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TIJE ATLANTA GEORGIAN AND NEWS.
[[[ JUST A SHOT IN DARK,
ARTIST'S SKETCH OF FRANK AND
HIS WIFE IN THE COURTROOM
one-half so dangerous as his growl
undoubtedly is disconcerting and
swe-inspiring, there will be little save
shreds and patches of the prosecution
left when the State comes eventual’y
to sum up Its case against Leo Prank.
Rosser's examination of Newt Leo
was one of the most nerve racking
end interesting I ever listened to.
It reminded me much of a big
JTi as tiff worrying and teasing a huge
brown rat. and grimly bent eventual
ly upon the Tat’s utter annihilation.
A witness up against one of Ros
ser's mighty bombardments is in a
decidedly uncomfortable predicament
•—no doubt about that!
True, Lee snapped back at Rosser
and growled angrily every little bit,
and strove this way and that to get
away from the insistent prod of the
tremendously menacing mass of hu
manity forever in front of him. wor
rying. teasing, sneering, and threaten
ing. but he could not.
Always the terrible Rosser was
there—and so. every little bit. Le;
would fall back into the witness
chair, with an audible sigh, and say,
ever so softly and abjectly, “Tasst",
yaasir,/Ah guess dat’s so!”
Sometimes Lee Countered.
Bulldozer Rosser may be, browbeat-
er perhaps, he still is far and away
the most picturesque figure in the
trial as it has progressed to date.
The Solicitor General outspokenly
resents the Rosser methods of exam
ining witnesses and endeavors with
all the resourcefulness at his com
mand to counteract them and sec
them so far at naught as he may—but
just as plainly he fears the powerful
figure leading the case for Frank, and
dreads to the very limit the effective
ness of his methods.
It must be remembered that the
State is relying Largely upon the
testimony of two ignorant negroes f jr
the conviction of Frank.
Fonley is the State’s star witness
and Newt Lee is its second bc^st bet.
Both are densely ignorant, and, theo
retically at least, more or less easy
marks for the Rosser method of ex
amination.
Time and again, Lee rallied and
came back at his tormentei win
telling effect—it is likely altogether
that more than once the jury’s sym
pathy went out to Lee in large meas •
tire, while Rosser was gru.ing him
and to the darkey’s occasional salli**
and adroit sidesteps, the spectators
in the courtroom frequently respond
ed teadily with approving titters and
guffaws _ . ,
Still, more than once Rosser mixed
the negro up somewhat—and we may
hear more of that when the adroit
Arno.d comes to ‘he bar for argu
ment . . ,
‘Rapiers’ Second the Clubs.
And so, it seems to me now that
the battle is to divide after this
fashion: Rosser is to wield tna
bludgeon and Dorsey is to neutralize
or ward off its shock wherever and
■whenever h> can, while Arnold ana
'Hooper are to undertake the more
skillful and artistic, but none the less
deadly, rapier work. .
Rosser is to smash and bang tnings
around, and Arnold Is to puncture,
thrust and parry.
It will be, in those circumstances,
full and fair lime Com small boys
and persons of hesitating dispositions
to stand from under—but neither
Dorsev nor Hooper is made of that
■variety of human clay. ,
"Whom the gods would destroy
they first make mad,” of eourse-^ano
T,other Rosser has scored many a
brilliant victory in the past through
the simple process of making the
other fellow mad.
And he can make Dorsey mad, too
—and does, frequently!
If only Dorsey had Hooper s poise
and unruffled calm, the assaults of
Rosser and the aggravating persist
ence of the man would he as harm
less as the shots of a popgun against
a modern man-of-war.
Dorsey Falls Into Trap.
