by Simon Baatz
Nervous and Mental Diseases, cowritten with Frederick Peterson of Columbia University.36
Church nodded a greeting to Hugh Patrick and William Krohn; he sat down with them in the center of the room, a few feet from Robert Crowe's desk. The office was beginning to fill up as more people arrived. Crowe's assistants--John Sbarbaro, Joseph Savage, and Milton Smith--talked quietly among themselves in one corner of the room. Michael Hughes and William Shoemacher sat to one side, waiting. The stenographer was there: Elbert Allen was still transcribing the informal conversations between Nathan and the psychiatrists. George Murray, a detective with the Illinois Central Railroad, had found a chair near the door; John Wesner, a physician, sat by his side, reading some notes from his briefcase; and Thomas O'Malley, the chief of staff assigned to Crowe's office, walked in and out of the room, checking that everything was in order.
Robert Crowe turned to Richard Loeb first.
Robert Crowe had followed Church into the room. The state's attorney had brought Richard Loeb with him. Now that the psychiatrists had arrived, Crowe prepared to start the examination.
"Go ahead and tell the story in your own way. Begin at the beginning."
"Well, I don't remember just exactly when it was." Richard paused to look at Nathan. "Leopold here says it was in November . . . that he first talked to me about this; and I don't remember just how it came about, we had been discussing crimes, and so forth." Richard hesitated again; he was aware that everyone in the room was watching him closely. "We talked it over, and about the possibilities of it. . . . The crime, if it was to be committed plausibly . . . could not be done unless there was some way of getting the money."37
Richard began to relax; soon he was speaking more coherently, telling how they had planned the kidnapping, carried out the murder, and disposed of the evidence. Richard claimed that Nathan had struck Bobby Franks; Nathan vehemently denied the accusation, but in all other respects he agreed with Richard's account.
Crowe waited patiently for Richard to finish speaking.
"Let me," Crowe began, "first ask one or two questions. Then we will hear from the other boy. The motive of this, you say, was what?"
"I don't know," Loeb replied hesitantly.
"You had money in the bank?"
"Yes," Loeb replied. "It was a seeking of adventure; money entered into it some, in a way, but I think the main thing was the adventure of the thing, and the--" Richard paused and shook his head indecisively. "Oh, God, I don't know, when I come to think about it."
William Krohn broke in: "Had you made arrangements that you were to divide the money, at all?"
"Yes, the money was to be split up."
"Split even, fifty-fifty?"
"Yes."
"Had you planned how you were to use the money in any way?"
"We arranged that [the] money was not to be used in the city of Chicago or in this country for a year. Leopold had intended to go to Europe, and it was arranged he could spend the money in Europe if he wanted to."38
Richard Loeb admitted that the ransom money was not a sufficient motive for the murder. The ransom had added a element of complexity to the affair, but otherwise it was not important. The murder seemed inexplicable to him now; he had no satisfactory answer as to the motive.
"I feel so sorry. I have asked myself that question a million times. How did I possibly go into that thing?"
Hugh Patrick looked across at Nathan. "You cannot trace the original nucleus of it, can you, Mr. Leopold?"
"Yes, sir, I think I can," Nathan replied, decisively. "I am sure, as sure as I can be of anything, that is, as sure as you can read any other man's state of mind, the thing that prompted Dick to want to do this thing and prompted me to want to do this thing was a sort of pure love of excitement, or the imaginary love of thrills, doing something different; possibly . . . the satisfaction and the ego of putting something over. . . . The money consideration only came in afterwards, and never was important. The getting of the money was a part of our objective, as was also the commission of the crime; but that was not the exact motive."39
If Robert Crowe was to win a hanging verdict, he would have to convince the jury that the murder was a rational act. But what possible motive could there be for such a senseless murder? Neither Leopold nor Loeb had any especial reason to kill Bobby Franks. Richard Loeb had disliked his cousin, certainly, but not to any serious extent; Nathan Leopold had not even previously known Bobby.
In any case, both boys had claimed that they had selected Bobby by chance. He happened to be walking south on Ellis Avenue as they had driven by in the Willys-Knight. The victim might have been any one of a dozen boys in the vicinity of the Harvard School.
Could money be the motive for the killing? This, too, seemed implausible. Both Leopold and Loeb received generous monthly allowances. They did not lack money--why would they commit such a grievous crime for a relatively minor sum?
Could the desire for a thrill be the motive for the killing? Was it, as Nathan had stated to the reporters, akin to a scientific experiment whereby they could experience the sensation of killing another human being? But Crowe knew he could not claim that the murderers were sane and, at the same time, ask a jury to believe that they had killed a fourteen-year-old boy solely for the thrill of the experience.
It was, Crowe realized, a serious difficulty for the prosecution. The boys were rational and coherent--they displayed no signs of mental illness--yet they had committed an apparently irrational act. Indeed, the murder seemed to pass so far beyond the expected course of events as to force the conclusion that the perpetrators were insane. No matter how hard one looked, it was impossible to discover a rational motive for the killing of Bobby Franks.
