The Daily Worker Newspaper, January 8, 1927, Page 14

The Wings of Illusion “Meanwhile, I'd better phone the district attorney and have him stay IS red face blowsy with drink struggled to break thru a two days’ growth of beard, which cover- ed the lower part of his face in an uneven stubble. His cheeks, protrud- tng beyond the reach of hair, had the outward appearance of an unpealed carrot. Hatless was he; with the fringe of hair around his bald spot wildly disheveled. Thus he staggered into an Albany police station, pant- ing like a tired stallion after a long journey. entering, seeming a bit uncertain of hig mission. His eyes almost bulged out of their sockets which were deep ly set and nestled under a pair of bushy eyebrows. Suddenly he seem- ed to recall the purpose’ of his visit and made a feeble effort to straighten up, as his fingers circled around the door knob. Pushing open the door, he waddled in uncertain steps over to the desk sergeant. The unexpected arrival was attired im a pair of saggy trousers and a blue flannel shirt, unbuttoned at the neck; a jacket unevenly folded, rested over his left arm; from a pocket of which hung the end of a colored necktie. Af- ter wiping with the cuff of his shirt sieeve a fiow of saliva dripping from his half-open mouth, he began speak- ing, addressing himself to a burly figure seated behind the large desk. “There’s a man goin’ to the chair tonight for a killin’ he ain’t done. 1 know he ain’t cause I pulled the “job” myself—Honest I did, and I wanna come clean to you cause I just seen the Almighty. Yes, it wags Jesus Christ—get me—Christ I tell youse,” le bellowed his voice, rising in in- =" crescendo. s lips began to twitch nervously as he saw a smile sliding over the eergeant’s flushed face. “Langh, damn you, dut it’s the Gawds honest truth—may the devil take me if I be lyin’ to you.” To em- phasize conviction to his words, the visitor spat angrily on the floor and shaking his clenched fist, continued. “| was in Mike’s saloon gettin’ a drink, you know “One-eye” Mike’s place over on the west side, dontcha? Well, I puts a haif a dollar on the bar and order gin—it was rye I had be fore, when suddenly I hears voices behind me sayin’ ‘it’s him’—‘it’s him.’ Sore as a b———— I got, and I turns around quickly like I was gonna take a smack at ’im, when I sees it’s the same guy I croaked up in Utica, only he was dressed in white this time, and next to him stood Christ. I knew it was Christ cause I seen him be- fore. The ghost pointed his finger at me and says to him—Father, that’s the man that shot me. I fell to my kneoes—scared stiff I was, but He disappeared. Ali He said was, “con- feas son, confess.” A policeman walked over to the desk sergeant and whispered in his eng. “I know this bird, Dan. It’s Pete Matone, a booze drinkin’ bum and re- figious fanatic. The boys call him ‘Baint Peter’ around the loop; they say he was a minister once, but I guess that’s talk, anyhow. I pulled kim in for a hold-up last year. You'd better put his statement on paper, cause he’s drunk now and peculiar thing is, when he’s drunk, he tells the truth.” The “Saint” fumbled around his pockets, finally terminating his quest by extracting a half smoked cigarette, whioh he placed between two rows of teobmoco tecth, and began stroking a match with his thumb nail in an at- tempt to light it, almost losing his balance from the effort. This com- pleted, he further unbuttoned his shirt and untied a dirty package wrapped carefully around his bosom, which he handed to the sergeant, cry- ing nervously: “Here’s part of the money I aint spent yet, you’H find the rest of it home.” The officer reached for the extend- ef package, which to his surprise con- tained crumpled greenbacks in large denominations. “Lock this bird up until we inves- tigate this case,” he commanded, pointing to Malone, who sunk to his knees moaning: “Oh, my Lord Jesus, help me—help me.” The visitor paused before’ the execution.” “Christ,” he ejaeulat- ed, looking at a clock on the wall, “it’s almost time now.” The murder to which Saint Peter Melone confessed to was the killing of a cashier employed by a Utica stone quarry, several months ago, a deed for which a young Italian labor organizer was frailroaded to prison and semtenced to be executed this night. KE was christened Durante Gabriel Secato by a zealous god-father in Sicily, and twenty-three years later was known to the ItaHans of Utica as Dante, Twat’s what his friends call ed him, just Dante. They knew him for a Pleasant, well-mannered youth —* poet, singing the songs of unrest, and liked him for #. Dante was tali and slim of dark ex- traction. Sucked into the economic maelstrom at an early age, he emerg- ed at twenty-three, a hardened cru- sader fm the ranks of labor. His com- rades looked up te him as their lead- er. He worked as a stone cutter, one of several hundred men employed by the Wilton Stone Works. The hours of toil were tediously long, and to alleviate the great suppression that surged in his blood, his Hps would hum revolutionary songs as he pound- ed at his chisel, carving out the in- scriptions we read upon the tomb- stones of the dead. After work, the laborers, mostly Italians would meet in the woods to discuss plans for a coming strike. They were all underpaid, dissatisfied, and for most part emaciated looking men spitting continously the consump- tive dust of the stones they were forced to inhale. He addressed them one memorable evening in the tongue they understood and the following week, a strike was declared. For six weeks the strike, punctuated by fre quent clashes between police and the srtikers dragged on uneventfully, un- til one morning a cyclonic event blew in with. the-dawn of a.coo} October morning, which was later destined to echo in every corner of the globe. Extra! Extra! Big Murder! cash- ier for the Wilton Company shot from behind by a masked bandit who escaped with the payroll, by running thru the