Rut Dorsev isn’t Hooper, and the
consequence is that Dorsey gets very
angrv no* and then, which is ex
actly what Rosser is driving al
and when Dorsey communicates
some of his distress of mind and
temper to the witness on the stand,
the physchological condition Rosser
is lighting for hAs been set up. and
if he doesn’t make th ?. m ost , of \\
everv time it happens, his hand will
have lost its cunning and he will
-oelie and contradict a lifetime
achievement at the bar
A* times, there is something grim
ly humorous about Rosser—as when,
having befuddled a witness and ex
asperated him to the very verge of
madness. Mr. Rosser will say. with
studied sarcasm and belittling em
phasis, "Oh, well, well not quarrel
about that—we’ll not quarrel, you
an Tf that doesn’t make the witness
a thousand times madder than ever
before. I can not imagine why
When it comes to handling a wit
ness of the caliber of SergearR
Dobbs Mr. Rosser does not perform
any particular transformation in hts
makp-m) or his methods.
m He essays no Dr. .lekyli and Mr.
Hvde roles—he ever and always is
the same big, massive. powerful,
crushirtg, snorting, fighting, destroy
ing mass of humanity, under full
mental and physical steam ahead.
His Scowl Good Argument.
If anybody in this world is capa
ble of lifting himself by his own
bootstraps, unquestionably Mr. Ros
ser is the man!
No one in all the courtroom
watches him so closely, and ap
parently so analytically, as does the
defendant’s -wife. Ducile Frank.
1’rank watches him rather curious
ly even quizzically; the dider Mrs.
Frank—the defendant's mother—not
quite so closely—but the prisoner’s
wife rarely takes her eyes off her
husband’s leading counsel.
And there is something amazingly-
fascinating about Mr. Rosser.
He is fascinating physically—of
course his superb mental equipment
j„ not debatable—much after the
same fashion that old John L. Sulli
van used to be.
I n '--^ ua^ly dac-*-- of aid Juhn
By JAMES B. NEVIN.
If Mr. Luther Z. Rosser’s bite is L.’s scowls often served to scare an
adversary Instantly into a doubt that
a second scowl not Infrequently
evolved rapidly into despair.
Old Jake Kilrain told me once in
Washington city that he never was
genuinely afraid but once in his life,
and that was the first time his an
cient enemy, John L. Sullivan,
frowned ferociously upon him in the
beginning of their first fight—and
that he (Kilrain) never got over it.
Both Center on Purpose.
“If only once or twice he had
smiled upon me and looked the least
little bit pleasant, T might have
licked him,” said white-haired old
Jake Kilrain, “but he never did once
—indeed. T never once saw Sullivan
smile while fighting, in all the days
I have known him!”
And I mean it as a compliment to
Luther Z. Rosser when I credit him
with that same sort of terrible defi
niteness of purpose In trying a case.
Mr. Rosser lets it be seen, cau
tiously and carefully at first, that he
had a deadly Intent toward Lee. He
made it plain by an adroit develop
ment of questioning, that he proposed
showing. 1f he could, more in Lee’s
connection with this crime than ^he
public latterly has imagined to be
possible.
Eventually it dawned upon the
thick-witted nee-ro there in the wit
ness chair that Rosser was leading up,
through all those puzzling and wor
rying questions, to a fixed and steady
mark, and Lee could be seen plainly
to squirm and twist as he drew in
evitably nearer and nearer the peril
ous brink.
Story Virtually Unshaken.
He began to shift and back away
from questions, to complain of inac
curacy in the stenographic reports of
the Coror.or’* Inquest, to evade and
become indefinite. Evidently, at one
time, the negro was growing afraid,
and he undertook to be as cunning
and as cautious as he might.
And yet, with all of that, he stood
the ordeal pretty well, ar/ : ^ame
through relatively unhurt and cer
tainly not seriously damaged. I think
his evidence, as an isolated thing,
amounts to little, anvway—but I think
it went to ^he jury fairly well unchal-
leneed. at that!
The fighting so far. in its fuller as
pect. has been so plainly skirmish
ing and jockeying for position that
many spectators must have won
dered often, as J. did, w’hat sort of
accounting that other and far more
important sable figure in the Frank j
trial. Jim Conley, might be expected
to give of himself under the merci
less fire of Rosser.
It is about the negro Conley that
the battle will reach its zenith and
the fighting will be the fiercest.