Neither Leopold nor Loeb could adequately explain the murder; yet both willingly admitted their responsibility. There was no equivocation or ambiguity in this regard, at least: both had known, when they killed Bobby, that murder was wrong and both admitted that they could distinguish right from wrong.
Archibald Church had said little so far; now he turned to Nathan to ask him about his sense of criminal responsibility for the killing.
"Mr. Leopold, when you made this plan to do the killing, you understood perfectly your responsibilities in the matter?"
"My answer is, yes, sir."
"The criminal act for which certain penalties were provided, and all that?"
"Yes, sir."
Church returned brief ly to the question of motive. Perhaps, he suggested, they had wanted to demonstrate their superiority over the Chicago police.
"Were you actuated by a motive to put over some such thing as this without being detected, as it were, to put one over on the detective forces?"
"That I am sure was a large part of Mr. Loeb's attitude, and I think it was a small part of mine. Sort of egotism."40
Robert Crowe brought the questioning back to the boys' sense of responsibility; he turned, this time, to Richard Loeb.
"Mr. Loeb, do you know the difference between right and wrong?"
"Yes, sir."
"You think you did the right thing in this particular matter?"
"In the Franks case?"
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
"And you know it is wrong to kidnap a boy?"
"Yes, sir."
"What is your idea about right or wrong of getting a boy and kidnaping him?"
"It is wrong, sir."
"You know the consequence of this act, don't you?"
"Yes."41
The state's attorney could not have hoped for a more satisfying answer. Crowe glanced across at the stenographer as if to assure himself that Loeb's answers had been correctly recorded. Both prisoners had admitted their legal responsibility for the murder! No defense attorney in Chicago could get around that admission! How could they plead insanity now?
As Crowe ref lected on his good fortune in having Leopold and Loeb in custody without interference from defense lawyers, William Krohn continued to interrog
ate Loeb. Krohn was well versed in legal procedure; he, too, could scarcely believe that Leopold and Loeb had so effectively sabotaged their last line of defense: by admitting legal responsibility, they had denied their lawyers any chance of saving them from the gallows.
"Had you," Krohn asked Loeb, "any feeling of detracting or giving up the scheme?"
"No, sir, I don't think so."
1 . INSIDE THE STATE'S ATTORNEY'S OFFICE . On Saturday, 31 May 1924, Robert Crowe and members of his staff posed with Richard Loeb and Nathan Leopold in the office of the state's attorney on the third floor of the Criminal Court Building. Seated (from left): Richard Loeb, John Sbarbaro, Robert Crowe, Nathan Leopold, and Joseph Savage.
"You always felt as if you were going to go right through with it?" "Yes, sir. . . . Yes, I really think I did."
"Didn't want to be called a quitter?"
"Yes, that's just it. I have always hated anybody that was a coward." "You realize now, though, that you had the power to refrain from
doing it?"
"Yes, sir."
"You could have refrained from doing a wrong thing?" "Yes, sir."
"You had the power of will and choice to decide whether you would
do it or not?"
"Yes, sir."
"You had that all the time?" "Yes, sir. . . ."
"You had full control of doing it?" "Yes, sir."42
It was almost six o'clock--time, Crowe decided, to conclude the examination. He had obtained everything that he might reasonably have expected. Both Leopold and Loeb had confessed their guilt, a second time, before reputable witnesses, and both had admitted their legal responsibility for the murder; neither had attempted to deny culpability.
The state's psychiatrists had had ample opportunity to evaluate the two prisoners. All three psychiatrists agreed that neither Nathan nor Richard had shown even the slightest sign of mental illness. Quite the opposite: throughout the interview, the boys had been self- possessed, coherent, rational, and lucid. There was no evidence of insanity.
Crowe had learned that the families of the boys had hired Clarence Darrow that morning as the defense attorney. Crowe had not forgotten how Darrow had humiliated him, the previous year, in the trial of Fred Lundin, a prominent Republican politician, on charges of corruption. Now he would exact his revenge; he had a hanging case here: both Leopold and Loeb were going to the gallows, and even that old scoundrel Clarence Darrow--one of Crowe's most bitter enemies--would not be able to save them from the noose.
It would be an epic battle. Darrow and Crowe were polar opposites. Darrow was a determinist. One's actions, Darrow believed, were a consequence of forces that compelled each individual to behave in a certain manner. The criminal did not freely choose wrongdoing; rather, factors outside his or her conscious control acted to determine criminal behavior. There was no such thing as individual responsibility. Imprisonment was futile and even counterproductive; it served no purpose either as a deterrent or as a punishment.
162 FOR THE THRILL OF IT
Such views were anathema to Robert Crowe. Could any philosophy be more destructive of social harmony than Darrow's? The murder rate in Chicago was higher than it had ever been, yet Darrow would do away with punishment! Crime, Crowe believed, would decline only through the more rigorous application of the law. Criminals were fully responsible for their actions and should be treated accordingly--it was foolishness to absolve them of blame for their misdeeds.
The trial of Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb would be a contest between two charismatic individuals--Darrow, who had built his reputation by defending unpopular causes; and Crowe, the most competent and energetic state's attorney in a generation. And there would be a second contest, a contest between opposing philosophies of crime and punishment. Which one would triumph?
