Secret of the White Rose (6 page)

When we came to the last door, Jenkins took out his large key ring and—with his bully stick in his left hand, poised to strike—undid the double padlocks on the door with his right hand. It swung open to reveal a frail, thin man with a dark beard and wire-rimmed spectacles, wearing a standard prison-issue gray uniform. He sat in a chair that more closely resembled a medieval torture device—for his hands and feet were shackled, and there was a leather strap across his chest. I’d not seen one in years, but I knew what it was: a “restraint chair,” usually reserved as severe punishment for the worst offenses. It was so uncomfortable that previously sane men could be driven crazy after too much time in it.

Al Drayson showed signs of repeated physical beatings. The entire left side of his face and nose was crusted with dried blood, the eye swollen shut. And even in the low light, a variety of bruises—colored blue, purple, and yellow—were visible on the lower portion of his arms.

Drayson didn’t react to our entry. His head lolled to the right and his good eye remained closed.

“This is unacceptable.” Alistair’s voice was sharp as he turned to Jenkins. Alistair deplored the use of such devices in any prison, for any criminal—even for a child-killer like Drayson. “We don’t better ourselves by mistreating the most depraved among us,” he said.

Looking at Drayson, I had to admit I agreed. I’d never been of an “eye for an eye” mentality. Drayson was already locked up in this fetid place and certainly on his way to the electric chair. It seemed a severe enough punishment.

Jenkins only grinned. “Don’t blame us; we’re not the ones who beat him up every day. That’s the work of the crowds. They assemble outside, just lyin’ in wait for him, soon as he’s brought back here from the courtroom.”

“And your men can’t manage to keep them at a safe distance?” Alistair asked.

“There’s too many of ’em. And they hate him.”

“What about the restraint chair?” I asked.

Jenkins shrugged. “Complained about his cell last night, ’e did. Said he was tired of living in his own excrement and threatened to throw shit at us jailers.”

Alistair drew himself up, giving Jenkins a severe look. “Well, we cannot talk with him like this. You’ll have to unbind him.”

Jenkins looked to me.

“This man may have important information,” I said. “We would like to speak with him freely—without his fetters.” And I bit my lip, hoping I’d made the right judgment.

Jenkins frowned, then reached to the wall for a key—which he handed to me. “You gotta do it yourself, then. I don’t touch scum like him.”

With keys in hand, I took a step closer to Drayson. I breathed through my mouth, trying to avoid the worst foul odor of his body. They had not moved him in hours, and he had urinated on himself—probably more than once. He did not attempt to open his eyes.

Before I touched him, I spoke as though he would understand me. “My name is Detective Ziele and I’m here to ask you some questions today. But first I’m going to undo these restraints, starting with the one across your chest.”

I unbuckled the leather belt that cut too tightly across his upper torso. He wheezed the moment its pressure was released—then drew the first of a series of jagged breaths, trying to make up for the amount of air he’d not been able to breathe before.

“Now your feet,” I said, and leaned down to undo the iron chains at the base of the chair.

For a split second, I was afraid he would kick me—but he merely stretched his legs to their fullest extension.

“And hands.” I circled behind his chair, leaned down, and undid the chain and lock binding his arms.

Just as I was about to stand up and circle round him again, I felt his wiry hand clench my right arm—gripping so hard that I winced in pain. I was surprised he had such power in him after having been chained for so long—but then again, my right arm was an easy target. It hung limp, almost useless, and in chronic pain—especially in the damp or the cold. That had been the case ever since the day of the
General Slocum
steamship disaster when I had worked to rescue as many victims as possible and been rewarded with an injury that was a permanent reminder of the day. As if I needed any reminder at all.

I wrenched my head toward the door. Jenkins appeared to have deserted us entirely, leaving us to the results of our folly.

“Let go of me.” My voice boomed loud and menacing as I delivered a sharp punch with my left fist to his head.

Drayson winced in pain, but his grip on my right arm grew even tighter. I jabbed him again, this time with my left elbow.

“Who’re you to tell me what to do?” Drayson hissed.

“I’m someone who has the authority to release you from this awful contraption. But you’ll find yourself right back in it if you don’t let go of my arm now.”

At that, the viselike grip relaxed … and I freed my now-aching arm, rubbing it as I walked over to Alistair.

Drayson’s eyes followed me with a gaze in which I saw both steely resolve and pure calculation at play. “You said you were a detective. Why are you here?”

“I have some questions for you about Judge Jackson’s murder.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is he a detective, too?” His eyes flicked toward Alistair.

“He is a professor of criminal science who is assisting me,” I replied.

Drayson’s mouth formed an odd smile as he mocked us. “Well, this is a first. I’ve never been interviewed by a professor before.” He drummed his fingers against his knee. “And is criminal science interested in me—or in my cause?” he asked Alistair.

“I’m interested in what draws you to your cause,” Alistair said, determined to take no offense. He obviously wanted to win Drayson’s cooperation—for our purposes today as well as in the future. I knew that the question “why?” was ingrained in Alistair—and it became a virtual obsession when the answer eluded him.

“If you’ll use your influence to educate the masses,” Drayson said with an oily smile, “I’ll answer any question you want.”

“Ah,” Alistair said, beaming, “education is truly the answer to almost everything, isn’t it? I have always—”

I cut him off. The foul air was making me light-headed, and I had no patience for Alistair’s theoretical discussions right now. “First,” I said to Drayson, “we understand you’re Russian.”

“Yes,” he said, “I come from Gdansk. My family came here to escape the pogroms—and we found a hell in America to rival the one we thought we had left behind.”

