Nearing the time of one of his paroles, Blake wrote to a friend:
There's a steady and joyful surge of anticipation when I think about the Outside. I think of the freedom to walk in the night under the stars in the blessed dark, after these endless months of living my life in the shrillness of daylight—savoring again the poignancy of twilight. When I think of how shining new things will seem to me, I am filled with excitement.
This of course is fustian (though truly meant at the time) and, significantly, the tribute it pays to liberty strikes perhaps the only false note in a unique, honest, moving book which, telling us much about the paradoxes of one man's mind, enhancing our knowledge about the nature of freedom (if only because it demonstrates that we are still unable to define it), also tells us much about ourselves and our most fallible institution, The Joint.
[New York Times Book Review, April 25, 1971.]
A Death in Canaan
Toward the end of Joan Barthel's excellent book about Peter Reilly, Judge John Speziale—the jurist who presided over the trial and who later granted Peter a new trial—is quoted as saying: “The law is imperfect.” As portrayed in this book, Judge Speziale appears an exemplary man of the law, as fair and compassionate a mediator as we have any right to expect in a system where all too many of his colleagues are mediocre or self-serving or simply crooked. Certainly his decision in favor of a retrial—an action in itself so extraordinary as to be nearly historic—was the product of a humane and civilized intellect. Judge Speziale is one of the truly attractive figures in this book, which, although it has many winning people among its dramatis personae, contains more than one deplorable actor. And the judge is of course right: the law is imperfect. His apprehension of this fact is a triumph over the ordinary and the expected (in how many prisons now languish other Peter Reillys, victims of the law's “imperfections” but lacking Peter's many salvaging angels?), and is woven into his most honorable decision to grant Peter a new trial. But though he doubtless spoke from the heart as well as the mind and with the best intentions, the judge has to be found guilty of an enormous understatement.
The law (and one must assume that a definition of the law includes the totality of its many arms, including the one known as law enforcement) is not merely imperfect, it is all too often a catastrophe. To the weak and the underprivileged the law in all of its manifestations is usually a punitive nightmare. Even in the abstract the law is an institution of chaotic inequity, administered so many times with such arrogant disdain for the most basic principles of justice and human decency as to make mild admissions of “imperfection” sound presumptuous. If it is true that the law is the best institution human beings have devised to mediate their own eternal discord, this must not obscure the fact that the law's power is too often invested in the hands of mortal men who are corrupt, or if not corrupt, stupid, or if not stupid, then devious or lazy, and all of them capable of the most grievous mischief. The case of Peter Reilly, and Joan Barthel's book, powerfully demonstrate this ever-present danger and the sleepless vigilance ordinary citizens must steadfastly keep if the mechanism we have devised for our own protection does not from time to time try to destroy even the least of our children.
Naturally the foregoing implies, accurately, that I am convinced of Peter Reilly's innocence. I had begun to be convinced of at least the very strong possibility of his innocence when I first read Mrs. Barthel's article in the magazine New Times early in 1974.1 I happened on the article by sheerest chance, perhaps lured into reading it with more interest than I otherwise might have by the fact that the murder it described took place in Canaan, hardly an hour's drive away from my home in west-central Connecticut. (Is there not something reverberantly sinister about it, and indicative of the commonplaceness of atrocity in our time, that I should not until then have known about this vicious crime so close at hand and taking place only a few months before?) The Barthel article was a stark, forceful, searing piece, which in essence demonstrated how an eighteen-year-old boy, suspected by the police of murdering his mother, could be crudely yet subtly (and there is no contradiction in those terms) manipulated by law-enforcement officers so as to cause him to make an incriminating, albeit fuzzy and ambiguous, statement of responsibility for the crime. What I read was shocking, although I did not find it a novel experience. I am not by nature a taker-up of causes but in the preceding twelve years I had enlisted myself in aiding two people whom I felt to be victims of the law. Unlike Peter, both of these persons were young black men.
