by Simon Baatz
They met again, on Harry’s return to New York at the end of December, at the Café des Beaux-Arts, and she told him how Stanford White had contacted her shortly after her arrival back in New York. She had been unwilling to see White again; but he had insisted on seeing her, and eventually she relented.
“You told Mr. Thaw,” Delmas interrupted, “that Mr. White… had repeatedly called at your apartments at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Proceed,” Delmas instructed his witness. “Tell us all that you said to Mr. Thaw upon the subject.”
White had attempted to kiss her on their first meeting, but she resisted his advances. He said that he had been concerned for her safety while she was in Europe. Harry Thaw was a drug addict who assaulted young girls, and he, White, had been fearful that Thaw might hurt her also. He introduced her to some of his friends, and they too told her the stories that had circulated on Broadway about Harry Thaw. White suggested that she speak to his lawyer, Abraham Hummel, and she took a carriage downtown to Hummel’s office. She told the lawyer about her travels with Thaw in Europe, and he, Hummel, dictated a statement, an affidavit, to a stenographer in her presence.
“He said that I must be guided by his advice absolutely, that he had practiced law a great many years and knew just what to do…. Then he put in a lot of stuff that I had been carried off by Harry Thaw against my will, and I started to interrupt and he put up his hand for me to stop…. Mr. Hummel went on at great length about I had been taken away against my will and against my consent… and a lot of stuff that wasn’t true, and that I had been ill treated by Thaw.”
“Tell us all the details,” Delmas prompted. “Tell us what you told Mr. Thaw.”
“He asked me,” Evelyn continued, relating her conversation with Hummel, “why I didn’t sue Harry Thaw for breach of promise, and I answered that that would be absurd, that any breach of promise suit might be the other way because Thaw had asked me to marry him…. He said there would be lots of money in it…. Lots of rich men were sued for breach of promise of marriage by actresses, and he said I ought to sue Mr. Thaw, and he could easily win the case for me.”
“Was that the substance of that interview, as stated by you to Mr. Thaw?”
“Yes,” Evelyn replied. “Then Mr. Thaw asked if I had ever signed anything at Hummel’s office. I told him I had not…. I said that I had signed absolutely nothing in Mr. Hummel’s office.”11
Who would now defend Stanford White? His behavior seemed the more contemptible because it had been so carefully calculated. His assault on Evelyn Nesbit’s virtue—the rape in 1901—had not been an act of passion, the result of a momentary loss of control, but had been long in preparation, each step of the scheme leading inexorably to the next. Two years after the rape, in November 1903, White had attempted to renew their acquaintance, hoping to have sex with her. She rebuffed him, but he attempted nevertheless to win her back, seeking to poison her relationship with Harry Thaw, telling her that Thaw was a drug addict who habitually whipped young girls. White had then conspired with Hummel to deceive her into drawing up a document, an affidavit, that he could use to blackmail Thaw.
Most observers realized that Delphin Delmas had so cleverly arranged matters that not even the district attorney could attempt to contradict the testimony of the witness. Evelyn Nesbit had testified only about her conversations with Thaw—the first in Paris in June 1903, the second in New York in December later that same year—and Jerome could cross-examine her, therefore, only on the content of those conversations. But how could Jerome challenge anything that she had said in a private conversation? It would not be possible. And it soon became apparent that Delmas would use his advantage to destroy whatever little remained of White’s reputation.
“After you had told Mr. Thaw,” Delmas prompted, “what had happened between you and Stanford White in 1901, did Mr. Thaw have any conversation with you in which he discussed the fate of other young girls who had met with similar treatment—?”
“If Your Honor please,” the district attorney interrupted angrily, rising from his chair. “Stanford White is dead.” Would there be no end to the destruction of White’s character? Would the witness now tell the court every piece of gossip about the dead man? “Are there no limits,” Jerome protested, “upon the condemnation which may be thrown upon the dead? I object to this question. It does not bear up on the case and we have gone far enough on this path.”
