The Anarchist (38 page)

HYDE sat at the table in the Three Brothers Café where he had first met Norris. As he read about the first day of the trial, he held the newspaper so that he could occasionally glance out the window at the man leaning against the lamppost in front of the apothecary. Hyde had first noticed him outside a saloon on the canal the day before; he wore the clothes of a canawler but he’d never spent a day walking behind a mule team. It was the way he watched everything, as though he’d never seen it before; it was the patches on his coat, which were too recently stitched; most of all, it was his hands, pale and soft. Now he watched the morning commerce on Market Street and never once appeared to look directly at the café.

Hyde finished his coffee, folded up his newspaper, and tucked it under his arm. He went outside and crossed the street, waiting for a wagon laden with barrels to pass. When the man saw that Hyde was headed straight for him, he took his weight off the lamppost and began to walk away.

“I know you’ve been following me,” Hyde said. “Savin sent you, right?”

The man kept walking. He was younger than Hyde, in his early twenties, and his neck was marred with acne.

“You listen to me,” Hyde said, taking hold of his forearm. The man turned and looked at him, indignant. “You’ve got to go to Savin and tell him I think I know where Gimmel has taken the Pinkertons.” The man looked about, pretending to be confused. “We don’t have
time
for this,” Hyde said, pulling him closer. “You
been tailing me for at least a day, but now you have to get word to Savin. They’ll never let me through the police surrounding headquarters—you know that.”

The man yanked his arm free and brushed his sleeve as though it had been soiled.

“Look, it’s here in the newspaper,” Hyde said, shoving his folded copy of the
Courier
in the man’s hands. “You tell Savin the last thing Anton said before he died was ‘Auburn.’” He tapped the front page of the paper with his finger. “I thought he was saying something in Russian, but it’s right there, in that piece about the Czolgosz trial.”

Reluctantly, the man looked down at the paper. “What is?”

“Auburn,” Hyde said. “It says that the Czolgosz trial will be swift—it might even be over today—and that he will be taken to the prison in Auburn because that’s where they have one of these electric chairs. Do you understand? It’s pointless for you to follow me. You need to let Savin know that Gimmel’s taken them to Auburn.”

“Herman Gimmel?”

“That’s better—you’ve heard of him,” Hyde said. “You know, you’re not bad. I bet you been following me for days. What’s your name?”

The man now looked uncertain. His mouth was small and tight, and there was something off-kilter about his jaw. “Thorpe. Jeb Thorpe.”

“Well, Jeb Thorpe, I don’t know what rank you are in the police but if you want a promotion you need to tell Savin I’m going to Auburn, and he needs to get there as quickly as possible.”

Thorpe’s posture stiffened and his eyes looked doubtful.

“All right, follow me, if you want. Come with me to Auburn, but first call Savin and tell him where we’re going.”

“Call him?” Thorpe said.

“Yes, let’s do that,” Hyde said. “Do you realize I’ve never used a telephone—never. You make the call and let me talk to him.”

Thorpe looked down at the newspaper in his hand again. “Why would they take the Pinkertons to Auburn?”

“They have explosives.”

Thorpe’s jaw went slack. “I’ll bet they have a telephone over at that apothecary.”

They went inside the apothecary, which had a creaking hardwood floor and rows of shelves stocked with medical supplies. Hyde waited in an aisle full of elixirs as Thorpe went up to the counter at the back of the store. A stout man in a white smock looked skeptical as Thorpe produced his wallet with his badge. They spoke for a moment, and then went to the end of the counter, where there was a telephone box on the wall. Thorpe took the receiver off the hook, turned the crank on the side of the box, and spoke into the black cone that was attached to the box. Hyde worked his way down the aisle, watching Thorpe. Your voice goes into the box, then along a thin wire that’s suspended from poles above the streets, until it reaches another telephone, perhaps miles away. Yet Thorpe was speaking softly. After a minute, he turned and nodded to Hyde, offering the receiver. “I’ve got Savin on the line,” he said.