PART TWO
THE ATTORNEYS
8 CLARENCE DARROW
The distinguished gentleman whose profession it is to protect murder in Cook County, and concerning whose health thieves inquire before they go to commit crime, has seen fit to abuse the State's Attorney's office. . . . He has even objected to the State's Attorney referring to two self-confessed murderers, who have pleaded guilty to two capital offenses, as criminals.
1Robert Crowe, 26 August 1924
I assume you are intending to practise law when you finish your college-course. It is a bum profession, as generally practised. It is utterly devoid of idealism, and almost povertystricken as to any real ideas. Of course, however, there is a lot of chance to do some good in this profession if you can get along without making money your ambition. If you enter the field of law with the idea of helping those who need it most you will have a very interesting life, full of hard work and misunderstandings and misrepresentations,--but you will be able to do something toward alleviating the miseries and sorrows of unfortunates.
2Clarence Darrow, 4 November 1933
Eugene Prendergast had purchased the gun earlier that day. Now, as he crossed Ogden Avenue and continued past the Third Presbyterian Church on his right, he touched it once again through the thin lining of his jacket pocket. It was, in 1893, one of the most reliable pistols that one could buy: a Harrington and Richardson top-break .38-caliber revolver. He had carefully oiled it just a few hours earlier. As he turned down Ashland Avenue, toward the mayor's residence, Prendergast felt satisfied that very soon he would have won his revenge for the slights he had endured.
3
He had worked hard for the mayor's reelection the previous April. The mayor, Carter Harrison, had promised to appoint him corporation
counsel; but all his letters to the mayor's office had gone unanswered. Prendergast had no legal training-- indeed, he had no qualifications beyond high school--but that was surely irrelevant. He had never even met the mayor; but that too was inconsequential. His plans for the city--ambitious, clear-sighted plans that envisaged the construction of a new streetcar system--were ample qualification for the position of corporation counsel, and yet the mayor had continued to insult him by ignoring his many petitions.4
1 . CLARENCE DARROW . In 1887 Darrow moved with his wife and infant son from his hometown of Ashtabula, Ohio, to Chicago. He won notoriety and fame as an attorney for the labor movement, successfully defending members of the American Railway
Union and the Western Federation
of Miners.
The maid, Mary Hansen, answered the doorbell and ushered the visitor into the hallway. Prendergast waited ten minutes until, shortly after eight o'clock, Harrison, a large man with an affable manner and a distinctive white beard, appeared in the vestibule. Harrison was in a good mood; he had spoken earlier that day at a public meeting to mark the closing of the 1893 Columbian Exposition and his audience had responded enthusiastically, praising his administration for the success of the event.
5
The two men argued brief ly. As Prendergast began to press his demands, Harrison realized that it may have been a mistake to have dispensed with his police bodyguard.
"I tell you," he declared to his visitor, with exasperation in his voice, "I won't do it."
He turned slightly, as though to end their conversation; but before Harrison could step away, Prendergast had pushed the barrel of his revolver against the mayor's waistcoat. His first bullet struck Harrison in the abdomen; his second bullet tore through the mayor's chest, passing slightly above his heart; and the third bullet, fired as Harrison lay bleeding on the ground, wounded him in the left hand.6
At his trial later that year, Prendergast, a twenty-five-year-old Irishman with a nervous, agitated manner and no visible means of support, boasted that his action had saved Chicago from certain disaster. He had no regrets over Harrison's death, he explained to the court; the killing had been justified and, just as soon as everyone realized the benefits that would accrue from the mayor's demise, he, Prendergast, would be released from prison and lauded as a hero.7
His lawyer's plea was not guilty by reason of insanity. The psychiatrists for t
he defense explained the murder as a consequence of hereditary insanity--several of Prendergast's relatives had suffered from mental illness. But on 29 December 1893 the jury, after deliberating for less than one hour, returned to the courtroom to declare the defendant guilty and to fix the punishment as death by hanging.8
Clarence Darrow was one of several lawyers in Chicago convinced that Prendergast had suffered from a miscarriage of justice. The trial, Darrow believed, had been a travesty. At least one juror knew the mayor as a friend and had concealed that fact from the court. On one occasion, the bailiffs, escorting the jurors to a polling station to vote in the fall elections, had allowed the twelve jurymen to mingle with members of the public. And Prendergast, despite the guilty verdict, seemed, by his eccentric behavior during the trial, oblivious of the gravity of his situation and incapable of distinguishing right from wrong.9
Darrow had moved from Ashtabula, Ohio, to Chicago with his first wife, Jessie, and their infant son, Paul, in 1887. He was twentynine years old when he made the move, broad-shouldered, taller than the average man, with a physical presence embodying a determination and ambition that would not be easily turned aside. Nothing in his expression betrayed any hint of self-doubt; nothing in his eyes--brown eyes f lecked with green--ever revealed any hesitancy; nothing in his face, with its broad brow and cleft chin, showed anything other than certitude. Even as a young man, Darrow had a presence that commanded respect; and, as he grew into middle age, his ability in the courtroom endowed him with a reputation as an attorney sui generis; there was no one, among the lawyers of the Chicago bar, who could rival Darrow.