After Conley has been disposed of.
one way or the other, the case against
Frank will be either up or down, ac- j
fording to the states of Conley when
his remarkable story has been put to
the ultimate test.
Will Conley Stand the Test?
Will Conley be as nimble-witted as
Lee was ?
Will he be able to withstand the
onslaughts of Rosser and Arnold, even
approximately as well as Newt stood
them?
Tf he does
Conley thus far has held himself to
gether pretty well. His examinations,
however, have b^en altogether one
sided. A very different story may be
told after he has been up against the
best legal talent the defense could
secure.
Newspapers have reported, from
time to time, how Conley was “grill
ed” by thus and so—never a party to
the defense—and it has been related
how well he "stuck to his story” when,
after throe trials, he apparently suc
ceeded in getting hold of a story he
could stick to overnight as a funda
mental proposition: but whether thp
word “grilled” should not really have
been “drilled” never has been per
fectly clear in my mind.
Conley ought to have his story well
in hand by now. in any event: and
.<*o. if it is a true story, neither Mr.
Rosser nor Mr. Arnold will succeed in
breaking him down.
On the other hand, if Conley relates
an untrue story, surely Rosser and
Arnold will be able to locate the loose
joints in it. and vvhpn they do Conley
should read as readily as anybody the
big and sinister danger signal that
tnere and then will loom significantly
ahead of him.
Rosser Shoots in Dark.
As for the examination of Newt Lee
by Mr. Rosser, it impressed me often
as a mere shooting in the dark, hop
ing to hit something.
To my mind there is nothing much
to Lee save and excepting the^one
fact that he discovered the dead body
of little Mary Phagan in the factory
cellar.
He is a genuine negro, with all of a
negro’s superstitious antipathy for a
dead body. He went into the cellar on
a perfectly natural and ordinary mis
sion. and there he discovered the body.
Just so soon as he satisfied himself
as to what it was. he undoubtedly
did. as he swore, “light a rag out of
thar!”
Immediately he called the police, as
he had been instructed to do bv
Frank, when he (Lee) first was em
ployed as a night watchman in the
factory.
That is all he knows about the
crime—and it is all Mr. Rosser ever
got out of him, and ever will get out
of him.
The remainder of hi? testimony Is
relatively unimportant, although, to
be sure, there are bits of it that r 1
serve to account for any seeming un-
naturalness in the behavior of Frank
just prior to his departure from the
factory Saturday afternoon and later
along in the evening
Battle Has Just Begun.
The battle for Led Frank’s life, lib
erty and honor as a man, the fight to
clear his home of the shadow of trag
edy forever, has hardly yet begun.
The fighting'so far h?ft been inde
cisive. and to neither side has fallen
any advantage worth reckoning upon.
The State has sustained Itself very
well because it hasn’t lost anything—
and about as much may be said for
the defense.
And not until Jim Conley gets Into
the case will the really big guns be
unlimbered.
The prisoner
and his wife
are the center
of all eyes.
Mrs. Frank is
at her
husband's
side throughout
every session.
They
are unmindful
of the gaze of
the curious,
and converse
frequently—
with
satisfaction
on the case.
The trouble i>, plain human emo
tions won't stick at concert pitch all
the time.
And so the Frank trial, after the
first twenty minutes, say, becomes
much like any other trial.
Except in the Hashes.
You get into the courtroom with
some formality. At once you are in
the midst of order. It i rather pon
derous, made-to-order . rder. Rut It
Is order.
Officials stalk about, walking on the
balls of their feet, like pussy cats. But
they do not purr. They request you to
be seated. You must not stand up;
you must sit down. Unfortunately,
you must stand up to walk to a place
to sit down. And that grieves the of-
Flashes ol Tragedy Pierce
Legal Tilts at Frank Trial
Mrs. Frank
at times
turns a
withering
glance
toward
the prosecutor's
table.
C
u
OFTHfTIl
Defendant Perfect in Poise, His
Wife Picture of Contemptuous
Confidence.
