Mountain Justice

Chapter 2

Chapter 2In thirty minutes I was back at the offices of the Richmond Evening Journal. William Archer, chief editor of the newspaper, was pacing the floor in front of my desk, puffing on his ever-present cigar that always kept his head enshrouded with a brume of smoke.

“Where the hell have you been?” He said as he whirled on me. “The execution was finished nearly an hour ago. We can only hold those presses for another hour and half. I need something on my desk in sixty minutes.”

I had learned years before that Mr. Archer was not happy unless he was stressed to the point of neurasthenia. I mumbled an excuse about being detained at the prison. Sitting at my desk, I pulled papers from several pockets, laid them to the side, and began furiously pounding the keys of my Underwood #5 typewriter.

My dream since graduating from Richmond College had been to be a world acclaimed journalist. I seemed to be on a fast track until two years ago, and was now working my way back to just being the best journalist at the second-best paper in Richmond. I had prayed for a story that would launch me on my way. This might just be the opportunity for which I had longed. Somehow though, I was going to have to put aside the emotions that were still churning inside me in order to report his death.

Why had I agreed to do this? I asked myself. I had grown close to the grizzled old man who had been called wild, villainous, and other much worse names. Why had he specifically asked me to serve as witness? I opened the note and read again. It was now so obvious. Mr. Allen had asked me to be a witness so that I would be committed to finding the truth, whatever that meant.

I did have to admit that I felt a sense of excitement that I had been one of only three journalists in the room, and the youngest by far. After all, I now had an exclusive for that night’s edition. The press was even being held for my story. But the truth was I wasn’t sure I could write about what I had just witnessed, or at least may not be able to do it creditably.

I had read reports of other executions by the electric chair. I had read the first execution, of a man named William Kemmler, had been botched, and had to be repeated. Many more had also malfunctioned. There were so many things that could go wrong, such as the flesh actually catching on fire. I knew Floyd Allen wasn’t totally innocent, but no one deserved to go through some of the mistakes that could happen in that chair. I was very thankful that nothing had apparently gone wrong today.

My mind kept returning to the events from barely an hour before. Watching Floyd Allen hobble to the thick wooden chair. Those ten minutes had been surreal. I had read reports of “after-death” experiences where the people say they felt their spirits leave their bodies and watch from another point. That’s how I felt. I knew my body was behind the window, but I felt like my spirit was in that room with him. We had been told that the glass was soundproof, so we would not be able to hear anything going on. But thinking back, I could feel those leather straps being drawn tight against his wrists. Once he jerked; I could have sworn I heard him moan. When the hood was slipped over his head, I could hear his rapid pants, either as a man suffocating, or as a man trying to take all the final breaths he could. And when the time had come, and Floyd Allen’s body began to spasm, I had felt my own body convulsing. And when the smoke escaped from beneath the hood, my nostrils had repulsed from the offensive odor of burnt flesh. For a moment, I actually envied the man. All of his worries, all of his disappointments, now gone.

How I wish I could find such peace.

“Damnit Haynes,” Archer roared. “I don’t pay you top dollar to sit at your table and day-dream.”

“You don’t pay me top dollar,” I mumbled.

“Uh? What was that?”

“I’m on it chief,” I said as I returned to pounding the keys.

The roller squealed as I jerked the paper out of the typewriter five minutes before the deadline. I ran full speed to the editor’s office. Mr. Archer by now had worn a groove in the floor. The typesetter stood waiting to rush my article to print.

***************************

RICHMOND EVENING DISPATCH

Floyd and Claude Allen Die in Electric Chair

Dateline: Richmond, VA.

Date: March 28, 1913

Earlier today, at a time most people are finishing their lunches, Floyd Allen, whom many considered to be the head of the Allen clan from Carroll County, Virginia was strapped into the electric chair at the Virginia State Penitentiary, and was electrocuted. His son Claude Swanson Allen, named for the highly respected former Virginia governor and Senator, followed him about ten minutes later. Little did the Allen family know, a mere one year and fifteen days ago, that today two of their members would be dead, and another four serving time in prison.

This journalist today served in the official capacity of witness, a role I swear I will never perform again.

I will not attempt to declare in this article as to the innocence, or the guilt, of either Floyd Allen, or his son Claude. This argument has raged for the better of five months among some of the most brilliant legal minds of our commonwealth. I will attempt, in my humble way, to present in as succinct manner as I can, a summary of the events.

As everyone in these United States knows, the two Allens were charged for murder following the events of March 14 of last year. For three weeks they dominated headlines across the nation until replaced by the sinking of the Titanic. The men were eventually found guilty and sentenced to die. They arrived at the State Penitentiary on October 26, 1912. According to the guards I have spoken to, the Allens have been exemplary prisoners. It is reported that Claude was entrusted to do work throughout the prison and even for Prison Superintendent Wood personally.

The request for appeals began almost immediately upon arrival at the prison. Officially, a total of three requests were made which led to the sentencing being continued three times. During this time also, a petition was started by this newspaper for the actual wait of execution for the two men. Reportedly, over 50,000 signatures, including nearly all of the jurors who had originally cast the sentence, were collected. Much new information was presented to the current governor and the attorney general. In the end, it was all summarily rejected.

