bidding. Yet I may, even for a moment, clog the wheels of the Juggernaut. At random, I select four names from the printed list, and the new jurors file into the box.
The trial proceeds. A police officer and two negro employees of Frick in turn take the witness stand. They had seen me three times in the Frick office, they testify. They speak falsely, but I feel indifferent to the hired witnesses. A tall man takes the stand. I recognize the detective who so brazenly claimed to identify me in the jail. He is followed by a physician who states that each wound of Frick might have proved fatal. John G. A. Leishman is called. I attempted to kill him, he testifies. “It’s a lie!” I cry out, angrily, but the guards force me into the seat. Now Frick comes forward. He seeks to avoid my eye, as I confront him.
The prosecutor turns to me. I decline to examine the witnesses for the State. They have spoken falsely; there is no truth in them, and I shall not participate in the mockery.
“Call the witnesses for the defence,” the judge commands.
I have no need of witnesses. I wish to proceed with my statement. The prosecutor demands that I speak English. But I insist on reading my prepared paper, in German. The judge rules to permit me the services of the court interpreter.
“I address myself to the People,” I begin. “Some may wonder why I have declined a legal defence. My reasons are twofold. In the first place, I am an Anarchist: I do not believe in man-made law, designed to enslave and oppress humanity. Secondly, an extraordinary phenomenon like an Attentat cannot be measured by the narrow standards of legality. It requires a view of the social background to be adequately understood. A lawyer would try to defend, or palliate, my act from the standpoint of the law. Yet the real question at issue is not a defence of myself, but rather the explanation of the deed. It is mistaken to believe me on trial. The actual defendant is Society—the system of injustice, of the organized exploitation of the People.”
The voice of the interpreter sounds cracked and shrill. Word for word he translates my utterance, the sentences broken, disconnected, in his inadequate English. The vociferous tones pierce my ears, and my heart bleeds at his meaningless declamation.
“Translate sentences, not single words,” I remonstrate.
With an impatient gesture he leaves me.
“Oh, please, go on!” I cry in dismay.
He returns hesitatingly.
“Look at my paper,” I adjure him, “and translate each sentence as I read it.”
The glazy eyes are turned to me, in a blank, unseeing stare. The man is blind!
“Let—us—continue,” he stammers.
“We have heard enough,” the judge interrupts.
“I have not read a third of my paper,” I cry in consternation.
“It will do.”
“I have declined the services of attorneys to get time to—”
“We allow you five more minutes.”
“But I can’t explain in such a short time. I have the right to be heard.”
“We’ll teach you differently.”
I am ordered from the witness chair. Several jurymen leave their seats, but the district attorney hurries forward, and whispers to them. They remain in the jury box. The room is hushed as the judge rises.
“Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you?”
“You would not let me speak,” I reply. “Your justice is a farce.”
“Silence!”
In a daze, I hear the droning voice on the bench. Hurriedly the guards lead me from the courtroom.
“The judge was easy on you,” the Warden jeers. “Twenty-two years! Pretty stiff, eh?”
82 The charges against Berkman were: felonious assault to kill H. C. Frick; felonious assault on J.G. Leishman, vice-chairman of Carnegie Steel; three counts of entering a building with felonious intent; and unlawfully carrying a concealed weapon. The three counts of entering a building were based on the testimony of an elevator operator who claimed Berkman had entered the building on three separate occasions. The trial began on Monday, September 19, 1892. The prosecutor was District Attorney Clarence Burleigh and the judge presiding was Samuel A. McClung. The trial lasted a total of four hours.
83 Talesmen are those who wait to serve on a jury. They can be used as alternates if a defender or prosecutor challenges any of the pre-selected jury.
Part II: The Penitentiary84
84 Berkman arrived at the Western State Penitentiary, known colloquially as Riverside, on September 19, 1892. He became Prisoner A7.
Chapter I: Desperate Thoughts
I
“Make yourself at home, now. You’ll stay here a while, huh, huh!”
As in a dream I hear the harsh tones. Is the man speaking to me, I wonder. Why is he laughing? I feel so weary, I long to be alone.
Now the voice has ceased; the steps are receding. All is silent, and I am alone. A nameless weight oppresses me. I feel exhausted, my mind a void. Heavily I fall on the bed. Head buried in the straw pillow, my heart breaking, I sink into deep sleep.
My eyes burn as with hot irons. The heat sears my sight, and consumes my eyelids. Now it pierces my head; my brain is aflame, it is swept by a raging fire. Oh!
I wake in horror. A stream of dazzling light is pouring into my face. Terrified, I press my hands to my eyes, but the mysterious flow pierces my lids, and blinds me with maddening torture.
“Get up and undress. What’s the matter with you, anyhow?”
The voice frightens me. The cell is filled with a continuous glare. Beyond, all is dark, the guard invisible.
“Now lay down and go to sleep.”
Silently I obey, when suddenly all grows black before my eyes. A terrible fear grips my heart. Have I gone blind? I grope for the bed, the wall… I can’t see! With a desperate cry I spring to the door. A faint click reaches my tense ear, the streaming lightning burns into my face. Oh, I can see! I can see!
“What t’ hell’s the matter with you, eh? Go to sleep. You hear?”
Quiet and immovable I lie on the bed. Strange horrors haunt me.… What a terrible place this must be! This agony— I cannot support it. Twenty-two years! Oh, it is hopeless, hopeless. I must die. I’ll die to-night.… With bated breath I creep from the bed. The iron bedstead creaks. In affright I draw back, feigning sleep. All remains silent. The guard did not hear me. I should feel the terrible bull’s-eye even with closed lids. Slowly I open my eyes. It is dark all around. I grope about the cell. The wall is damp, musty. The odors are