By L. F. WOODRUFF.
Arm akimbo, glasses firmly set.
changing position seldom, Leo M.
Frank sits through his trial with his
thoughts in Kamchatka. Terra del
Fuego. or the Antipodes. far as
the spectators in the courtroom can
judge.
He may realize that if the twelve
men he faces decide that he is guilty
of the murder of Mary Phagan. the
decree of earthly court will be that
his sole hope of the future will be
an appeal to the Court on High. Hi/
mind may constantly carry the im
pression of the likelihood of the
solemn reading of the death war
rant, the awful march to the death
chamber, the sight of the all terrify
ing gibbet, the dreadful ascension of
its steel stairs, the few words of re
ligious consolation—and then the
drop.
Frank’s Face a Mask.
But if he does realize these things,
his face is as completely masked
against emotion as that of a skilled
poker player.
To all appearances, he is the de
fendant in a civil suit on a contract
of $100, and he has the money in his
pocket to pay the judgment if the
court should rule against him.
An outsider entering the court
room, uninformed, would look in vain
for the man w’hose chief interest is
in the trial.
There i> a world of earnestness
written on the faces of the array ot
counsel. The jurore sit with fixed
faces. Their nervous fanning tells
their emotion. The court is all in
terest and the spectators lean for
ward, ears strained to catch every
word, eyes keen to observe every
move.
But Leo Frank sits there placid as
a pool, calm as a champion about to
go forth to assured victory. If any
thing. his appearance indicates that
the trial is not a trial to him. It is
simply a detail of a misfortune that
is through circumstance.
Frank's months in prison have not
affected him physically. His eyes are
Frank sits
calmly with
his arms
akimbo,
seldom
changing his
position as
the hours pass.
extremely luminous. His olive skin
is exceedingly clear. He holds his
spare frame erectly.
He speaks seldom. Occasionally he
turns to pass a word with his wife.
Every now’ and then he has a brief
conference with his counsel. More
often he gazes straight ahead—at
nothing.
He sits next to the massive Luther
Ross*er. When Rosser is on Ills feet
he is next to studious-appearing Reub
Arnold. When he speaks to thtm, his
voice is impassionate and his sen
tences are carefully framed.
Frank’s Wife Confident.
Behind him is his wife. Mrs. Frank
is a remarkably handj-ome woman.
She shares the stoicism of her hus
band in the trial. Though she has
not missed one minute of the hear
ing. she has never shewn that she
realizes that the outcome of the case
may change her to a widow.
Twice after the court has taken
recespes, and Frank has been turned
over to his deputy sheriff guardian,
she has embraced and kissed him.
But afterward s*he has .walked
from the courtroom, head thrown
back, shoulders erect, apparently un
concerned. On the street she would
be taken for a woman out for an aft
ernoon of shopping rather than the
woman who bears the name of the
man charged with the blackest crime
known to Atlapta criminology.
Then to the left of her *lte the pa
thetic figure of the trial. To those
who believe F'rank guilty, his person
ality is not one to arouse pity. His
self-assurance is too apparent. His
wife hardly stirs sympathy. She, too.
is apparently confident of victory.
But there’s the mother. Hour after
hour she yits and listens to men try
ing to send her firstborn to the gal
lows. Hour after bour she is thrilled
by the skillful struggle that his coun
sel make* to have the family name
cleared of the stain brought by the
charge that now rests against it.
Mrs. Frank is a motherly-looking
woman. Her form is ample, and in
her younger days was evidently a
woman of striking appearance. She
is typical of th_ j mother of her race—
the revered head of the Hebrew fam
ily.
In this trial, though, her eyes art
practically always fixed on her son.
Their yearning light spreads through
the big courtroom.
Their every flash vends the mes
sage that she wants him back on her
breast a free man.
No single feature of the trial es
capes her. When the prosecution
scores, another line is added to the
face that has been wrinkled by the
three months of waiting and horror.
