Of Prophets, Saints and Sinners - 9. Chapter 9: Sinners All

Chapter 9: Sinners All

Melancholy.

As Jacob Jordan sat and listened to the next part of Fry's tone poem, that one word alone seemed appropriate.

The transition from the segment painting the tots tucked in with happy dreams floating in their heads – but one slightly disturbed by impending bad weather – now fully dissolved to an out-of-doors setting.

A storm brewed in the nighttime of the symphony and Jordan turned to the program for guidance.

While all is comfort and warmth within the children's bedchamber, outside the wind begins to howl. A treacherous snowstorm arises and harries a poor weary traveler.

Suspenseful sheets of tremolo strings whirled all around the concert venue of the Exchange like an internal blizzard.

The tumult settled into a quiet background melody. Amid this setting, the traveler appeared. As he slowly tried to make headway, the winds of the snowstorm periodically kicked up and licked around the mournful, all-too human figure played with lachrymosal reality on the double bass. It was enough to bring a tear to the eye, and became a sturdy rebuke that not a one of our fellow human travelers should suffer, if charity truly resides in our hearts.

The emotions of the issues at hand all seemed to come down to a simple modern notion – Individualism.

The War of Independence, waged and ongoing only a hundred years ago, was based on the idea of a person's right to Liberty – the right not to be impressed into a 'royal' navy or army and there toil like a servant to one's imagined, 'lordly' betters. So too is the right to vote: one man, one vote, with none better or more powerful in that regard to his neighbor.

Yes, the Nation was young and still building its more perfect union, but a founding principle was invulnerable, that all people – rich and poor alike; fully-grown or child alike; Northerner and Southerner alike – are entitled to the dignity which naturally comes from being afforded individual status. No one is born to be a cog in another man's system.

The emotional depth of the music became such that Jordan needed to consult the program notes again.

The journeying man tries to hasten his step and outpace the cold intruding through his tattered garments, but eventually the Perishing Traveler dies in the strains of the double bass.

Although the poor and hapless were often denied access to dignity, sometimes subterfuge could be wielded to great advantage for social justice. Jordan sat back on his chair, somewhat relieved to know occasionally other's natural inclination to avarice and self-aggrandizement could be used – willingly or not – to embetter the lives of others.

The man smiled. 'I guess that's exactly what Monk McDonough did to a certain someone, and did it within that man's imposing downtown lair as well….'

˚˚˚˚˚

The newspaper color man dodged a wagon loaded with green produce as he dashed across Clark Street. The sounds of the farmer's destination, the open-air Lucas Market, two blocks down Tucker Boulevard, resounded in his ears. It represented the bustle and smiles of 'real life.' He was about to turn his back on it for an edifice which existed as a statement of the elite's will for order – their order.

As he strolled along, glancing up the cliff face of the buff-colored limestone worked into Tuscan columns and banded pilasters, the reporter could still remember covering the opening ceremony of this monument to civic enforcement back in '71. In the latest style for governmental piles, the Four Courts Building gleamed in the sun, but in a menacing way. Blue-black scales of slate dominated its three high mansard rooves, but oddly enough, this structure was judged to be a bit of a chameleon. To the Irish upper crust, it was 'the spittin' image' of the Four Courts in Dublin, while to the French high society types, it was an administrative wing of Napoleon III's Louvre come to the capital of the great fleuve of the Mississippi Valley. To the Anglo-American powers-that-be the structure was pleasantly redolent of the Executive Office Building in Washington D.C.[1]

When he finally arrived halfway down Clark, he mounted the granite steps up to the grand portico and glanced back. He was about to cross a threshold, and imagined what this experience must be like from the perspective of a hapless kid rounded up by the rough-and-tumble men in blue.[2]

Inside the building a cold marble antechamber opened up into a light-filled atrium. Granite columns rose four levels to a domed ceiling with a sun-drenched oculus. A few people moved about, mostly law clerks and bailiffs from the many judge offices.

Monk McDonough knew a juvenile offender seeing the space for the first time would be overwhelmed; the newspaperman knew that imposed feeling was also no accident.