Thus ended the last chance of reprieve for Floyd Allen and Claude Swanson Allen. Following their last meal, the two men were led to the room housing the electric chair. I do not dare to even attempt to comprehend the horrific experience, the sight, the sound, the odor, of an electrocution. I will leave that to the reader’s mind. Suffice it to say, Floyd Allen was declared dead at 1:26 PM, Claude Swanson Allen at 1:38 PM.

A reporter is not expected to lose his objectivity, but I would like at this time to lay my professionalism aside and express my sorrow to the Allen family. A journalist is not supposed to get close to his subjects, but I failed in my attempt to avoid this.

There will be several related articles in this paper over the next week.

*************************

The editor grabbed the copy and began reading. His frantic editing of the story, slashing a line here, adding a few words there, the whole while chomping on his cigar, combined with hair that stayed disheveled due to his incessant running of his fingers through it, gave him somewhat of a mad-man appearance.

“Gotta strike out that last paragraph about expressing sorrow to the family,” he said.. “I’ll do that tomorrow in an editorial. I do like how you mentioned the future articles. We want to keep the readers coming back for more.”

He then wrote at the end of the article, ‘We promise our readers an exclusive article that will not be found in any other newspaper, each day for the next week’.

He handed the copy to the typesetter, who scurried off as fast as sixty year old legs could scurry.

The chief walked back to his desk, re-lit the soggy cigar, and sat down on the corner. I waited nervously. Finally I broke the silence.

“Well sir, how was it?”

“It was a good article, son. Damn good,” the editor said, as he took a deep puff and exhaled the thick aromatic smoke. “Probably the best you’ve ever done. But what are we going to give them as exclusives?”

“For starters, I have the final statements of both Floyd and Claude,” I said.

“You what!” The editor screamed, nearly biting the end off the cigar. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you put that in the article?”

“It’s complicated. Mr. Allen didn’t actually tell me to print it. I needed some time to think about it. Also, I didn’t have time to use it tonight, so that’s why I said there would be some follow-up stories.”

He resumed manducating the cigar, the tip looking like a see-saw bobbing up and down. By this time, my black suit was covered with gray ashes. I kept expecting some to fall into his overflowing trash can, starting a fire that would burn down the building, and the presses, before my story ever got printed.

“Does anyone else know about these statements?” He said.

“Only Pastor Scherer. He delivered them to me. Maybe Pastor McDaniel. I don’t think they’ll say anything, though.”

“Believe me, the Richmond Times would pay most anything for this information. They’d steal it from the Pope himself. OK, this is what we’re going to do. Spend tonight writing a follow-up and then show the statements. The lede is yours. Fill it up. And have it finished by 2 o‘clock. We’re going out with an early edition.”

My eyes blinked in amazement. The lede? I had never had more than 200 lines before tonight, and those were usually buried on page six.

“What I thought, Sir, is that I could do a short story, and announce we’ll be printing the final statements over a four day spread. They’re pretty lengthy. Too much for one day.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I like that. Good idea. Just keep the readers hooked.”

“I’d also like to do an interview with the pastor, Dr. Scherer. I’ll use this to lead in the release of the final statements.”

The editor sat looking out the window at a pigeon cooing on the sill. He tapped the glass. The bird flew. For a moment I thought about repeating myself, thinking he had not heard me.

“That sounds like it might work,” he said. I sensed a steeliness in his voice, as if he felt almost cocky over the articles.

“There’s one more thing,” I said. “I’d like to get all this written by tomorrow. Then while it’s being run, I’d like to run down to Hillsville for the funeral and stay for five or so days. I think there’s more there.”

“You don’t think we’re trying to milk this cow too much?”

“No Sir I don’t. I think this story has a life of its own. There’s already talk by several religious organizations about bringing suit again the Commonwealth for wrongful executions. They’ve started calling it, ‘judicial murder’.”

The editor walked back to the window, again scaring the pigeon away, and gazed down upon the street.

“So you think you can keep all this under wraps? We can scoop the Times on all this?” His voice had the anticipation of a child on Christmas morning.

“I think we can.”

The editor pounded his fist into his hand. “Damn, what I’d give to have a couple of weeks out-scooping those guys. OK, you got it. Get me a week’s worth of stories, then you can have five days, no more than seven, down with those hillbillies.”

“Yes sir. I’ll get started right now. Then I’ll send you a couple of articles from the mountains.”

I then witnessed an event that happens only occasionally more than a full eclipse of the sun. William Archer actually smiled. Not just a grin, a full, wide mouthed, cigar- falling-out-of-his-mouth, smile.

“Those bastards over at the Times,” he said, “are going to crap in their pants when they see tomorrow’s edition.”

I never left the office that night. I made a fresh pot of coffee and raided the ice box. I took several big bites from a 3-day old meatloaf sandwich as I walked to my desk. I pounded away. It’s times like this that I wondered why I do it. Is this all I will ever have to look forward to? Meeting one more deadline, just to find another. All for a second rate local? I only slipped away from my typewriter to take a quick nap between 4 AM and 7 AM.

When William Archer came into the office at eight I handed him the statements broken into installments, enough to last a week. I told him that I would get the last interview with Pastor John Jacob Scherer before I left town. I told him I’d send it to him by courier, because I’d have to rush to the train by five to have any chance of making it to Hillsville by the next morning.