When the defense seems* to have an
advantage, there is a joy expressed
as groat as the power of Niagara
When the attorneys ask a question,
her eyes are fixed on the questioner
When the witness answers, her gaze
is on him. When the court rules,
every movement of his lips is marked
by her.
But there is always nn eye for her
son. During .he trial he wished a
drink of water. The pitcher was on
the desk of his counsel, far from his
seat and mar hers.
When he looked for it. she divined
his wish. She was on her feet in a
second. The glass* was in her hand.
The water was poured out. In her
trembling grasp it was passed to him.
As he took it. his stoicism broke.
He smiled his acknowledgment of
the little act of kindness, and there
was a wealth of love In his smile, and
She smiled back reassurance. Su
perlatives couldn't tell the meaning of
that smile.
• • •
Mary Phagan is dead. She died
horribly, the victim of as cruel a
beast t e ever polluted the soil of the
Southland.
But Mary Phagan is dead; she
sleeps peacefully beneath a flowered
sod.
The mother of Leo Frank is alive,
and b* her .«on innocent or guilty,
the mother is the pitiful figure in this
black and baffling mystery.
By 0. B. KEELER.
something. It Is among the duties
of counsel for the defense t# be
constantly injured. Mr. Arnold is
good at that. He is not going to
fall, if the court please,, in his full
duty to his client, who sits there.
And the particular part of Mr. Ar
nold’s duty at this moment is to see
that his learned brother does not get
before the Jury from this witness any
of his (the witness’) ideas as to how
the defendant looked the morning aft
er the tragedy at the pencil factory.
Mr. Arnold Philosophizes.
Mr. Arnold begs to submit that an
officer, If it please the court, thinks
everybody looks guilty. Mr. Arnold
begs to submit further that the hu
man face is the most inscrutable
thing in the world. And Mr. Arnold
will say—
You discover the defendant’s wife
and mother, and lose (he thread of
Mr, Arnold’s philosophy.
They sit by his side. The mother s
face is of the inscrutable type pic
tured by Mr. Arnold. The wife’s
face. * * * That was thrill No.
2. * * * You realize in a flash what
the Frank trial meads to her. * ***
She watches the witnesses more
closely than her husband. She moves
her fan nervously at times. She re
gards the prosecutor and his assist
ant with a certain contemptuous do
fiance. * * ♦ The tingle lasts un
til you realize she Is chewing gum.
Mr. Arnold's philosophic objection
has spun itself ou'. Mr. Dorsfy re
sumes his questioning. Mr. Dorsev
has a querulous manner of asking
questions. Mr. Arnold’s injured ob
jections mav explain that.
The Pathos of a Dress.
The testimony just now is not
thrilling^ It has* to do with a stair
way and an office and some very
usual-looking cord or heavy twine.
The witness has to get up frequently
and point out things on a framed plan
of the pencil factory that hangs on
the wall where the Jury can see it.
He uses an umbrella. He may be
pointing out the very spot where Mary
Phagan * * * But the handle of
the umbrella is bent. Is it his own
umbrella? It looks like a w'omnn's.
* * * Where did Mr. Dorsey get
that twine, anyway?
Oh. the 9uiteas*e. There are other
things in the suitcase. * * * A
little heap of things on the floor of
the witness stand—a crumpled dress,
a hat. * * *
And that time you w ink your eyes
very hard, because they sting. What
was in that little girl's mind as she
put on that hat for the last time?
What painstaking (‘are had she used,
to make it her “best” hat—what
! needle pricks, maybe, in the small
I fingers? And the lavender dress.
[ * * • And the end of all, in the
• dust and dirt of the pencil factory
basement.
Just for a Hash it’s all real. And
' cold. And grim. And pitiful.
Rosser Soars—Regardless.
Then Mr. Arnold objects again, and
there is another dreary wrangle, and
the idea gets uppermost in your head
j that the city detective is a most lit
eral-minded w itnes.s.
It is confusing.
