Eight Men Out: The Black Sox and the 1919 World Series (44 page)

He tried to keep as busy as possible, but his life inescapably centered around his talent as a ballplayer.

There was never a day when it did not come up in conversation.

In the fall of 1923, he heard of a Milwaukee attorney named Raymond J. Cannon who had gone to bat for Happy Felsch. Cannon was well equipped to handle the problems of ballplayers. It could be said that professional baseball had paid for his legal education. He had pitched in the Wisconsin-Illinois League during his college and law-school years and might have climbed to the majors if he had stuck with it.

Unlike Charles Comiskey who chose baseball over bricks, Cannon chose books over baseball.

Out of his experience, Cannon became a maverick. He hated the bigness of the baseball business. He believed the contractual system by which ballplayers were controlled was in violation of a man's rights and of the Sherman Anti-Trust Law. In 1922, he began work on the formation of a players' union. "I found a spirit of discontent about many conditions…and every player I talked with regretted the fact that there was no real appeal. The only chance, they felt, was to unionize. Letters began to flood in on me from all over the big-league circuits and the idea simply developed automatically. It had nothing to do with the Black Sox…but their plight, whatever brought it about, has started something which may be a factor in keeping baseball on the level in more ways than one."

Cannon made sense to Jackson. The man could talk baseball problems and really understand what the issues were. Cannon was a fighter, and loved it. He was quick to reveal the fact that he'd won one hundred consecutive jury findings. Inside of an hour, he had Jackson convinced he could recoup the two years' salary, $9,000 a year, that Comiskey owed him on his three-year contract.

In 1924, Jackson filed suit for $18,000 back pay. Cannon opened the case by charging fraud in Harry Grabiner's successful efforts to get Jackson to sign that contract. He claimed that Jackson had been deliberately misled because of his inability to read and write. Grabiner had assured Jackson there was no mention of the ten-day clause, for Jackson had specified that he would not sign such a contract. On the supposition that this was an ironclad three-year contract, Jackson had signed. This, he testified, was executed outside, on the hood of the car, rather than inside the house after his wife had read it. Grabiner denied this, testified that the opposite was true. It had all been fully explained, he insisted, and Jackson's wife was seated in the living room where he signed it.

Cannon had some choice descriptive words on the use of the ten-day clause. A ballplayer "may sign a five-year contract, say, at $4,000 a year. He may develop into a sensation, and be a tremendous box-file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:47 AM

office draw. But his salary is set. He takes it for all five years or he's through. On the other hand, he may break a leg sliding into a base—but the club is not bound in any way. Ten days later, he can be released, without further pay!" Cannon put Comiskey on the stand and made him admit that this was a completely unfair practice.

But this, said Comiskey, was a different circumstance. After all, it was Jackson who had failed to comply with his contract, not Comiskey! Had he not sold out the World Series?

At once, Cannon snapped at him: "The law has tried my client and acquitted him! Where, then, is any proof of guilt?"

Comiskey's attorney, George B. Hudnall, working for Alfred Austrian, immediately referred to Jackson's confession before the Grand Jury in 1920.

"What confession?" Cannon demanded.

Then, incredibly, the stolen confessions, missing since the winter of 1920, suddenly reappeared in Hudnall's brief case! Cannon roared indignantly: "How is it that these Grand Jury records are in
your
hands?" Hudnall had not expected to be challenged. He paled, unable to answer, and turned toward Comiskey for assistance. They exchanged glances, and Comiskey feebly replied, "I don't know."

"You don't know!" Cannon exclaimed.

Comiskey was ruffled. He shook his head and repeated his answer, the only answer he could give. "I'm sorry, I don't know."

Cannon knew. He knew the whole story. How Rothstein, through Fallon, had them lifted from the State's Attorney's office. He knew that Austrian had represented Rothstein and had gotten the confessions from him. Whatever sum they had cost Rothstein to obtain, they were present in this court to save Comiskey $18,000. Cannon could smirk at this. "Birds of a feather flock together!" Judge Landis had said, condemning Buck Weaver. This was all so neatly packaged. Even Rothstein kept himself completely innocent in the eyes of the law.

Well, let them, Cannon gauged the moment. It was enough to question it. He had laid a suspicion for the jury to reckon with. Let them take it as far as they wished. He knew full well he couldn't prove anything anyway. This was a jury trial, and Cannon was a master at handling juries.

He proceeded to hit the Comiskey defense hard. He got Henry Brigham, foreman of the Cook County Grand Jury, to state that Jackson, in his confession, had denied being in the conspiracy, and had affirmed that he had tried to see Comiskey after the Series to tell what he knew. Brigham also admitted that the Grand Jury had made no investigation of Comiskey's conduct pertaining to the running down of rumors after the 1919 Series.

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When Alfred Austrian referred to John Hunter, the private detective hired by Comiskey to delve into the finances of the suspected players, Cannon wanted to know why his findings were never made public, or even revealed to the Grand Jury. And above all, why was John Hunter never called to testify before that body? Why, in fact, had the very mention of his name been held secret until this time? What, specifically, had Hunter learned? Cannon wanted to know: Hunter must have learned something!

Cannon hit hardest at Comiskey's duplicity in his repeated claim to fighting for clean baseball. "This investigation after the World Series was merely a subterfuge to fall back on in the event that the disloyalty of the ballplayers was later discovered! Comiskey accused Gandil of being a ringleader immediately after the Series was over, and notwithstanding that fact, he sent him a contract for the following year!

