him, abused him, took him for granted. They didn’t care whether he lived or died. All they cared about was serving their own purpose—that was it. Your friend was just a cog in the wheel, a body that, once dead, they forgot like so much dirt. That’s why I’m dedicated to this fight. Dedicated my life to it. We can never surrender, never stop resisting. Where’d he die?”
“Bunker Hill. At the Concentrator.”
Haywood glanced at Darrow, and then back at the deputy. He then asked softly, “A mining accident?”
“No, he was blown to bits when your men bombed the depot.”
“Not his man,” snapped Darrow, indicating Haywood.
The deputy took a moment. “That fella Orchard said he and Adams blew up the Bunker Hill. That means they killed my friend, ain’t that right?”
Haywood ignored the question. “You have brothers? Sisters?”
“Got a sister and a brother. They stayed in New York.”
“What do they do?”
“Sister’s a garment maker.”
“Where?”
“Place called Triangle Shirtwaist. Good money, but—”
“Garment makers have a tough go,” said Haywood. “Twelve-hour days. They need to better unionize. Where’s your brother?”
The deputy hesitated before saying, “He’s a banker. Assistant to a vice president of one of them banks.”
“In New York?”
The deputy nodded as if admitting to have broken a window.
“What’s your pappy think of him?”
“They don’t talk.”
“That’s too bad,” said Haywood. “Your brother chose something dishonorable—the business of making money by controlling the earnings of labor. But I know many good men who wear badges like yours. They’re honorable because they care who they work for. Judge Wood, the Pinks, their prosecutor, that politician, Senator Borah—they’re all paid for by the Mine Owners Association. Including you during all this. Paid out of a New York bank. Maybe the one where your brother works.”
The deputy looked at Darrow. “That right?”
Darrow nodded.
“I bet y0u want to make your pappy proud,” said Haywood, “and from what I’ve seen of you, he should be.”
“But your man killed a good number of innocent—”
“Let me ask you, if you decided to open this cell—”
“I ain’t gonna—”
“Of course not. But, let’s say you were angry at the far-off corporations ruining your life, killing your friends, maybe your family—you might feel powerless to stop them. Might you?”
“Might.”
“Say you saw the leader of the Federation standing up against the owners’ greed and corruption. Say he was locked up here. You might decide the right thing to do was to let him loose.”
The deputy looked around nervously, “I ain’t—”
“No, I know. But if you did, would that make you his man?’
“No, Sir.”
“Then I ask you to stop saying Harry Orchard’s my man. He chose to do whatever he chose to do. I had nothing to say on it.”
The deputy nodded.
Darrow squinted at Haywood, wondering if the man actually believed what he was saying.
“You seem like a good fella,” Haywood continued. “They might hang me, or maybe, by some miracle, they might cut me loose. But either way, your life will go on, Deputy Jones, and you’ll have choice upon choice given to you. Remember this conversation. Remember your pappy. Be honorable to yourself, to your country, to the badge you wear. To the citizens, the workers you serve. You understand me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Now get your coat and go, young man. I’m tired and need to confer with my attorney.”
“Yes, Sir,” said the deputy, grabbing his coat. He approached the cell and extended his hand between the bars, saying, “Thank you, Sir.” After shaking Haywood’s hand, he left.
As the outer door closed, Darrow murmured, “Nice speech.”
“Wasn’t a speech,” grumbled Haywood, turning away.
Darrow took a breath. “Denying a directed verdict is standard procedure. It wasn’t checkmate, Bill.”
“Damn sure sounded like it.”
“We have our case.”
“What case, Clarence? What case? What would that be? Me taking the stand saying I didn’t order the bombing? That was supposed to be our fight if they put two witnesses on against me. But here we are, on the walls of the Alamo, even though they’ve only got one goddamned cannon! One witness. That judge has no intention of following the law.”
“It’s clear grounds for appeal.”
“You know Borah and McParland will hang me before you can get a higher court to step in. Hell, we’ve already seen what the Supreme Court thinks of this—thinks of me. Any appeal judge will know it too. They’ll just say: ‘Nah, Borah doesn’t need two witnesses.’ No, Clarence, they’ll protect their own. You know damn well how this’ll go. Even though you said otherwise at every turn that got us here.”
“Now damnit, Bill, I got Adams to switch stories.”
Silence blanketed before Haywood spoke. “That was something,” he said, noticeably subdued. “I’ll give you that. Only wish it’d make a difference.”
“It’s not over,” said Darrow.
“So— Now what? Now you get sick?”
“Yeah.”
“And I’ll take the stand once you’re back?”
“Probably.”
“And you won’t tell me why?”
“No. Sorry, Bill.”
“All right.” Haywood took a big breath. “So, what else? What else can we do?”
“I still have my closing statement.”
Haywood snorted. “My life hinges on your talking skills.” He shook his head, and then clasped Darrow’s shoulder. “Thank God I’ve got America’s Orator.”
“That’s Bryan.”
“What?”
“America’s Orator. William Jennings Bryan.”
“The hell you say. Not you? What did the Tribune call you?”
Darrow took a breath. “America’s Lawyer.”
“Ah ... well ...to hell with America, I say. You just be my lawyer—come last bell. You’re all I’ve got left.”
<><><>
– 62 –
TUESDAY
May 21, 1907
The next morning, Judge Wood entered his chambers, removed his coat and hat, and lifted his black robe from its hook behind the door. While he moved toward his desk, a knock resounded behind him. His clerk entered. “We received this about ten minutes ago,” the man said, holding out a folded piece of paper.
Wood took it, flipped it open, and read. “Well, I’ll be.”
“Mn-huh.”
“That shoots today,” said the judge. “Would be unseemly, the defense attorney vomiting his breakfast on his first witness.”
“Or on Senator Borah.”
Wood humphed. “Borah might deserve it.”
Deputy Jones tapped the door behind the clerk and pushed it further open.
Judge Wood looked up. “No court today, Jones, on account of Mr. Darrow’s illness. Tell Senator Borah, of course, but first let the jury go.”
“Mr. Darrow is sick?” asked Jones.
“Yes.”
“Down a wheezer, or just not up to dick?”
“Who knows,” said the judge. “Just ill, I guess.”
“Somebody poison him?” Jones pressed. “Hope not.”
The judge and the clerk stared at the deputy. “No, Deputy Jones,” said the judge. “Is somebody saying that?”
“No, Your Honor,” said Jones. “Just with all the things going bad for Mr. Haywood, it made me wonder.”
Judge Wood frowned. “Release the jury and tell Borah.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Jones, leaving.
<><><>
“Where the hell is he?” McParland was pacing his office. “Sick? My Irish ass, he’s sick,” he growled at Jack and Iain who stood at near-attention. “Find him!”
Jack started to speak. “Men are at the depot, and up the line—”
American Red Page 50