In the earlier of these cases the issue was not guilt but rather the punishment. Ben Reid, convicted of murdering a woman in the black ghetto of Hartford, had been sentenced to die in Connecticut's electric chair. His was the classic case of the woebegone survivor of poverty and abandonment who, largely because of his disadvantaged or minority status, was the recipient of the state's most terrible revenge. I wrote an article about Ben Reid in a national magazine and was enormously gratified when I saw that the piece helped significantly in the successful movement by a lot of other indignant people to have Ben's life spared. The other case involved Tony Maynard, whom I had known through James Baldwin and who had been convicted and sentenced to a long term for allegedly killing a marine in Greenwich Village. I worked to help extricate Tony, believing that he was innocent, which he was—as indeed the law finally admitted by freeing him, but after seven years of Tony's incarceration (among other unspeakable adversities he was badly injured as an innocent bystander in the cataclysm at Attica) and a series of retrials in which his devoted lawyers finally demonstrated the wretched police collusion, false and perjured evidence, shady deals on the part of the district attorney's office, and other maggoty odds and ends of the law's “imperfection,” which had caused his unjust imprisonment in the first place.
These experiments, then, led me to absorb the Barthel article in New Times with something akin to a shock of recognition; horrifying in what it revealed, the piece recapitulated much of the essence of the law's malfeasance that had created Tony Maynard's seven-year martyrdom. It should be noted at this moment, incidentally, that Mrs. Barthel's article was of absolutely crucial significance in the Reilly case, not only because it was the catalytic agent whereby the bulk of Peter's bail was raised, but because it so masterfully crystallized and made clear the sinister issues of the use of the lie detector and the extraction of a confession by the police, thereby making Peter's guilt at least problematical to all but the most obtuse reader. Precise and objective yet governed throughout, one felt, by a rigorous moral conscience, the article was a superb example of journalism at its most effective and powerful. (It was nearly inexcusable that this piece and its author received no mention in the otherwise praiseworthy report on the Reilly case published by The New York Times in 1975.)2 Given the power of the essay, then, I have wondered later why I so readily let Peter Reilly and his plight pass from my mind and my concern. I think it may have been because of the fact that since Peter was not black or even of any shade of tan he would somehow be exempt from that ultimate dungeon-bound ordeal that is overwhelmingly the lot of those who spring from minorities in America. But one need not even be a good Marxist to flinch at this misapprehension. The truth is simpler. Bad enough that Peter lived in a shacklike house with his “disreputable” mother; the critical part is this: he was poor. Fancy Peter, if you will, as an affluent day-student at Hotchkiss School only a few miles away, the mother murdered but in an ambience of coffee tables and wall-to-wall carpeting. It takes small imagination to envision the phalanx of horn-rimmed and button-down lawyers interposed immediately between Peter and Sergeant Kelly with his insufferable lie detector.
This detestable machine, the polygraph (the etymology of which shows that the word means “to write much,” which is about all that can be said for it), is to my mind this book's chief villain, and the one from which Peter Reilly's most miserable griefs subsequently flowed. It is such an American device, such a perfect example of our blind belief in “scientism” and
the efficacy of gadgets; and its performance in the hands of its operator—friendly, fatherly Sergeant Timothy Kelly, the mild collector of seashells—is also so American in the way it produces its benign but ruthless coercion. Like nearly all the law-enforcement officers in this drama, Sergeant Kelly is “nice”; it is as hard to conceive of him with a truncheon or a blackjack as with a volume of Proust. Plainly, neither Kelly nor his colleague Lieutenant Shay, who was actively responsible for Peter's confession, are vicious men; they are merely undiscerningly obedient, totally devoid of that flexibility of mind we call imagination, and they both have a passionate faith in the machine. Kelly especially is an unquestioning votary. “We go strictly by the charts,” he tells an exhausted boy. “And the charts say you hurt your mother last night.”