Hyde went over and took the receiver; it was heavier than he expected. He leaned toward the telephone, until his mouth nearly touched the cone, and said,
“Savin, you there?”
The man in the smock looked at Thorpe, alarmed.

“No need to shout, Hyde,” Savin said. His voice seemed to be squeezed out of the receiver. “I can hear you fine.”

“Well, I can hear you, too.”

“That’s better. So you’ve met Thorpe and now you want to tell me something?”

“Auburn, Gimmel’s taken them to Auburn. That’s what Motka’s brother was trying to tell me before he died. Czolgosz will be taken there, and that’s where your Pinkertons will be. Gimmel’s got a lot of dynamite.”

“I see.”

“I’m going there.”

“Yes, all right,” Savin said. “Tell Thorpe I want him back here at headquarters.”

Hyde cleared his throat. “What about Motka?”

“What about her?”

“Is she all right?”

“She comfortable enough.”

“What do you mean ‘enough’?”

Savin didn’t answer immediately and for a moment Hyde wondered if they’d been cut off. But then Savin said, “I mean she’s in a cell by herself and she’s being properly fed. She’s not getting fucked all day long.”

“When will you let her go?”

“That’s a good question, Hyde. Keep in mind that I bought her. I own her. Right now you get to the train station. I’ll meet you there.”

“You don’t own her, Savin.”

“I paid for her. I got her out of Big Maud’s.” There was a pause until Savin said impatiently, “Hyde.”

“What?”

“You can ring off now.”

Hyde turned to Thorpe, who took the receiver away from his ear and hung it on the hook. “Alexander Graham Bell,” Thorpe said, and then he grinned.

THE second day of the trial the defense cross-examined Dr. Matthew Mann, and then several security guards were questioned about the shooting. Again, Czolgosz paid little attention, until one man named Gallaher was asked to produce the handkerchief that had concealed the weapon. The bullet holes and burn marks were clearly evident in the fabric, and the large audience
stirred uncomfortably, as though the piece of cloth were itself a dangerous weapon.

Later another guard demonstrated the Iver Johnson revolver that had been used to shoot the president. Penney had a tendency to repeat the same question, as though the witness were holding back some important detail. There were no important details, and no one ever asked how it was possible that a man with a revolver in his hand and held against his chest in full view, merely wrapped in a handkerchief, could file past dozens of security personnel, approach the president of the United States, and fire two shots at close range.

Something else was missing from their stories, and Czolgosz didn’t know what it was, until one of the guards was asked about a man named Parker. He was the Negro who had been standing directly behind Czolgosz in the reception line, and the guard admitted that Parker was the first one to knock the gunman to the floor and keep him from taking more than two shots at the president. But the other witnesses would not even acknowledge that a Negro had been in that line—it seemed they had all agreed in advance to erase Parker from the events in the Temple of Music. The men responsible for the president’s security, though they had failed miserably, had apparently agreed to alter their stories to make it appear that they, and they alone, had restrained the assassin. They were all testifying under oath, and they couldn’t even be honest about this detail.

A man named James Quackenbush was called to the witness stand, and it was established that he had been present when Czolgosz confessed only hours after the shooting. Czolgosz vaguely remembered the man; he was not a member of the police force, apparently, but had something to do with organizing the Pan-American Exposition. Czolgosz thought it curious that Quackenbush, rather than a member of the Buffalo police, was the one who testified about the confession.

When Penney asked Quackenbush, “Can you recall anything
he said on the subject of why he killed the president?” Czolgosz turned his head toward the witness stand.

“He said he did not believe in government,” Quackenbush said, “that he thought the president was a tyrant and should be removed. He said that the day before the shooting when he saw the president in the grounds that he thought that no one man should receive such services and all the others regard it as a privilege to stand by and render services. That is the substance, I think, not the words, although he used the word ‘services.’ He said he had for several years been studying the doctrines of anarchy, that he believed in no government, no marriage relation, and that he attended church for some time but they talked nonsense and he discontinued that.”