“The learned District Attorney,” Delmas replied sarcastically, “will bear in mind that I have no more desire to asperse the memory of the dead than of the living.” But Stanford White had assaulted other young girls in his apartments. The defendant had heard about those episodes also, and the cumulative effect of these tales had accelerated his mental deterioration. The defense attorneys had a responsibility to their client to provide the evidence that would account for his mental collapse. “We would be derelict in our duty,” Delmas concluded, “if we omitted to supply every atom of proof which we conceive will aid these gentlemen,” he pointed to the jury, “in arriving at a correct conclusion of his mental attitude.”
But the judge sustained Jerome’s objection. He would not allow the attorneys to introduce in this manner the gossip about Stanford White. The state had no means of contradicting such evidence, and, more significantly, Delmas had not yet provided any testimony to the court that Harry Thaw had been insane at the time of the murder. It was not sufficient, Fitzgerald ruled, merely to assert that Thaw had been insane; it was also necessary for the defense to provide the expert medical testimony that would support the contention.12
Evelyn Nesbit had begun her testimony on Thursday, February 7, and she remained on the witness stand for two days. She was an excellent witness, faithfully following Delmas’s instructions, speaking always with a degree of self-assurance that seemed to confirm her testimony as truthful. But outside the courtroom, in every part of the United States, there had arisen a storm of protest that a young woman should speak so candidly of such terrible events and, worse, that the newspapers should reprint her shocking description of the rape. The publication of such explicit testimony, told in such detail, had no precedent and seemed to many observers to symbolize moral decay and degeneracy.
The National League of Catholic Women, then holding its annual convention in Chicago, took time away from more humdrum matters to pass a resolution calling on the city’s newspapers to stop printing verbatim accounts of the trial. The Women’s Christian Temperance Union, an influential reform organization with more than 200,000 members, condemned the publication of Evelyn Nesbit’s testimony and called on Christian parents to protect their children by preventing them from reading the newspapers. In Chattanooga, the mayor, William Frierson, spoke at a mass meeting of citizens at the First Baptist Church against the publication of the sordid details, saying that such revelations would lead young men and women astray.13
Few observers attached any blame to Evelyn Nesbit for her testimony. Most commentators regarded her as the unfortunate victim of the affair and praised her for her resolute defense of her husband. It was the newspaper editors who were behaving irresponsibly, without any regard for morality. They had hoped to boost their sales by printing the scandalous details, and they were deservedly the target of public censure. A grand jury in Lebanon, Kentucky, indicted three newspapers in the state—the Louisville Herald, the Louisville Times, and the Louisville Evening Post—for printing offensive and indecent matter, and prosecutors in Ohio brought similar charges against the editor of the Cincinnati Enquirer. More significantly, Charles Wharton, a member of the United States House of Representatives from Illinois, introduced a resolution calling for legislation to empower the president of the United States to prevent the distribution of the newspapers across state lines.14
Federal officials, including prominent members of Theodore Roosevelt’s administration, debated the practicality of banning the circulation of the newspapers. Henry Stimson, the United States district attorney for
the area that encompassed Manhattan, warned the New York newspapers that they had violated federal legislation that outlawed the distribution of obscene matter. It was irrelevant, Stimson announced, to claim as a defense that the newspapers had published the official transcript of a court proceeding: “The mere fact that such matter purports to be an account of a judicial proceeding furnishes no excuse for a violation of the statute.”15
The federal authorities in Canada had already acted—the postmaster general, Rodolphe Lemieux, had issued a warning from Ottawa that he would enforce the law against any newspaper that printed obscene matter—and members of the Roosevelt administration in the United States were keen to follow suit. George Cortelyou, the postmaster general of the United States, discussed the situation with the president that weekend, and on Monday, February 11, Roosevelt issued a statement through his press secretary, William Loeb, to say that he hoped to do everything possible to prevent further publication.16
But other government officials were not sanguine that the federal authorities could successfully prosecute the newspapers. Would any jury vote to convict such newspapers as the New-York Tribune and the New York Times as obscene publications? It would, moreover, create a dangerous precedent; if the administration could succeed in this instance, it might be tempted to censor the newspapers whenever their editorials opposed government policy. Charles Bonaparte, the attorney general of the United States, acknowledged Roosevelt’s desire to prevent publication but refused to declare an opinion on the question. “Somebody must clean out sinks and cesspools,” Bonaparte proclaimed, “but I at least feel no inclination to take part in it as a matter of choice.”17
But in any case, attempts at censorship were obviously now too late. The newspapers had already distributed Evelyn Nesbit’s testimony far and wide, to every corner of the United States—even the president confessed that he had read her statements—and any attempt now to prevent publication would seem futile, even ridiculous. Her testimony on direct examination had ended, and other witnesses—the psychiatrists—had already started to give their evidence to the court.