Straight ahead of him – directly opposite the grand entry – was the one and only adit and exit of the City Jail. A 'criminal' would be forced to pass through the ritual of seeing this grand seat of power before being led through a narrow door into a caged area. Through the iron rods, his sight would again be amazed and stunned. The Jail itself was an immense circular structure rising about eighty feet to a dome of steel trusses and skylights. Entirely enclosed, this 'yard' was paved in white stone and a central column featured steps and a gallery where the guards could see into each and every one of the 150 or so cells. The city erected gallows under this dome so all the inmates could witness the 'administering of justice,' whether they cared to see it or not. Naturally, underage prisoners were brought and detained here with the adults to await trail and sentencing in one of the courts upstairs. It was all so goddamned efficient, a hallmark of their era, to be sure.

It sickened Monk to know his bright and attentive young cousin had met that fate here with his even-younger companion.

He inhaled deeply, turning right. His trip today was not in the jail's direction. Off to a corner of the atrium, a set of steps led down, down into the bowels of the Police Force. Today he must tour its underbelly.

Once on the lower level, Monk strolled along the corridor, for this part of the policing operations was accessible to the public. He stepped through an open door, into the first of an interconnected set of chambers. This first was called the Rogues' Gallery.

Seventeen hundred numbered photographs of those arrested for some reason or another – known as the men and youth of the Police Record – were neatly organized in swinging cabinets. A card catalogue was against one wall, and any member of the public could come, consult, verify via picture and then legally refuse housing, work or even food and shelter at one of the city's many church-run missions, even though those catalogued here included both the convicted and the merely arrested and harassed by a cop for reason of some personal vendetta. Monk knew the situation was slightly better for the women and girls, for an appointment had to be made with a police matron to see those 'mug shots,' which were kept under lock and key.

His hand massaged the dark curls of his beard. Back in the '60s, Saint Louis had been among the first cities in the world, perhaps second only behind Paris, he believed, to take photographs of all suspects for the purposes of identification and crime-fighting.[3]

Swallowing a sigh, and sauntering through an open door into the next chamber, Monk knew he was entering the 'Hardware Gallery.' Although resembling the backroom of some iron mongerer's shop, the glass cases actually featured the clever resourcefulness of burglars, forgers, counterfeiters and gamblers. Misplaced genius, the room no doubt proved most educational to journeymen in the above-mentioned crafts. Intended to amuse and delight a harmless public, this gallery advanced the state of the art for the cunning wiles of conmen and grafters, many of whom would never be nabbed by the STL P.D. because they would ever stay anonymous to the authorities.

Monk paused and peered into a particularly large case. Nine implements of the crowbar species were mounted and labeled like an explorer's exotic insect collection. Several of these clever devices appeared articulated, and when disjointed could easily be carried in a bundle without fear of detection. Another of these 'jimmies' was small enough to be transported in a vest lining, but was constructed to be as efficient in its task as the larger implements.[4]

The having of any such 'weapon' was treated by law enforcement, and the court system, as prima facie and warranted stiff terms – sans any other crime – to labor in one of the city's institutions of justice, like the Work House, Work Farm, or House of Refuge.

Possession of panel-cutters or nips, which examples of could be observed in the neighboring glass case, and used to cut holes in barred doors, likewise receive the same summary punishment.

The 'guiltiest' of course are the young, the poor, and anyone not adjudicated by their work clothes to be legitimate bearers of such tools. The exception, sadly, were young men of color, who even if attired in their uniforms of trade as carpenters, glaziers, or other such vocations, and proving an honest living by the calluses on their palms, were summarily rounded up, charged and convicted without the benefit of a jury, and with little systemic aforethought to justice.[5]

Before he left, Monk's eyes lifted to a particular cabinet mounted on the wall above the doorway. Preserved under glass was a pocket ladder. Slender, it could nevertheless extend thirty feet and support a two-hundred-pound man.

As he strolled underneath, a wicked thought of nabbing it on his way out entered his head. Although well beyond the realm of a viable option for Felix and Hampden, it could easily surmount the House's twenty-foot-high stone enclosure.

˚˚˚˚˚

Police Captain Grubb's blue top hat hung on a hook by his closed office door. Between it and the chief sat Monk McDonough, nervously – and quite frankly, a bit repulsed – watching the overweight, beyond-middle-aged man sit at his desk. An empty tea saucer sat near the cop while he ignored the reporter and held a folded newspaper in one hand.

