Compulsion

by Meyer Levin

  For Horn, he confirmed that he had studied the Storrs-Allwin report and that he had studied the behaviour of the defendants during all these weeks in court. Both were in full possession of their faculties, and sane.

  Wilk began, “Could you tell by looking at these boys whether or not they were mentally diseased?”

  “No,” the doctor responded. “But I could tell whether or not their appearance showed evidence of mental disease.”

  There was a suppressed snort from Judd at the fatuous remark.

  Wilk then sought to show that Dr. Tierney had never even talked to the defendants. The doctor had seen them a day after the famous Sunday examination. They had been brought to Horn’s office, to pick up suitcases sent by their families.

  “And did you examine these boys then? Did you question them?”

  “They had already been instructed not to reply to any questions.”

  “In your experience with criminal cases, is it customary for the lawyers to instruct their clients not to talk?”

  “I have examined quite a number of cases for the State in which the lawyers have not advised their clients to refuse to talk.”

  “What ones?”

  “Well, one would be Carl Wanderer, for instance,” Tierney said, recalling a notorious murderer.

  “He talked, did he?”

  “He did talk, yes.”

  “And he got hanged?”

  “Yes, sir.” The laughter seemed not to reach him.

  “You know that nobody had a right to compel them to talk?”

  “I believe that is a constitutional right, yes.”

  And yet, Wilk pointed out, Horn had been trying to get the boys to answer questions for Dr. Tierney.

  Horn leaped into the fray. “I object. You cannot compel a man to talk, but there is no constitutional provision that you can’t ask him to talk!”

  Wilk turned on him. “You had no more right to bring them back into your office than to take them to the state penitentiary!”

  “The sheriff brought them in, with your permission, to get their suitcases!”

  “And you tried to make use of it, tried to get them to talk some more, in violation of their constitutional rights, after you had had a picnic with them all the weekend, keeping them away from counsel!”

  “I will confess that I violated a number of constitutional rights!” Horn shouted, the witness forgotten. “And I intend to continue that as long as I am State’s Attorney!”

  Wilk turned to the whole world. “I don’t think in a well-organized community a man could be elected State’s Attorney under the statement that when a citizen is charged with a crime, the state’s attorney would violate his constitutional rights.”

  “Well now, gentlemen, you will have plenty of time for argument after the evidence is all in,” Judge Matthewson said.

  “Excuse me, Your Honour,” said Wilk. He eyed Tierney. His evidence, then, was to be founded entirely on his observations in this court?

  That, and the reports of the other psychiatrists, Dr. Tierney said.

  “Was there any testimony of fact by any of the psychiatrists that would put a psychiatrist on inquiry, as to further examination?”

  “Outside of the crime itself, no.” Moreover, Dr. Tierney pointed out, the boys had never aroused suspicion of mental disease prior to the crime.

  “Is a split personality evidence of a mental disorder?” Wilk asked.

  “To become a disorder, there would have to be a further development in a delusional state – a schizophrenia leading to a psychosis.”

  That was just the word he was looking for, Wilk said. Sizzy – skizzy – what was it? And as he struggled with it, everyone laughed. Ah yes, he had seen that word in the doctor’s own book.

  “What other names do you use for split personality?” Wilk asked.

  “Oh, they talk of delusions and they talk of hallucinations and they talk of fantasies. And schizophrenia.”

  “Yes. We just had it. Now, to digress a little, what is the mind?”

  “The mind represents that which we commonly call I. It is really the I-ego, the sum of all one’s experiences in the subjective stage, and not the objective experience.”

  “The sum of one’s experience?” The great Jonathan was letting us feel that this expert might be too much for him.

  “Yes, one’s thinking, feeling, and actions, in relation to the situations in which one is being placed and that one can recall.”

  “And what is emotion?”

  “Emotion comes from the need of living matter to maintain itself.”

  “Then a person, an ‘I’, a mind, is badly served by an emotional nature that does not seek to maintain itself?”