In a society where everything sooner or later breaks down or goes haywire, where cars fall apart and ovens explode and vacuum cleaners expire through planned obsolescence (surely Kelly must have been victim, like us all, of the Toastmaster), there is something manic, even awesome, about the sergeant's pious belief in the infallibility of his polygraph. And so at a point in his ordeal Peter, tired, confused, only hours removed from the trauma of witnessing his mother's mutilated body, asks, “Have you ever been proven totally wrong? A person, just from nervousness, responds that way?” Kelly replies, “No, the polygraph can never be wrong, because it's only a recording instrument, reacting to you. It's the person interpreting it who could be wrong. But I haven't made that many mistakes in twelve years, in the thousands of people who sat here, Pete.” Such mighty faith and assurances would have alone been enough to decisively wipe out a young man at the end of his tether. Add to this faith the presumed assumption of Peter's guilt on the part of the sergeant, and to this the outrageously tendentious nature of his questioning, and it is no wonder that a numb and bedraggled Peter was a setup for Lieutenant Shay, whose manner of extracting a confession from this troubled boy must be deemed a triumph of benevolent intimidation. Together the transcripts of the polygraph testimony and Peter's confession—much of which is recorded in this book—have to comprise another one of those depressing but instructive scandals that litter the annals of American justice.
Yet there is much more in the case of Peter Reilly, set down on these pages in rich detail, which makes it such a memorable and unique affair. What could be more harmoniously “American,” in the best sense of that mangled word, than the spectacle of a New England village rising practically en masse to come to the support of one of their own young whom they felt to be betrayed and abandoned? Mrs. Barthel, who lived with this case month in and month out during the past few years, and who got to know well so many of Peter's friends and his surrogate “family,” tells this part of the story with color, humor, and affection; and her feeling for the community life of a small town like Canaan—with its family ties and hostilities, its warmth and crankiness and crooked edges—gives both a depth and vivacity to her narrative; never is she lured into the purely sensational. As in every story of crime and justice, the major thrust of the drama derives from its central figures, and they are all here: not only the law's automata—the two “nice” cops whose dismal stratagems thrust Peter into his nightmare at the outset—but the judge, prosecutor, and counsel for the defense. Regarding these personages, Mrs. Barthel's art most often and tellingly lies in her subtle selectivity—and her onlooker's silence. What she allows the State's Attorney, Mr. Bianchi, simply to utter with his own lips, for instance, says more about Mr. Bianchi and the savagery of a certain genus of prosecutorial mind than any amount of editorializing or speculative gloss. As for the fascinating aftermath of the trial—Arthur Miller's stubborn and deservedly celebrated detective work in company with the redoubtable Mr. Conway, the brilliantly executed labors of the new defense counsel, the discovery of fresh evidence that led to the order of another trial, and other matters—all of these bring to a climax an eccentric, tangled, significant, and cautionary chronicle of the wrongdoing of the law and its belated redemption.
Joan Barthel's book would deserve our attention if for no other reason than that it focuses a bright light on the unconscionable methods which the law, acting through its enforcement agencies and because of its lust for punishment, uses to victimize the most helpless members of our society. And thus it once again shows the law's tragic and perdurable imperfection. It also reminds us that while judicial oppression undoubtedly falls the heaviest on those from minority groups, it will almost as surely hasten to afflict the poor and the “unrespectable,” no matter what their color. But rather triumphantly, and perhaps most importantly, A Death in Canaan demonstrates the will of ordinary people, in their ever astonishing energy and determination, to see true justice prevail over the law's dereliction.
[Introduction to A Death in Canaan, by Joan Barthel; Dutton, 1976.]
Death Row
In October 1983, four days before he was scheduled to be executed in the electric chair at the Florida state prison at Starke, something took place that enraged Shabaka Sundiata Waglini more than any single event during his nearly ten years on death row. They came into his cell and measured him for his burial suit. The bloodlessly finicky, mechanical tailoring procedure upset him violently.