Harry Thaw had rejected the suggestion that he might be insane, and he had previously refused any request that he be examined by psychiatrists. He had always regarded his trial as an opportunity to reveal to the world the extent of Stanford White’s crimes, and an insanity plea would undercut his purpose. But Delphin Delmas had been persuasive, explaining that he would use psychiatric evidence only to supplement Evelyn’s testimony. Evelyn would tell the world about the rape, and the psychiatrists would testify that her story had driven him insane.
It was a clever scheme, and Harry gave his consent. Britton Evans, the medical superintendent at the New Jersey State Hospital for the Insane, was the first psychiatrist to visit the Tombs, examining Thaw on August 4, five weeks after the murder. Evans, accompanied by a second psychiatrist, Charles Wagner, returned to the Tombs on August 21, visiting the prison eight times over the next two months.
Evans recalled that Thaw had been nervous and agitated on his first visit, fidgeting constantly, talking without pause about the perceived slights that he had endured during his imprisonment. Thaw had been preoccupied with the belief that prominent New Yorkers, friends of Stanford White, were using their influence to send him to an insane asylum, thus preventing him from exposing their crimes in court. DeLancey Nicoll, a former district attorney, was a central figure in this conspiracy. Nicoll had been White’s attorney and was still receiving a retainer from White’s widow, Bessie, to hush up the scandal.
“What did you observe,” Delmas asked Evans, “of Mr. Thaw’s condition—mental condition—at the time of these various visits?”
“I observed that Harry K. Thaw exhibited a peculiar facial expression,” Evans stated, “a glaring of the eyes, a restlessness of the eyes…. I observed a nervous agitation and restlessness, such as comes from a severe brain storm.”18
Thaw told him that he intended to uncover evidence that would send White to the penitentiary. Thaw described how he had hired men from the Pinkerton Detective Agency to follow White; he had also asked Anthony Comstock to investigate the architect; and he had even contacted the district attorney, Travers Jerome; but nothing had come of his efforts. White, however, according to Thaw, had learned about this campaign against him and hired gangsters to assault Thaw; and Thaw had purchased a gun as a precaution against an attack. He had not intended to murder White, Thaw insisted. It had been an act of Providence that he used the gun to shoot White at Madison Square Garden—nothing more, nothing less.19
Thaw had allowed the psychiatrists to conduct a physical examination on their fourth visit, on September 22. His pulse, reflexes, muscular coordination, memory, eyesight, and sense of smell were all in excellent condition; there were no obvious signs of drug use and no symptoms of excessive drinking. But his mental condition was unstable and he was assuredly irrational. “He exhibited delusions of an exaggerated ego,” Evans testified. “He felt himself of exaggerated importance and was subjected to persecution by numerous persons.”20
Both psychiatrists, Britton Evans and Charles Wagner, on hearing a description of the defendant’s behavior at the time of the shooting, agreed that Thaw had been insane when he killed Stanford White. Thaw had remained irrational for some time afterward, until September 1906, almost ten weeks after the murder, but his condition subsequently improved, and there was reason to believe that his mental instability had been only temporary. Thaw was less nervous, less agitated, and his behavior in subsequent interviews more closely approached the behavior of a normal person. “He was in a general way more composed,” Evans stated, “more deliberate in manner, his greeting more cordial…. He did not exhibit the same amount of nervousness. There was none of that peculiar suspicious glancing around the room.”21
Travers Jerome could not recall a time when he had been so reluctant to cross-examine a witness. Evelyn Nesbit had shown extraordinary self-assurance a few days before, during the direct examination; but her composure would evaporate, Jerome realized, as soon as she understood how much he had uncovered about her past. Seven months had elapsed since the murder of Stanford White, and Jerome had used the time well, ferreting out the intimate details of Evelyn Nesbit’s life. She was, he believed, a foolish, gullible woman with no thought for the consequences of her actions; she had allowed Thaw’s attorneys to manipulate her; and she seemed unaware that she had put herself in a perilous position.