“He said that, did he—that he did not believe in church or state?” Penney asked.

“Yes,” Quackenbush said, “and that he did not believe in the marriage relation, that he believed in free love. He gave the names of several papers which he had read—Polish names which I cannot recall, four of them—and he mentioned one known as
Free Society.”

Penney asked, “He mentioned some places that he had been where he had heard these subjects discussed, didn’t he?”

“Yes, places in Cleveland, Ohio,” Quackenbush said. “He stated before he came to Buffalo he had been in Chicago. He said he had been influenced by the teaching of Emma Goldman.”

Her name caused a murmur to erupt in the courtroom. The judge pounded his gavel, demanding quiet. Czolgosz looked at the floor. He understood then: this trial wasn’t really about him; it was about Emma Goldman. They simply didn’t believe that he could conceive of what he did on his own. He had told them that her ideas had influenced him, but that wasn’t good enough. They needed to prove that Goldman had conspired with him to shoot the president—that it was her idea. All of her speeches, all of her
articles, all of the riots that her public appearances had caused—they needed to believe that Emma Goldman was the root of the problem, and that if they could get rid of her the entire anarchist movement would be eradicated.

Czolgosz closed his eyes. He was suddenly light-headed, and he felt himself sway in his chair.

What they would never know, what they would never understand, was that shooting the president had really been an act of love.

At noon Judge White declared a recess until two o’clock. Czolgosz, Geary, and Solomon returned to the prison across the street, where they sat at the table down the corridor from the cell and ate cold roast beef, potatoes, and carrots.

“Won’t be long now,” Geary said as he cut up the meat on Czolgosz’s plate. “Another hour or so.”

“You ever seen a murder trial this quick?” Czolgosz asked.

Solomon shook his head. “Never.”

“It’s too long,” Czolgosz said.

“You in some kind of hurry, Leon?” Solomon asked.

“They could take a year and they’d never understand it.”

“That so?” Solomon said. “Well, this afternoon I’m sure they’ll get Chief Bull on the stand because he’s been responsible for holding you.” He looked at Geary. “The old Bull’s got to get his time on the stand because you can see Savin is angling for a piece of the limelight.”

“He’s after his job, he is,” Geary said.

Solomon forked some potatoes into his mouth, and said to Czolgosz, “Then maybe they’ll put some of those alienists up there to talk about whether or not you’re sane.”

“Why don’t they put you on the stand?” Czolgosz asked. “Both of you know how sane I am. And if you can, I’d like you to convince them to let me have a fork to eat with. I hate eating with a
spoon.” He smiled, but the two detectives glanced warily at each other, and then resumed eating. “What?” he said.

“Leon?” Geary seemed embarrassed and he didn’t look up from his plate. “I got to ask you. Quackenbush said you don’t believe in marriage. You really believe in this free love business?”

“If somebody puts his hand on a Bible and says so, I guess it’s got to be true.”

“You practice it?” Solomon asked.

When he finished chewing a piece of roast beef, Czolgosz said, “The idea that it’s ‘free,’ I suppose, isn’t accurate. But that’s what they call it.”

“What do you mean?” Geary asked.

“I’ve never had a woman, you know,
free.”

“You pay for it,” Solomon said. “You go to a whorehouse and pay for it?”

Geary added, “Like with that little redhead they brung in yesterday?”

“You never been to a whorehouse?” Czolgosz asked.

Geary laid his fork down and held up both palms. “Whoa, there.”

“Maybe you’re married?” Czolgosz said. “I don’t know, you’ve never mentioned a wife. If you got one, then you don’t need to go whoring.”

“Right,” Solomon said. “We can get it anytime we want. But is there any law that says a married man can’t enter a registered house of assignation?” Geary looked toward his partner uncertainly. “I been to brothels,” Solomon said. “There’s nothing free about it. But a few times it sure was worth it.”