I swallowed hard and held my tongue. I’d read about the horrors of the pogroms, and whatever injustice Drayson had encountered here, it was nothing compared to the violence wrought by the Cossacks. Of that I was certain.

“When you came of age, you joined the anarchist movement. I believe that now—together with Miss Goldman—you’re the leader of the New York organization.”

He spat on the ground. “Not together with Emma Goldman. I am the leader—and have been, ever since her pansy Berkman landed himself in jail. No one’s authority supersedes mine. Not Baginski, not Abbott, and not Goldman herself.”

“As their leader, what is your goal?” Alistair asked.

I knew what Alistair was doing: before we asked Drayson about the judge specifically, he was building a rapport and encouraging the man to be comfortable talking with us.

Drayson looked at us as though we were daft. “Justice, of course. We work to protect the working people from exploitation by the capitalist government. You see,” he said, leaning in close enough that I recoiled from his foul scent, “we all came here for opportunity. America is the land of opportunity, we heard. But we got here and found no work. Nothing to pay us a living wage and allow us to support our families. So our every act is intended to focus the public’s attention on the plight of working people.”

He slammed his fist against the restraint chair, looking up at us with fury. “That is all I want: to teach the public to see the injustices they are blind to. So we tell them about the crowded tenements where we live in despicable conditions. We open our doors and permit Jacob Riis to take our photographs. We show other muckraking journalists the factories where we toil long hours for not enough pay—while the capitalist scum make a fortune off the sweat of our brows. But none of this has any effect. The government and the banks and the factories continue to exploit us all. We pretend we have a democracy in these United States, but only the rich have a voice.”

“But you planted a bomb,” Alistair said. “You took innocent lives. That’s a far different matter from asking the world to notice the injustices you suffer.”

Drayson shrugged. “Not really. No one was listening, so we were forced to move to the next stage: limited attacks on the worst capitalist offenders. Men like Carnegie and Vanderbilt. Even that did little good, so now we must embrace approaches that are even more ruthless—actions that will make the world sit up and take notice.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, my voice guarded.

“We’ve sent numerous warnings to the government and industries that have been ignored. We’ve tried to be careful to avoid injuring ordinary citizens. But these soft methods are not working.” He leaned close and grinned, and it was all I could do not to flinch. “Our country is filled with stupid people, Detective. They do not learn. If the world doesn’t act now, we will be forced down this path of no return.”

“Meaning you will kill more innocent people,” I said bitterly. “First, the child. And now, Judge Jackson.”

He pressed his hands together. “The child was a martyr to our cause, if you will. But I had nothing to do with killing this judge, however much he may have deserved it for supporting the capitalist policies that hurt us.”

“
This
judge?” I asked, and my voice rose in anger. “Judge Jackson was
your
judge. You’ve stared at him every day for the past two months. He was the judge who would have sentenced you to die. As you yourself said, your power over the anarchist movement here is absolute. Any one of your followers would have obeyed your command.”

“He did not die by my hand.” He smiled. “Do you really think this is about any one man alone?”

In that moment, I realized that he had every intention of talking circles around us for however long we would let him. He enjoyed spouting his propaganda, and he took a perverse pleasure in denying us real information.

“Tell us the truth about Judge Jackson,” I said heatedly. “We just need a name. The name of whatever follower you tapped to kill him last night—in the nick of time before your case went to the jury.”

Drayson closed his eyes and did not answer. We remained silent for several moments—not yet ready to give up and leave empty-handed.

“Do you not care how the world sees you, Mr. Drayson?” Alistair finally asked. “You are going to be put to death, branded a child-killer. If you were to talk with us … tell us the truth … we could help you achieve something better than that.”

“Mr. Sinclair,” Drayson said, opening his eyes and folding his arms together. “You must remember: beauty is in the eye of the beholder. To the oppressed working people, I am a savior, a David fighting the capitalist Goliath for the people’s rights. If I am to be martyred by my oppressors, then what can I do?”

“Nothing,” I said bitterly. “There’s clearly nothing we can do here.” I turned to Alistair and jingled the keys to Drayson’s cell. “Come. We’ve spent enough time in this godforsaken place.”

And so, despite Alistair’s petulant stare—and his obvious willingness to continue to talk with Al Drayson—I got up and walked out of the room.

*   *   *

I waited until we were far away—not just from the Tombs building but even its shadow—before I asked Alistair, “What did you think?”

“He’s not our killer.” His voice reflected no indecision whatsoever.

“But he is a killer. And he certainly will benefit from the mistrial that’s likely to be declared now—when a guilty verdict was all but assured.”

“A jury is a wild card you’ll never want to bet on. And that’s not the reason why I’m convinced Drayson played no role in the judge’s killing. Here,” he said, gesturing to a bench near a small green space across from City Hall, “let’s sit a moment.”

He pulled a cigar from his satchel, offering me one. I declined, and we sat in silence, with Alistair puffing perfect O-rings for some moments before he continued talking.

“Drayson is the leader of a group of intellectual, rational people who kill in the name of a cause. To put it another way, Al Drayson’s anger is fierce—but it’s a controlled anger directed toward capitalist targets. Not a judge like Hugo Jackson.”

“But half the letters Judge Jackson received described him as ‘capitalist scum.’ That sounds a lot like Drayson to me.”

A thoughtful expression crossed Alistair’s face. “True—and I don’t think Drayson would have had any issue killing Hugo if it fit his larger goals. He would do anything to further his cause. But, you see, his cause is what motivates him; he doesn’t care about the outcome of his trial or even whether he lives or dies. He wants to strike targets where major casualties will result—and where the newspapers will cover the damage, creating a news frenzy.” Alistair shrugged. “Killing one lone judge with a knife? It’s just not something Drayson would do.”