Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series (37 page)

This was Alfred Austrian's work—in behalf of his client. To the ballplayers, it meant only one thing: Comiskey wanted to get them off. He wanted them acquitted in a court of law and given a clean bill of health. The telegram of suspension had spelled it out: "If you are innocent of any wrong doing, you and each of you will be reinstated."

It was such a neat picture of mutual interests, so beneficial to all parties, that nothing else made sense.

The lawyers supported this highly promising view of things. The ballplayers rallied their hopes and eagerly waited for the trial that would determine their fate.

On June 27, 1921, a major heat wave began in the Midwest. Temperatures rose to the high 90's and never seemed to waver. The trial began with it, and the courtroom was overcrowded with over ninety coatless spectators, adding to the discomfort of the small, stifling room. These were baseball buffs of all ages. They returned day after day, as wedded to the dramatics of the trial as any fan was to the World file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:47 AM

Series itself. There were many Chicago youngsters among them, repeatedly fighting their way into the courtroom to feed on the sight of their heroes in this bizarre setting. They would watch the action, unaccustomed to its rituals and traditions. They were more closely tuned to the flavor of Comiskey Park and brought with them the spirit of the grandstand. As a result, the bailiffs had a busy time trying to maintain order.

The presiding judge was Hugo Friend, a man who seemed no older than the defendants. The ballplayers sat in small groups, separated from each other. In one section sat Cicotte, Jackson, and Williams. In another, Riseberg and Felsch. Gandil sat alone. When Buck Weaver entered, he passed them all, acting as if he didn't even know them. The word was out that the others were angry at Weaver for not playing ball with them on The Major Stars.

Nobody seemed to care that Sport Sullivan, Abe Attell, Hal Chase, Bill Burns, or the gambler known as Rachael Brown, were absent. As for the indicted St. Louis shirtwaist manufacturer, Carl Zork, this new star defendant of Robert Crowe and George Gorman was said to be "too sick" to come to Chicago at this time. His attorney explained: "When I would question him, he would turn white and cry and tremble, and it was impossible to continue a conversation." The State countered with an affidavit from Paul Richert of St. Louis who swore he had seen Zork, perfectly healthy, on the streets a few days before.

Another gambler from St. Louis, Ben Franklin, was also "too sick" to attend trial.

Gorman turned to the bench, insisting that these defendants be present; it was virtually impossible to proceed without them. Judge Friend agreed, warned the St. Louis lawyers that they must present their clients or be held in contempt.

The defense opened with a motion to quash the trial, claiming that the indictments were illegal under Illinois law. There were five separate conspiracies charged in one indictment as laid out in the bill of particulars:

1. A conspiracy to defraud the public.

2. A conspiracy to defraud Ray Schalk.

3. A conspiracy to commit a confidence game.

4. A conspiracy to injure the business of the American League.

5. A conspiracy to injure the business of Charles A. Comiskey.

Defense Attorney Ben Short charged that "the State has come into court, limping and lame, and knows its case is a failure. If it wasn't a failure, you'd have the real babies of this conspiracy here—the men who made millions—and not these ballplayers who were reported to get big salaries but most of whom got practically nothing!"

Gorman retorted, "We've got the real leaders!" Then he added guardedly, "All except those who are sick."

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Short ridiculed him, his voice rising derisively: "You'll make a farce out of this if you can, won't you!"

Gorman snapped back, "There is nothing farcial about this conspiracy!"

After recess, the State submitted a list of witnesses it would call. They were familiar names, relatively insignificant to the prosecution of the case: Charles Comiskey, Kid Gleason, Garry Herrmann, John Heydler, Ban Johnson, Ring Lardner, etc. etc.

There was one name, however, that concerned the defense: William "Sleepy Bill" Burns.

A week later, on July 5, Judge Friend denied the defense's motion to quash the indictments, and the panneling of the jury began. On hand were 100 veniremen. Each side was awarded 120 peremptory challenges. Before they were through, over 600 prospective jurors were questioned.