  “In what way?”

  “Someone who committed rash acts that could lead to death – would he be emotionally defective?”

  If he was referring to suicides, Dr. Tierney said, it would again be a case where the definition of mental illness came with the act itself.

  “But there are indirect forms of suicide?”

  Not every rash action was evidence of a self-destructive impulse, the doctor said. Some rash actions were merely foolish.

  Wilk nodded. Wasn’t a self-destructive or suicidal tendency often found in a split personality? That is, one part for, one part against, oneself?

  Yes, Dr. Tierney agreed.

  “Now what was the word again? Sizzo – never mind. If you did find a split personality, you would examine further, wouldn’t you?”

  Dr. Tierney smiled. “It is all a question of degree. If you forget a word, Mr. Wilk, I shouldn’t think it necessary to examine you for mental disease.”

  Wilk awarded him a mock bow. “Now – this schizo – what sort of persons are most liable to it?”

  “Why, schizophrenic persons, naturally.”

  “Are you trying to evade me or make fun of me?”

  “No, I’m trying to understand you,” the doctor said urbanely.

  “At what age is it most likely to develop into a psychosis?”

  “What do you mean by it?”

  “I mean your sizzyphasis or whatever it is.”

  The doctor’s face became stonily remote. So he had been put off guard by clowning. “I can’t generalize,” he said.

  Ah? Wilk glanced into the doctor’s own book, at the page where his finger had been all the while. “During the period of adolescence?”

  “A certain frequency has been noted,” the doctor admitted.

  Wilk read from the book, “‘In such cases – schizophrenia in adolescence’” – and this time he had no difficulty whatsoever with the word – “‘one often finds expression in crimes of violence.’”

  Horn shouted, “This has no bearing on this case, has it, doctor?”

  “Wait till it’s your turn to ask questions!” Wilk snapped before the judge could intervene. And he returned to his attack.

  “When is this condition most often seen?” Wilk persisted.

  Tierney sat silent. Wilk read, “‘This condition may most often be seen in adolescents at the time when they are emancipated from home control, and when they are leaving school…’”

  The doctor shrugged.

  Wilk read on. “‘It may occur in persons of a high degree of intelligence… At this difficult stage toward the end of puberty, the subject may develop fantasies, bordering upon autism. However, not all such cases develop a psychosis.’” He raised his eyes from the book and asked, “Would a young man of exceptional intelligence who had had a governess until the age of fifteen, who left home at that time, leaving one school for another, a young man decidedly given to fantasies – would such a person come under this description?”

  It was some years, Tierney said, since he had written this book.

  “Do you intend to take this out in the next edition?” Dr. Tierney responded to the laughter with a stiffly sporting gesture of the hand. Wilk read on. “‘The subject may go so far as to commit murder, seemingly for no motive, and he may appear
devoid of remorse.’”

  “Doctor, did you find any evidence in either of these subjects of a paranoid personality?”

  He had noted in Judd Steiner a few superficial similarities, Dr. Tierney said. “But the main features of a paranoid personality are lacking.”

  “What would such features be?”

  “Selfishness and a domineering character are often noted.”

  “Such as one might attribute to a superman?”

  Dr. Tierney smiled. “That is entirely a concept. However, even this concept concerns a more developed paranoid stage.”

  And could Dr. Tierney recall any other features of a paranoid personality?

  There was a guarded silence. “I will help you,” Wilk said, looking again in the book. “‘One who is anxious to be in the forefront’?”

  “Yes, but that might be considered part of an egocentric character.”

  “Well, let us see about egocentrics.” Wilk thumbed the volume. “Doesn’t it say somewhere here that an egocentric is practically the same thing as a paranoid character?”

  The doctor’s lips parted in a thin smile. “I don’t think I will quarrel with you very much on that.”

  “Then why not say yes, and agree with me once, without so much work?”

  Someone applauded. The gavel rapped. He returned to his point. Were people with this egocentric or paranoid character usually fond of learning?

