Double Jeopardy (13 page)

Prison, or at least the one I was in, was not very much like the movies, books and plays would have you believe. They would have you look upon it as a living death, with the idea of hoping to discourage potential criminals from embarking upon dishonest careers. This is not true. In all of my eighteen years, I saw no deliberate cruelty. True, I saw a few men handled roughly upon occasion; but in every case this treatment was merited. In Sing Sing, perhaps due to Warden Lawes' admirable innovations, no man is abused if he behaves himself, and no guard will molest a prisoner without justification. Moreover, life is made as bearable for the inmates as possible. Vocations are taught, athletics encouraged, and conditions are made as sanitary and as pleasant as yearly appropriations will permit.

Of course the absence of women companions makes men restless and unhappy. Sex preys upon the minds of the prisoners far more than the sins they are being punished for and the fact that they are no longer free men. Very often insanity results, or perversions and unclean habits are substituted for the normal act of intercourse. This, sadly, is a prevalent practice in all penal institutions and there is nothing that can be done about it. Pains are taken, of course, to segregate those men who have succumbed to various forms of sexual perversion; but it is not rare that a prisoner who begins his sentence normal, ends up quite the reverse. This, in my own humble opinion, is the greatest problem prison officials have still to face.

The desire for women is intensified by the knowledge that they are beyond reach. For myself I make no pretence that I am of a higher moral fabric than other men. At first I thought that I would lose my mind, so violent was my need for a woman. And in my head, melodramatic as it may sound, there seemed to be a constant beating of drums, throbbing pains that grew more acute and frequent as weeks slipped by. Then, set it down as madness, Gilberte came to me. I tried to fight her memory as she emerged from the obscurity into which my idiocy had plunged her. As I lay on my hard bunk, I tried desperately to replace her vision by thinking of Anita. But Anita, I knew, was dead and during these spells I found it difficult to remember what she looked like.

So, in a semi-conscious state, I felt Gilberte's hand touch my brow and I would suddenly find myself back in France, in the hospital garden. The odor of the flower beds filled my nostrils once more, superimposed upon the fumes of antiseptics and the stench of decaying flesh. In that trance would I relive many moments and over and over would I succumb to the beauty of that one mistake we made.

In the morning when I awakened, I felt much refreshed. I no longer cared that I was in prison for I knew that the dream would come again; this became an obsession with me. But I came to dread the days; my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Anita.

This is what makes of prison the hell I have named it. Naturally, I consider my own case the most harrowing, but it is very possible that many other convicts suffered equally—;if for some other reason. For prison forces men to live with themselves and with their own dark thoughts. It removes the healing ointment of outside diversions: people, changes of scene, any number of things which might help men to forget the past. Now, you can understand why it was doubly bad in my particular case. There was also this: I could not convince myself that I had really murdered my wife, and there was no way I could uncover the truth—;my innocence or my guilt—;while locked up in a cell.

All through those eighteen years—;from the time I went in at the age of twenty-eight, until I grew to be forty-six—;I was constantly plagued by the need of knowing the truth. In the prison shop, no matter what job was assigned to me, I took no interest. No activity could provide the answer I so fervently craved. In the yard, the mess hall, the cell-block, Anita's face followed me.

My cellmate, Bernie Dunbar, tried his best to drive out my morbid thoughts. He was a very young man, two or three years my junior. His face was tanned and handsome and, even after eight years, he had not developed what the novelists are pleased to term “prison pallor.” His crime was that of robbery and assault with a deadly weapon.

“It wasn't really deadly,” Bernie told me, “unless you can call a blank-cartridge pistol a deadly weapon. I stuck up a drugstore. I didn't want to hurt anybody. All I wanted was dough. But when I told the fellow behind the counter to open up the safe, the damned fool started yelling for the cops. Well, what could I do? Stand there and get pinched? I conked him with the butt of the thing and he took a nose-dive.”

I made the observation that such a blow might easily cause death. Being myself a druggist, I felt that I should take sides against Bernie. Consequently, when he sighed, shrugged helplessly and asked, “Well, what would
you
have done?” I forgot that he was putting me in
his
position and replied, “I would have shouted for the police, too.” But, come to think of it, I do not believe I would have done any such thing. Always having carefully preserved my health, undoubtedly I would have opened the safe.