The questioning itself was indicative. The State probed into the attitude of each venireman concerning the value he would attach to the testimony of a co-conspirator: Would the juror find fault with the Illinois law that a man may be convicted on the uncorroborated testimony of an accomplice? (Clearly the prosecution was going to rely on Sleepy Bill Burns.) These were supplemented by a barrage of such questions as: Do you know any ballplayers? Did you ever play semipro or pro ball? Did you see the 1919 World Series? Do you oppose Sunday baseball? Do you think baseball is an honest game? Do you bet? Do you bet in baseball pools?

It took three days to agree on four jurors. By July 12, there were still only four. The Judge grew angry.

Unless more speed was shown, he would order night sessions.

The ballplayers watched and waited and wondered. Nothing seemed to be happening, yet the courtroom was never lacking in spectators. Even during the dull panneling sessions, the uniqueness of major-league ballplayers standing trial excited great curiosity. The crowds came and gaped at them, asked for autographs, encouraged them, treated them more like maligned heroes than criminals. Their spirits soared at this daily show of support and public approval.

One day, a group of loyal members of the White Sox paid a surprise visit. Kid Gleason, Dickie Kerr, Red Faber, and Eddie Collins filed in, and suddenly all proceedings stopped. It was as if the court sensed the dramatics of the moment in which these two rival groups, one a symbol of integrity, the other of corruption, were confronting each other in public for the first time. This, as it turned out, was true enough: the ballplayers had not faced each other since the previous September. The visitors sat down quietly before they became aware of the probing eyes upon them. In the now silent court, they sensed what was expected of them, but they did not know how to respond to it.

Then, from across the room, Swede Risberg called out jovially, "Hello, Kid, how's the boy?"

It was a clean, warm, friendly greeting, and Gleason responded in kind. "Pretty good, Swede—how's file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:47 AM

yourself?"

They shook hands warmly. "And there's old Bucko!" Gleason twinkled. "Stacking up pretty good, Buck?"

"Sure," Weaver began, but Faber and Kerr started to tickle him. Weaver was famous for his ticklishness.

They showed more friendliness toward each other in those five minutes than in the entire two seasons past.

They kidded around and talked baseball for a few minutes. Then as the court came to order and the visitors filed out, Happy Felsch called after them, "Hope you win the pennant, boys!"

At the moment, the Chicago White Sox were battling to stay out of the cellar, seventeen games behind the lead.

This demonstration of compatibility and mutual concern was vividly reported by the press. The editorial angle attached to it was highly critical: If honesty in baseball was to be put on trial, the honest ballplayers ought to shun the enemy; not fraternize with them. A war on corruption must not be a friendly one; its symbolic rivals must not be indifferent to the right vs. wrong values they represent. The public, in short, must be convinced that the courts and baseball itself meant business.

Comiskey was immediately alerted to this criticism of his honest ballplayers. He called on Gleason to rectify the situation. The problem had only one solution: Gleason must simply deny any friendliness.

The papers would print his denial. The story had been in error; they would retract. Nobody had tickled Weaver. Perhaps he'd been tickling himself….

Gleason submitted to this charade, but the retraction was an empty one. It fell on deaf ears. The press, for all its moral protestations, was more inclined to feed its readers the corrupt angle. The wider its spread, the juicier the story—and, of course, the more righteous its indignation.

The whole thing was a tempest in a pot of tea. In the
Sporting News
, baseball's national weekly, the aging writer, John B. Sheriden, was a legitimately angry man: "I have seen prominent citizens rob a city blind and retain their positions of influence and honor…. But I have never seen the rich bribe giver punished by the majestic law. These things being so, it is not easy for me to feel so shocked at the fraternization of the White Sox with their former teammates."

The trouble was, America expected higher morals from ballplayers than they expected from businessmen

—or anyone else, for that matter.