It was an outrage, Jerome felt, that she was sacrificing everything—her reputation, her honor—for such a scoundrel as Harry Thaw. It would have been easy for Thaw’s attorneys to plead their client not guilty by reason of insanity. Thaw, no doubt, would have spent a few years in the asylum, but there would then have been no need for his wife to humiliate herself for his sake. Thaw had repeatedly said that he refused to go to the asylum because he wanted to expose Stanford White’s crimes; but it was Evelyn Nesbit, not Thaw, who was performing that task. It was Evelyn Nesbit who was telling the world about the rape, while Thaw was merely observing, passively watching as his wife revealed the most intimate details of her life.
Jerome would be willing to spare Evelyn Nesbit his cross-examination, but only if Thaw’s attorneys would agree that Thaw should submit a plea of insanity. He had little confidence that they would accept his offer, but he would at least make the attempt.
“Your Honor,” he began, “if in my opinion an honest case of insanity is made out here,” he paused, looking at the attorneys on the other side of the room, “I am not going to take up the time of this learned Court in pressing this charge.”
If both sides agreed to a hearing on the defendant’s sanity, and if the lunacy commission decided that Thaw was currently insane, there would be no need for Evelyn Nesbit to subject herself to his interrogation. “I do not want,” Jerome added, “to take this unfortunate young woman through the course I shall have to take her through if I can help it.”
It was a generous offer, made in goo
d faith, but Thaw’s attorneys refused. They were confident that their client would win an acquittal and that Harry Thaw had no reason to accept Jerome’s proposal.
“I thought to save the feelings of this girl,” Jerome said, speaking in a subdued voice, with an air of resignation, “but if I must proceed I will.”22
Travers Jerome, forty-seven, had first attracted public notice thirteen years before as an attorney for the Lexow Committee, an investigation by the state legislature into police corruption in New York City. The scandalous revelations by the committee resulted in the political eclipse of the Democratic Party and the election of the reform candidate, William Strong, in the mayoral election in 1894. Travers Jerome was a beneficiary of Strong’s victory, receiving an appointment in 1895 as a judge on the Court of Special Sessions. Jerome used his position on the court to great effect, campaigning vigorously against gambling and prostitution, and in 1901 he won election as district attorney on the reform ticket.23
This campaign poster shows William Travers Jerome as the Fusion candidate in the 1901 election for district attorney of New York County (Manhattan). Jerome earned a reputation as a forceful district attorney who fought to end gambling in New York. (Library of Congress, LC-DIG-ppmsca-44773)
Few politicians in the new administration were as influential as Travers Jerome. The new mayor, Seth Low, a lackluster, mediocre politician, had been unable to hold together the disparate factions that made up the reform movement, and it had quickly fallen apart. But Jerome had distinguished himself as the new district attorney; and his patrician upbringing and personal integrity set him apart from previous incumbents. A series of spectacular trials, each more scandalous and sensational than the last, had provided Jerome with enormous publicity, and he used his celebrity to campaign ceaselessly against crime and corruption in the city.