Bernie's method in trying to comfort me was to give detailed accounts of what awful fates awaited many of the other prisoners. He seemed well acquainted with the other inmates of the prison and, in the course of three or four years, succeeded in telling me many ghastly tales. Although he assured me that the stories were all true, I thought some of them sounded somewhat extreme and implausible.

“You know that guy, Barstowe, in the death house? He chopped his mother and father to pieces with an axe. He wanted the insurance money, I guess. And to make it look like someone else had done it, he chopped off one of his own hands. He would have got away with it too, only the damned fool left his finger-prints all over the handle of the thing.”

Then: “You know Middleton? He poisoned his girl only she didn't die. Was he burned up! She testified in court and he's in here for twenty-years. He told me that he wouldn't have minded serving time, if he had done the job right.”

Also: “You know Frank Juliano? As soon as he's finished his stretch here, they've got something else to pin on him. Say, if that boy
ever
gets out of jail, it'll be a miracle. And you, kicking about your troubles! Why, any day they might find out you didn't knock her off and you'll get sprung. But that guy has
nothing
to look forward to!”

One day “Cupid,” who was usually silent, broke into the conversation. “Yeah? And look at me. I'm here for life. Of course that don't mean forever. I may get paroled in about fifteen or twenty years. But what the he'll. I'll be sixty years old! What in Christ's name can a guy do when he's sixty?”

I pretended to sympathize with “Cupid.” So did Bernie, for that matter. But in my heart I believed that the world was much better off with “Cupid” under lock and key. He was one of those habitual cases. He was possessed of an inhuman courage that was almost brutishly stupid. Bullets, police, and fellow criminals failed to impress him; for “Cupid” was not intelligent enough to be afraid. Once released, he was certain to re-embark upon his life of crime. And his record, at the time I knew him, was literally dotted with robberies, killings, kidnappings and terms in innumerable penitentiaries. You may be sure that I took pains never to get on the wrong side of this one-man crime wave.

But, despite all Bernie's efforts, I could not forget. Often at night I would have nightmares in which Anita's body would suddenly materialize before me, bloody and full of gaping wounds. Twice, in the throes of these horrible dreams, I rolled off the upper bunk, injuring myself considerably on the cement floor of the cell. Bernie, sympathetic, was gracious enough to change bunks with me, permitting me to take the coveted lower. Even after the change, the nightmares continued. The first night I occupied my new bed, I rolled off again. The fall, from less altitude, did not hurt me much, but it woke up Cupid. He hoisted himself out of bed, seized me roughly by the front of my undershirt, and dealt me a heavy blow on the point of my jaw. Although I landed on my bunk, I was unconscious for over a minute. When I came too, “Cupid” jerked me to my feet and waved his big ham of a fist under my nose.

“Spoil my night's sleep again, you little son of a bitch, and I'll pin your ears back!”

The dreams kept returning each night, but I made sure that I wouldn't fall again. I slept with one wrist caught in the framework of the bunk.

Anita's body was never found. Several bodies were discovered floating in the lake by the police during the years, but not one of them in any way resembled her. Obviously, without the corpse, no hint as to the identity of her slayer could be investigated; and there was no reason why any other opinion should be formed but that I had committed the crime. Accordingly, after the first year of my incarceration, my lawyer, Mr. Bristol, lost all interest in the case. No appeal was ever made in my behalf.

Incidentally, I sold my store, too. With the money I got from The Great Eastern Chain, I engaged the services of a private investigation bureau. This organization unearthed nothing whatever and, when my capital was exhausted, they had the colossal cheek to visit me in prison and inform me that they believed me guilty. This made me very angry. I would not have minded them telling me this if they could have shown some sort of proof. I was spending every cent I had in the world to find out—;if only for my own satisfaction—;that I was innocent; or—; if only to rid myself of doubt—;that I was guilty.

Late in the year 1930, Doc Turnbull paid me his last visit. It had been the old man's habit to come once each year to see me. Usually, it was during the summer—;that being the only time he could get away from Ithaca. “Sure, son, it's like a vacation. I haven't a relative in the world, thank God, except Sarah. And, well, she's not exactly a relative. She's my wife. So the only one I can visit is you.”