"If Comiskey intends to hold the confidence of the American public, he will have to refrain from highhanded methods of dealing with his players. The truth is, his Secretary, Harry Grabiner, tricked Jackson into signing this three-year contract, and slipped into it a ten-day clause. The contract itself, thusly forced on a ballplayer, is so grossly and obviously unfair that Comiskey himself must blush with shame at the signing of it!"

It all seemed to boil down to Harry Grabiner's fountain pen. Did Jackson sign the contract on the hood of the car—with Grabiner's pen—or did he sign it inside, in his wife's presence, with full knowledge of its content? Grabiner insisted that he did not even have a pen! A handwriting expert, brought in by Hudnall, testified that Jackson's signature was written on a flat, normal surface without awkwardness of position, using an ordinary steel pen slightly the worse for wear, and not a fountain pen. Cannon later found a rebuttal expert, W. W. Way, who was convinced that the signature was written with a fountain pen, and certainly not on a level surface!

On the following day, the jury retired to the sanctity of the jury room to determine its verdict. At the very moment when the bailiff turned the key in the door, locking them in, the Judge rapped for order and asked Jackson to the bench.

"Mr. Jackson, you are guilty of perjury, and I order you to be placed under arrest and fix your bail at five thousand dollars."

The legal question involved was an old one to this case: Jackson, according to the Judge, had signed a sworn confession of his complicity before the Grand Jury in 1920. He had now testified under oath of his innocence. Cannon, incensed by the situation, quickly arranged for bail.

The jury, meanwhile, was quick to arrive at a verdict. Jackson was awarded $16,711.04 as payment for the balance of his contract. It was another victory for Cannon. He called it a major victory for the abused ballplayers, a victory "so far-reaching as to bring about Jackson's ultimate return to organized baseball!"

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Then, startlingly, Judge Gregory bitterly criticized the jury, and declared the entire case was based on Jackson's perjury. As a result, he set aside the verdict and dismissed the case!

Jackson ended up collecting only a small part of the $18,000. As with Weaver, his claim was settled out of court.

Jackson moved from Savannah in 1929 and brought his wife, Katie, back home with him to Greenville.

They had no children of their own, but helped raise the son of one of Joe's brothers. In Greenville, he set up another dry-cleaning business and played semipro ball in the summers. He started to gain weight, and by the time he was forty, he had put on 35 pounds. His hair turned gray and his movements slowed down. At 220 pounds, he could no longer run and steal bases, but he never stopped hitting. At the age of forty-four, he was still the terror of every pitcher he faced. His manner became gentle and soft-spoken in the easy surroundings of his home town. He was said to make "better money pressing pants than he ever made playing big-league ball." To the local folk, he remained a hero, well liked and highly respected. He was never without their support, and the dignity of his talent never seemed to dwindle.

When he spoke of his past, he always insisted on his innocence in the 1919 fix. His denials took on an increased fervor—and, perhaps, exaggeration—as the years went by. There were always friendly people to listen, and no one to challenge him. "I ain't ever asked Judge Landis for reinstatement [though others did for him]. I don't suppose he'd give it to me if I did, but I believe I could get back in there right now.

If I couldn't lead my club in hitting, I'd work without pay!"

In 1933, Greenville decided to put their club back in organized baseball. A franchise was opened up to them, and they offered Jackson the job of playing-manager. Judge Landis maintained his rigidity. "There are not, and cannot be, two standards of eligibility…one for the major leagues, and one for the minors."

The stigma remained. Jackson, like Weaver, grew old under its pale. He spent the declining years of his life running a liquor store in town. Ty Cobb told of a last meeting with him. Cobb, past his own prime and then a heavy drinker, was passing through Greenville and stopped in at Jackson's to buy a fifth of bourbon. These two great rivals talked to each other like total strangers, exchanging the usual banter of a merchant and a customer. Cobb, flustered at this, finally said, "Don't you know me, Joe?"

Jackson nodded sadly. "Sure—I know you, Ty. I just didn't think anyone I used to know up there wanted to recognize me again…."

In his sixties, Jackson's heart began to fail. He had three coronary attacks, but managed to survive them.

In 1951, a movement began to clear his name. A national television show invited him to New York to appear, a testimonial to his former greatness. He looked forward to this with tremendous pleasure.

But a few weeks before he was to appear, he suffered his last heart attack. He died on December 5, 1951, at the age of sixty-three. His funeral was well attended by his friends in Greenville. Senator Burnet Maybank of South Carolina wired condolences to his widow. So did Charles Albert Comiskey, file:///C|/Palm%20Stuff/Eliot,%20Asinof%20-%20Eig...tml]/Eight%20Men%20Out%20by%20Eliot%20Asinof.html2/17/2004 11:47:47 AM

grandson of the deceased White Sox owner.

"Do not be remembering the most natural man ever to wear spiked shoes.The canniest fielder and the longest hitter,Who squatted on his heelsIn a uniform muddied at the knees, Till the bleacher shadows grew long behind him.Who went along with Chick and Buck and HappyBecause they treated him so friendly-like,Hardly like Yankees at all.With Williams because Lefty was from the South too.And with Risberg because the Swede was such a hard guy.Who made an X for his name and couldn't argue with Comiskey's sleepers.

But who could pick a line drive out of the air ten feet outside the foul lineAnd rifle anything home from anywhere in the park.

For Shoeless Joe is gone, long gone,A long yellow grass-blade between his teethAnd the bleacher shadows behind him…."

Nelson Algren

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