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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. 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