In spite of Doc's gruff dismissing of sentiment, I am sure that he thought of me as a son. Through the wire screen of the visiting-room, his homely words of wisdom did much to relieve the great weight I carried.

“Boy, you're looking through field glasses the wrong way. Know what I mean? Hell, no one ever got to first base in this old ball game by living in the past. To hell with yesterday, I say! Why, son, do you know how many men I've killed since I began practicing medicine? Practicing is right! I've been practicing for forty-three years! But does that bother me?”

“But Doc,” I said, “if I only knew whether I did it or not! You know I loved Anita and...”

“I don't think you did do it, Pete. But what's the use of thinking about it? No one will ever find out about it now. Too much water has passed under the bridge. Forget it. You're serving time. It won't be long now until you'll be let out. Think of that.”

“I am.”

“Good. It's only seven years more... less than that, if you skip Sundays. Why hell, it took me seven years to cure one case alone. The fellow was an alcoholic. Wouldn't let old demon rum alone. Do you know what my treatment was?”

“No.”

“I kept drinking his stuff. Never left him much of anything. Gradually, he got used to less and less until....” Here, Doc commenced to chuckle. “... I had to take the cure myself.”

Through him, I learned what little there was to know about Ithaca. “You know that Mrs. Michaelson had another heart attack? Third one, Pete. No, nothing serious yet. And say, you ought to see what they've done to your store! More chrome plate in it than a barber-shop! Can you beat it, they sell perfume and
books!
I'm dealing at Ray Cavender's now. Hate to do it, but what can a poor doctor do when he's got some prescriptions to be filled? Those Great Eastern chumps only know how to make sandwiches and sodas. And, oh yes! Remember Leo Carpenter with the blonde moustache that thought he was a doctor? Well, he's not practicing any more, I hear. He went to Vienna shortly after his old man died, you know. Said he was going to study under some of those foreign fakers. Well, Carpenter is writing books now. Medical books. I got one but I can't figure out what it's all about! Every other word is in Latin or Greek or some such uncivilized tongue! And the footnotes! One page text, three pages footnotes! But let me see, there was something else I wanted to tell you.... Sure, I know! Jackie Mackintosh is in reform school! That kid is a regular Jesse James! He robbed three Ithaca stores last summer and a grocery in Owego. They caught him, though, and he confessed.”

As he left me that last time, his parting words were: “Now don't forget that there is a future coming, Pete. Turn those old field glasses around and look ahead. You're still a young man... compared with me! And I'm still looking ahead, you bet! There's plenty of practicing left to do before I can sit back and consider myself a perfect undertaker! Why, I expect to live to be a hundred!”

A month later I learned that he was dead.

Now, whenever I think of old Doc Turnbull, my eyes dim with tears. He was such a fine person. The two of us got along so well together that I like to think that it was only an accident of birth which prevented us from being father and son. Yes, I loved that old man; and if there is such a place as heaven, I know that he's there.

There is little more to be said about the years I spent in prison. For the most part they were dull, each day exactly like the one before, with routine blunting the memory, fortunately. Contrary to the accepted idea of scratching off the days and even the half-days on the calendar, I did no such thing. Prisoners—;I think I am safe in the generalization—;prefer to forget about time. Their terms seem to pass more quickly if they do not keep themselves conscious of it.

But if, because I have given so little space to my life in prison, you get the erroneous impression that I did not miss so much, remember that while I paced back and forth across twelve feet of cell, radio made its initial appearance in the American home; motion pictures were greatly improved and, at length, made to speak; and Harding, Coolidge, Hoover and Franklin Roosevelt rested their troubled heads on White House pillows. Yes, and much more than that. Came the boom times of '27 and '28, the stock-market crash and the subsequent depression. Lindbergh flew to Paris, Byrd to the Polar regions. European governments were overthrown. Women's skirts grew shorter and longer and then shorter again. Henry made a lady out of Lizzie. Buildings were erected higher than the Woolworth. Fashion decreed that even portly matrons bob their hair. Indeed, the very map of the earth changed during those eighteen years!