Mary Phagan's sister is there. She
wears a black hat and an unaccus
tomed veil. You look in vain for
tributes to emotion. She shows a
mild interest in Mr. Rosser's pomp
and circumstance of language. In
stead ot another thrill, you gain a
hazy impression that Mr. Rosser is
an orator who loves to soar—who
would soar, in fact, when he might
get along faster by walking.
You hear the purr of the fans, the
shuffle of feet, the clearing of throats.
You are sensible that it is very warm
and that the Judge twice has handled
his palm loaf as if it were a gavel.
You see a juror yawn luxuriously and
once more find proof that yawning is
contagious.
Oh. yes—after the first twenty
minutes (say), the P’rank trial is much
like any other, except
Again a Thrill—Then Reaction.
"A big splotch that looked like
blood.”
"Where was It?”
“Well, some of it was over in the
corner. * * * It looked as if it had
been swept over with something
white. * * * The rest-^—”
“Well, tell the jury where was the
rest.” . .. H
“Around a nail ttyat stuck out.
* * * The top of the nail w r as cov
ered with blood, and * * *”
You sit back and your hands hurt
from squeezing the arms of the seat.
They are talking about a stairway
again, and the city detective is point
ing out something on the map with
the bent-handled umbrella.
No use.
Plain human emotions simply won’t
stick at concert pitch, even for the
terrific romance of murder.
Once in a while, over the whirr of
fans and the shuffle of feet and the
interminable squabbling of counsel,
you feel the shadow of a crime—an
uglier crime than that which, took
pjUgene Aram out of Lynn, “with
gyves upon his wrist.”
But only in the flashes.,
Sna.ke Rattles Sent
To U. S, Postal Chief
WASHINGTON, July 30.—Fourth
Assistant Postmaster General Slakes-
lee, in charge of rural free delivery,
to-day found among his mail a small
pill box containing ten rattles and
two buttons from the tall of a rat
tlesnake. and the following letter from
Sarah Deles, of Pleasant Views, Colo.;
“I killed the rattler on the morning
of the 19th Inst, on the way to my
letter box. I am 78 .years and two
months old.” ft
Africa Strike Sends
Food Prices Soaring
JOHANNESBURG. July 30.—Food
prices are soaring in Johannesburg to
day. The continuation of the suspense
over the difficulties between the rail
road men and the miners on one side
and the Government on the other will
work hardship on the inhabitant*.
The Government still remains firm
in its determination not to grant the
demands of the labor leaders-
ficials. They mop their faces. • One
in particular uses an entirely red
banciana handkerchief—sonwdimes for
for his face, sometimes to flag stand
ing spectators, who must sit down.
There is order.
Thrills Get Temporary Check.
Until you are thoroughly sitting :
down there is no chance for the con
cert pitch to vibrate. Human emo
tions are constituted so curiously that
a rasping collar has been known to
overbalance the dread presence of the
King of'Terrors. Honest persons have
admitted this. And the grim por
tent of the Frank trial produces no
thrills while you are stepping on other
people’s feet.
Being seated, the fl^st thing you do
is to perspire gently. That of Itself
is not romantic. Also It interferes
with the concert pitch. ^It is hard to
reconcile perspiration and cold pric
kles back of the ears.
You get the first tingle when you
pick out the accused. Your neighbor
does not help you do this. One’s
neighbor at a trial rarely knows any*
thing about anything connected with
It.
You pick out the prisoner because
you have seen many pictures of him.
He is one of those whose pictures look
like them. You are quite certain who
it is.
First Chord a Mere Tinkle.
But the opening <^iord of the con
cert pitch is disappointing. It is
not majestic and soul-stirring. P'rank-
ly, it is more of a tinkle.
Here is a slim little man. He ts
dark. His face is sharply cut and
lean. His eyes are well opened,
back of thick lenses. * • • That
was the first real tingle. • * *
Did those eyes glare down upon the
huddled figure of Mary Phagan in
the echoing loneliness of the pencil
factory that Saturday afternoon?
Glared through the thick lenses?
The grotesquely jars oddly.
The thrill passes.
There is Rube Arnold, objecting to
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