The defense attorneys were eager to interview Sleepy Bill Burns, and requested permission of the Court to do so. St. Louis second baseman Joe Gedeon, Risberg's friend, who had revealed his knowledge of the fix to Comiskey in hopes of getting the $20,000 reward, was also lined up as a prosecution witness and file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:47 AM

included in the request. The defense would confront them with Gandil, Risberg and company. The Judge acquiesced and compelled the State to produce the two witnesses.

Both Burns and Gedeon were uneasy. The thought of facing the players was unnerving. After all, they had all known each other first as ballplayers, and now two of them would rat on the others. Gandil was famous for putting his big fist through a heavy wooden door, and the Swede, as Jackson had put it, "was a hard guy." The two witnesses had no desire to sit in the same room with them, certainly not without ample protection.

There were several bailiffs present when the interview began. Along with their lawyers, Gandil, Risberg, and Cicotte walked into the Hearing Room. Burns and Gedeon looked up nervously. Then the Texan smiled sheepishly and drawled his greeting: "Well, hya, boys…."

Surprisingly enough, the ballplayers smiled back, embarrassed by this strange, uneasy confrontation.

Their involuntary reaction was not violent at all, but quite the opposite. The witnesses and their victims greeted each other like long-lost pals.

Burns relaxed. He could play his role with impunity now. He answered all of Defense Attorney Ben Short's questions with a single well-coached answer: "I do not care to discuss the case at all." Said Joe Gedeon: "I have nothing to say!"

It could be said that the defendants might have done better with less friendliness.

On July 15, the final four jurors were sworn in amid cheering from spectators and veniremen alike. The New York
Times
described the jubilation as "the kind which generally greets a 9th inning home-team rally." It had taken two weeks to fill this jury box. There were two clerks, two machinists, telephone repairman, stationary engineer, hydraulic press operator, foreman of a motor company, steel worker, salesman, florist, and foreman of a stockyards rendering plant—all men. All but two were married, their ages between thirty and forty-seven, most of them under thirty-six. All understood baseball, none had played semipro or pro ball, none claimed to be ardent fans. One of them, a machinist, said he was a White Sox rooter, but had bet on Cincinnati because he thought they were the better club.

On Monday, July 18, in a sweltering courtroom, George Gorman rose to make his opening remarks. He reviewed the story of the fix, sticking closely to the narrative as recounted in the Grand Jury confessions and repeated to the press. It was only when he started to quote Cicotte's confession that the defense rose to object. The ballplayers, it was announced, repudiated those confessions. There was to be no mention of them! The Judge sustained the objection.

Michael Aheam punctuated his victory with appropriate baseball jargon: "You won't get to first base with those confessions!"

Gorman replied in kind: "We'll make a home run with them!"

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"You may get a long hit," Ahearn conceded, "but you'll be thrown out at the plate!"

The spectators got a laugh out of the interchange; the eight ballplayers did not.

Nor did they laugh when Charles Comiskey was called to the witness stand, the first witness for the State. Led by Gorman's questions, he reviewed the high lights of his brilliant career in baseball. Then, suddenly Ben Short shot at him: "It's a fact, is it not, that you jumped from the National League to the Brotherhood (Players League) in 1890?"

It was a deceiving question, completely out of context, loaded with innuendo. It was asked in ignorance of baseball's and Comiskey's history. In the language of the baseball-oriented courtroom, Short had thrown him a "nasty curve." Had he been better informed, he would have seen the irony of his question: the lawyer for these eight exploited athletes was attacking the exploiter for his one significant action against the plight of the exploited.

Comiskey, having sacrificed himself for the good of the Brotherhood, as noted above, could only rage at the question. His face reddened as he leaned forward in his chair, shaking his finger furiously at Short.

"It is not true!" he shouted. "I've never broken a contract. Never! I haven't broken any or jumped any.

You can't get away with that with me!"

"Well, you jumped from one league to another," Short shouted back.

"I went to the Brotherhood, but I never broke a contract. You can't belittle me…." Comiskey seemed almost ready to attack.