Monk's eyes helplessly scanned the area farther aside the china dish. Another fancy plate held a beautifully made creampuff; one Monk knew had been created by his cousin and the boy's talented associates in their prison bakery.

Grubb was rough, to say the least. Probably not educated to the tenth grade level, he was nevertheless learned in the ways of berating better-educated men under his command. Monk had seen it numerous times. The captain's face was loose and commodious. Wrinkles, which usually speak of a jovial existence, in his case belied a terse doubt that human goodness was anywhere evident his gaze happened to alight. His hair was long, and shiny-gray, although dandruff flakes sloughed off at regular intervals to tarnish the brass-based 'gold' of his epaulettes. He sported a slouchy moustache that wily hid the expressions of his upper mouth, but the man rarely smiled at anything amusing.

His cup clinked noisily in its saucer. The police chief said without looking at him, "And what do the Metropolitan Police owe the honor of this visit, Mr. Monk?"

"Sir, I – "

Grubb's voice was peevish and hostile. "Interesting opinions expressed in the Globe these days, Mr. McDonough." Now he looked at the man, letting his paper drop momentarily. "Very interesting indeed. Shall I?"

It was not a question, so Monk only sat back and waited.

After an indelicate bite of his cream puff and sip of tea, Grubb read, powdered sugar glistening from the top of his moustache:

The Saint Louis House of Refuge, situated in the southern part of the city, strictly speaking, is a prison for the detention of juvenile offenders. Its harsh discipline is that of a reformatory, its mean features and stone-cold operation is distinctly penitentiary in nature, and yet it stands as rebuke to all of a thinking mind in our fair city. And why is that? In it are confined the children of both sexes, who through privation and poverty were forced to become adepts – both boys and girls – of all manner of vices held to be criminal by the law, but resorted to merely for survival. These hapless children are tossed in along with genuine criminals, for all aged 2 to 21 are locked together, and with them too are jailed the city's most unfortunate of all – the children rounded up from the streets as orphans, or simply collected as the poor and abandoned. Strange Justice!

The House's existence shows a singular want of practical sense on the part of those who have authority in this matter.[6]

Police Chief Grubb slammed the paper on his desk, rattling dishes and sending up a faint cloud of confectioner's sugar. "And you have the audacity, Mr. McDonough, to show your face in the Four Courts on the very day this runs?!"

Monk swallowed his pang of fear, trying to put out of his mind all this man represented for him. "Imagine I come with fence-mending intentions."

Grubb slowly sat back. He folded hands across the brass buttons of his long blue coat. His expression dared Monk to come to the point.

Monk's immediate goal was to cool down the conflict. "I had a chance to meet with Charles Slayback and tour the VP Organization floats. They are also assembling the Police Charitable Fund's float for this year's parade. Slayback sends his best."

Silence.

"Will you be at the ball?" Monk asked, knowing full well the police force's highest brass would not only be there, but seated on the dais, close to this year's Veiled Prophet – this man was the VP three years ago. The only one's identity, as Slayback had said, who was revealed; rewarded only months after brutally crushing the Strike. It was the elites' laurel for his brand of heavy-handed law and order.

"I'll be there. Naturally." Bronze-like arrogance pealed from within his tone.

"Yes, things are panning out to give the citizens an exciting show this year."

"As the VP Organization always does."

The newspaper color man felt himself smile, his hand stroking his beard. "Indeed. In fact, a new article in tomorrow's edition will contain a whimsical, heartwarming happening amongst the float preparers. Be sure to look for it."

Enough, said Grubb's expression. "So what's this piece concerning the House of Refuge really about, Monk?"

The reporter shrugged. "Perhaps it's time for the good people of Saint Louis to learn a thing or two about their system."

"Which system?"

"The cops' penchant for rounding up 'cogs' to feed the city's child labor centers; how, say, black kids are arrested for as little offence as wearing a new pair of boots. Obviously, stolen property, the police officer testifies in court."[7]

A wily leer played in one corner of the older man's eye. "Mr. Monk, why, I am surprised to say the least." He picked up the paper again, pretending to read it for a brief moment. "The Globe-Democrat religiously reports daily updates on such apprehensions, and does so as proud reassurance to your readers that they are being kept safe on the streets."