I recently met him, and he said, call me Shabaka. Shabaka—thirty-four years old when he faced death, born Joseph Green Brown in Charleston, South Carolina—had been convicted for the 1973 murder, along with the robbery and rape, of a Tampa white woman. “Shabaka,” a name he took before going to prison, means “uncompromising” in Swahili.
Shortly after the suit was measured, Shabaka was asked to order his last meal—he could have virtually anything he wanted—but he rejected the offer as gratuitously insulting.
One shrinks from thinking how a man prepares himself to face this form of extinction. While little can be said in favor of any type of execution, death by electric current is truly primitive, a method that has not really been improved—if improvements are imaginable—since a convicted murderer received the inaugural 2,000 volts at New York's Auburn prison in 1890. It is a broiling process at intensely high temperature. The doctors who ascertain death must wait six or seven minutes for the body to cool down so they can touch it. Pigs and cattle go more expeditiously into that good night. Shabaka thought about the manner of his dying more than once.
He had good reason to believe that because he was black he had been dealt cards from a stacked deck.
As it happened, a juror at his trial had sent an affidavit to Shabaka's minister, the Rev. Joe Ingle of the Nashville-based Southern Coalition of Jails and Prisons, asserting that a jury member had advocated the chair for Shabaka, a former Black Panther, because “that nigger's been nothing but trouble since he came down here, and he'll be trouble until we get him off the streets.”
One's mouth goes dry at such an utterance, especially in light of the recent United States Supreme Court decision that racial prejudice, as a decisive factor in the administration of the death penalty, is theoretical and therefore of no importance.
In truth, racial discrimination, far from being of no importance, has an omnipresence that the remarks of that Florida juror utterly confirm. After trials like Shabaka's, how can the Court's ruling appear anything but a cruel and monumental deceit?
In the United States, blacks and Hispanics suffer the death penalty in grave disproportion. They also tend, like Shabaka, to be poor, and therefore they receive legal counsel that more often than not is slipshod and deficient. Shabaka possessed a couple of sorry impediments when he went into his trial: He was black and penniless. These conditions represent one of several arguments amid a constellation of many arguments against the death penalty.
But what would be the case in favor of killing Shabaka? (A previous armed robbery hardly gained him sympathy.) There is no doubt that the crime of which he had been convicted was terrible. Those who felt no qualms about placing him in the electric chair, including many of clear and subtle intelligence, might have wished to justify h
is execution on one or the other, or both, of two grounds. There really aren't any more. The most obvious of these is deterrence: By putting Shabaka and all other brutal killers to death, we think we dissuade the like-minded from committing similar crimes.
But it never has been proved that the death penalty prevents murder. Indeed, there is convincing evidence—displayed among other damning exhibits in Amnesty International's recent report on the death penalty in America—that executions frequently cause an increase in violent crimes.
In some countries—Canada, for example—the murder rate has fallen after abolition of the death penalty. Sincere foes of that penalty rarely are sentimentalists. There are those who would have opposed Shabaka's execution for any reason—feeling it was cruel and barbaric, or merely because it violated the sanctity of life. The resolve of many pragmatic opponents would be undermined were there hard proof that the death penalty prevents murders—but proof does not exist.
The crime that sealed Shabaka's fate was one that would bring out retributive fury in most people. Simple vengeance would have been the other rationale for seeking his death. The impulse toward vengeance is understandably relentless; many people, not necessarily bloodthirsty, would without shame declare a wish to have Shabaka killed just as a way to get even. And why shouldn't we acknowledge this? For, paradoxically, it is in the realm of vengeance that the feelings of many death penalty supporters and some opponents converge, though they do not coincide.
Any harsh sentence imposed for a particularly brutal crime contains an element of retaliation, satisfying a need on the part of the victim's ghost, the close survivors, and perhaps even society.
At the time of Shabaka's trial, there were quite a few onlookers who, though they rejected the death penalty, admitted they wanted to see Shabaka suffer a very hard time. But they also rejected a vengeance that extended to the electric chair, with its irremediable finality.
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