  This was often a characteristic, the doctor admitted.

  “‘While they learn readily, there is really no broad grasp of the relationship of the material learned to the situations in life.’ Is that right?”

  Dr. Tierney hedged. Only of certain types of paranoid or egocentric personalities.

  “All right, doctor. You still recognize this book as an authority, do you?”

  Tierney nodded stonily.

  “I am reading from page 157. The heading of this section is ‘The Egocentric Personality’. It says: ‘Individuals of this type are often endowed with a facility for learning in a parrot-like way, which enables them to acquire their lessons easily and to do well scholastically, but the quality of the learning is poor, and there is really no broad grasp of the relation of the material learned to the situation in life.’”

  “That’s right, as I already agreed.”

  But was not this the defence description of Judd, an egocentric or paranoid type of a psychopathic personality? “And I understand you to say that a psychopathic personality is not yet in a diseased condition?”

  No, not necessarily.

  “But it would put a doctor on his guard to investigate?”

  “If one knows one is dealing with a paranoid personality, I don’t see anything further to investigate. I know a lot of paranoid personalities in ordinary society.”

  “If that paranoid personality has committed a crime, a murder?”

  “Oh, in that case the personality should be investigated.”

  Time and again in the trial, it seemed to us, this point had been reached. Yet we hung on the words, as if, this once, the answer might appear.

  As Wilk put the question, the scientists of the mind could read the meanings afterward – why couldn’t they read them before a crime?

  Because a psychopathic personality was not mentally diseased, the doctor insisted. There was as yet no proof that he would be harmful to others or to himself. He might be on the way to disease or he might be adjusted as he was.

  “It just happens, does it?”

  The number of psychopathic personalities, fortunately, was not very great, Dr. Tierney said.

  “Not so great but that – since you show us they are recognizable – we could watch them with more care,” Wilk said, turning and looking steadily at Judd. He had put the pieces perfectly into place; he had made the State’s alienist confirm, to the precise point, the defence contention that the boy was not insane, but that he showed marked characteristics of a potential disturbance.

  Wilk went back to his table. Astonished, we realized that the case was nearly over. For a month, we had come to this room as to a class. In the last weeks, we had learned a great deal about psychiatry. Only, what were the true opinions of the doctors? And even between Wilk and Horn, how much was conviction? If Horn himself were an attorney outside the services of the State, would he not be willing to defend the same boys?

  And now indeed there came news of professional “dickering”. For the sake of shortening the trial, Wilk would eliminate the remainder of his sympathy witnesses, if Horn would eliminate rebuttal witnesses.

  During a recess hour, the opposing attorneys were locked together. “No deal,” Horn announced as he emerged. He wouldn’t do it. He was going to put on Sergeant McNamara. The defence could do as they damn pleased.

  McNamara’s material was not new. We had all printed versions of his story of Judd’s remark about “pleading guilty before a friendly judge”.

  What could Horn hope to gain by putting this into the record? Did he feel that he would be putting Judge Matthewson on the spot, so that he could not dare pronounce the predicted “friendly” sentence? Did Horn feel that his alienists had been so discredited by Wilk that only a bold manœuvre could save his hanging case?

  Carefully Horn led the policeman through his testimony. Had Judd become talkative with him? Had he made notes? Yes, because the case was so important. And on Sunday, May thirtieth, had Judd made any remark that struck him?

  Yes, Judd had said, in discussing how he would plead, “that depends on my family – if they wish me to hang. Or else I will plead guilty before a friendly judge to get life imprisonment. There is also the insanity plea.”

  Judge Matthewson sat rigid.

  McNamara told how he had been so struck by the words that he had repeated them to his wife and to some neighbours on the way to church.

  If Wilk had been bitter, contemptuous, in his cross-examination of Dr. Stauffer, he was now simply murderous. When had McNamara written down the remarks? Right after they were made? No, later on. When, exactly? That same day, the detective thought. Where was the notebook? He didn’t have it with him.