"Oh, yes – safe."

He set the paper down, angered. "I'm also surprised to see you back to your old, Socialist inclinations, Monk. I thought – well, I assumed – your long silence and continued interest in 'Society Belles' and such nonsense meant the putting down of the General Strike had been adequate warning."

Monk froze. It was true, but something as primal as Felix's need for fairness trumped memories and fear.

Grubb apparently saw his words hit home, for he went on in the manner of a civics professor speaking to a crowd of lunching Temperance ladies.

"And why do you suppose a great city like this needs police protection in the first place? Because cities by their very natures are a sort of social cesspool where all mix and procreate together. It's as if the highways and rail-lines converging here are conduits, draining all the civil filth of hamlets, villages and towns like a sewer into our thriving metropolis.

"The half a million people who reside here could not do so without this protection. The police exist to ensure the lives and property of the better classes are held safe and secure, first and foremost. It is essential the propensities of the pariahs who would overturn this hierarchy be checked with a stern and strong exhibition of force."[8]

"Force, against little children?"

Grubb leaned forward, pressing his belly against the edge of his desk. "Do you know how many officers total this city employs, Mr. Monk?"

"I'd say about – "

"Four hundred eighty-eight. Total. From yours truly down to the lowliest janitor and turnkey."

"I don’t see what your point is."

"Boston, Baltimore, Washington D.C., Chicago – all cities substantially smaller than Saint Louis – need to maintain forces about double the size of ours. And why?"

Monk shrugged. "We're more decent?"

"Because we do our jobs efficiently, and this city is 'cleaner' than our smaller rivals, meaning our citizens are better able to keep themselves in line."

McDonough scoffed silently to himself, 'Maybe other towns don’t have industrial institutions to feed like this one. Damn STL business efficiency.' What he actually said was: "And this is where the favorable publicity comes in."

Silence.

Monk quipped, "Speaking of the stinking, frozen swampland to the north, a new saying is going around that Chicago should become Saint Louis' penal colony." He paused to see if Grubb knew the 'punch line.'

Silence.

"But only," laughed the reporter, "for the most hopeless cases."[9]

"And this is where we stop dancing and you tell me what you want."

"I – sir – want to help." Monk gestured to the captain's half-eaten cream puff. "Having recently toured the House of Refuge I'm interested in promoting the vocational life of its residents after their release. First off, the young men in the bakery do a remarkably good job. Don’t you agree?"

The man sat back, refolding fingers across his vest. A smirk appeared.

Monk continued, "To that end, the end of disseminating broader knowledge to the businessmen who could expand such programs in the city, I've asked Charles Slayback if the young bakers could promote their talents at the VP ball. He's agreed, if proper accommodations can be made with the police."

"Pastry boys?" he asked dismissively.

"Yes, sir. Later I'll see what more suitable employment can be found for the lads with the bleeding fingers in the chair-caning shop."

Perhaps the mention of 'blood' softened Grubb; perhaps realizing that half a million citizens could read about it did the trick.

"Well – "

"Captain Grubb, the VP Organization is behind this effort and will chaperone them, and I've solicited for charitable donations of servants' attire for the lads, say, ten of them total. No city funds will have to be diverted."

"I'm not so sure of that. Perhaps I should think about it and let you know."

"Perhaps I should also 'think about' how to write my law and order pieces as well. I mean, an occasional first-hand interview with a brave and noble foot patrolman, and the nightly dangers he faces to keep our citizens in line – or…."

"Mr. Monk."

"Also, this effort to promote an already existing success of the city's system, by which I mean the bakers, will certainly be a welcome topic of conversation for my readers. It will show how the rhythmic beat of charity lurks even in the efficiency of our city's splendid police force."

The captain smiled and sat upright. "You've played your hand like a card sharp, Mr. McDonough, but in the chaos of that night, they could escape."

Monk grinned. "They would not dare to try with your eminence in attendance at the ball."

The chief picked up his pastry. "Flatterer, but still we would need to have a few warders standing at the doors, in case they try to slip away."

"The boys in their monkey suits? They will be easy to spot."

"So you say…but still, I'm not so sure…." Grubb took a bite. A small cloud of powdered sugar again rose to swirl about the police captain's indecision.