  He didn’t? Did he think he could come into court and tell any cock-and-bull story without evidence?

  The judge leaned forward. Court would be recessed. Let the notebook be produced.

  An hour later, the session was resumed. McNamara produced a pocket-worn notebook, the schoolboy kind. There were entries in pencil, some half rubbed out, most of them having to do with petty expenses.

  Wilk found the notations of the day of the cavalcade. Where was there anything about the “friendly judge” remark? Nothing on that day or the next.

  “Then you lied,” Wilk cried. “You lied under oath before this court! You didn’t write it down that day or the next – if ever.”

  McNamara sputtered. It wasn’t a lie. He hadn’t said exactly when he wrote it down.

  In a tangle of questions, Wilk had him stumbling over his own tongue, on the point of violence or tears. McNamara pointed out notations on a later page. “Insanity plea, or get a life sentence from a friendly judge.”

  Jonathan Wilk was relentless. How could anyone know these were Judd’s words? Couldn’t they be McNamara’s own conclusions? Couldn’t he have put them in recently, even today? Hadn’t a newspaperman invented the whole story?

  McNamara shouted, “That’s a lie!” Reprimanded by the judge, he sputtered the names of the neighbours to whom he had told the story, then, in repeating the wording, got the quotation wrong. Finally he admitted, No, he wasn’t sure of the exact quotation.

  “Or if there was a quotation at all!” Wilk snapped. But he wasn’t done with his prey. And what did the phrase “friendly judge” mean? Even if Judd had said it, couldn’t he have meant that a jury would be unfriendly, after being stirred up by wild campaigns to creatre prejudice? Was McNamara not only a note-taker but a mind-reader?

  Sweating, the policeman growled, “No, I’m not that smart, not as smart as any million-dollar lawyers.
”

  Wilk looked up at Judge Matthewson. There it all was. They were bracketed together, in prejudiced minds. A million-dollar lawyer before a judge who would be friendly to millionaires.

  McNamara lurched from the stand.

  Thus on this note of hatred, the testimony ended; the case that was to explore our deepest philosophies, free will, guilt, and compulsion, closed with charges and countercharges of lying, shouts of money influence, with prejudice-stirring, with words bitter and base that were yet to reach into the last moment of the trial.

  I WONDER WHETHER in all courtroom history the speaking effort of one man was ever awaited as was the speech of Jonathan Wilk for the defence of Steiner and Straus. Perhaps there was in this anticipation the sense that all the probings, all the expert testimony, had still fallen short of an explanation, and that only the ultimate effort of a great man could lift the meaning before us.

  I kept wondering about Wilk in another way. For weeks he had been striving with all his might for these two boys in the crowded, dense, boiling courtroom. Yet, though Judd in particular seemed always to be trying to reach him with his gaze, Wilk did not appear to respond. It was as though Wilk defended them on principle, even, perhaps, against an inner sense of revulsion. His summation would have to be virtually an abstract plea for pure mercy, then.

  And surely it would be the last great murder trial in which the tired, ageing Wilk would take part; never again could such extreme circumstances arise. Pure mercy – for murder, pure, without even a concomitant sense of guilt.

  So Padua pictured the killing, as he took the first turn at summation, speaking smoothly, convincingly, reciting the law from Blackstone to our own day, precedent after precedent proving that hanging and only hanging, only the extreme penalty, was called for. Mitigation? For what? For their superior intelligence? For their superior advantages in wealth and luxury? For their waste of life, for destroying other lives as well as their own? No, as long as the death penalty existed in human law, it was mandatory in a case of this kind.

  Then Ferdinand Feldscher spoke for the defence, proving by precedent after precedent that consideration of the youth and mental condition of the defendants should bring a jail sentence. A hanging would be atavistic. And he awakened a sympathy for himself; we could not forget that he was a relative. And through sympathy for him, there was sympathy for the boys.