woods. Detectives, working on case, arrest momentarily expected. Gossip—and wagging tongues soon had all of Utica seething with excite- ment. The following morning, Dante Seca- to was taken from his home by two deputy sheriffs and "held without bail as the killer. Circumstantial evi- dence convicted him of murder in the first degree. He was heard to say the day previous that unless he could raise some money the strike was doomed. That counted heavily against him in the hurried trial. Besides, he was seen in the woods at the time of the murder. Also, a button, supposed to have been missing from his coat was found in the office. A girl, an eyewitness, swore that his was the coat the bandit wore, tho she only had a glimpse of him. It was in the unforgettable wave of reaction that swept thru this country in the Palmer red-baiting period, that Secato was caught in. The same tempestuous winds that blew down the unprotected barriers of “justice” and swept in its waké, such unfortu- nates as Billings, Sacco, Vanzetti, Mooney and others. The local newspapers made capital of the affair. “Labor agitator mur- ders cashier to raise money for strike. Red conspiracy seen in kill- ing of cashier,” read some of the headlines, It was whispered about at the trial that the indicted was a Com- munist and an alien; therefore an un- desirable citizen—a destroyer of American ideals, a free lover; no doubt—a breaker of homes, a social leper—deport him—hang him, rang the ery—only separate him from the decorous children of the National Se- curity League. The prosecuting at- tormey laid stress on that point and the jury, twelve efficient, one hundred per cent American worshippers of the great god Dividends, brought in a just verdict of guilty. was now 11:30 and at midnight he was to walk to his death. He sat quietly on a hard pallet lying over an iron cot in “Murderer’s Row,” as the “death house” is commonly called, Hstening nonchalantly to the prison chaplain preparing his soul for the Creator. His eyes seamed wan and restless and his cheeks, hollow from the long confinoment, were coated with the inevitable prison pallor, His fase, shorn of its placid calm, was buried in the palms of his hands, and his thoughis lost in an overwhelming emptiness that animated his features. A half smoked cigarette was dangling between his dry lips) He wasn’t thinking. He had already reached that stage where a man ¢eases to think. Mere phant of conceptions beavy green curtains over in an attempt to cover cession from the view of other prison- What a humanitarian This idea of hiding the death march from curious eyes. offspring of William Jennings Bry- an’s noble cause. Grey clad guards, their faces Hned with indifference would then enter his cell and lead him thru a little green loor into the bleak execution cham- ber. A silver haired priest, with head bowed, will walk slowly behind him. His thin hands clasped together and his mumbling lips will offer a Mtany to his inviolable Gods. While im the anteroom, his friends, comrades, in the movement for a better world will weep for him. They were there now, a whole delegation of workers come to bid him good bye. How they worked to free him. Labor thrnout the world rallied to his support. He had read of protest meetings held in his behalf. Funds were raised for a fruitless appeal and fesolutions pass- ed by workers condemning the deci- sion. No éffort was spared to save him. Hig friends pounded heavily against the steel wall of justice only to find their knuckles bruised and bleeding from the effort. He spared them the pain of seeing him now; a ghost, soon to ride out of this world a corpse, on the wings of illusion. In the vault-like death room, the guards will stand idly by as others, paid valets to the pet uphokder of law and order will strap him to that high wooden chair. What an interesting procedure? Worthy of our philoso phers’ attention. Funny how they skit the lower part of your trousers with a keen edged scissors and then leather straps go winding around your chest, legs and wrists, as if they’d think you’d run. Before his eyes will be bandaged by a black cloth, an cf- ficial witness, as sensitive as a Mus- solini hangman, will step over and ask him whether he has anything to say. Yes, he would have something to say. He’d tell them that the blood of innocent men add fuel to the fires of unrest; that he was ready to die for his cause. Then the priest will’ step over and place an ivory crucifix to his lips, so that he may kiss the effigy of Christ and die content Finally a coper-lined death cap will be fitted over his head. That cap! God, how men feared to wear it! Af- ter that he’d know—yes, he’d know no more, and in such manner do men retrace their steps to oblivion. A sudden dimming of the electric lights in the other cells will act as a silent signal to the inmates whose turn to walk thru the little green door had not yet come, that the death vol- tage was on. A few seconds later, a second and then a third and final dim- ming will inform the occupants that another cell is waiting to be filled. An uncanny silence will then over- whelm over the unfriendly stone walls, Since he was confined to the death house, he had seen many un- fortunates die before in this very manner. Now the calendar marked him next to go. Next, next. There was always a next. : The death house chambers, where those marked for execution waited for the “call,” was smaller and darker By Alex Jackinson than the prison cell, In one of the grey walls was a small window, hearb ly covered with-tron bars, thru which a faint glimmering of light entered: An iron cot and a small table holding a fektt had grown violent in his cell waiting @s he was now waiting. He slashed his wrists with an improvised knife he made from a piece of steel which he picked up in the yard, and dashed his head madly against the walls. He was finally overpowered, and carried bodily away, bleeding and raving like a frightened maniac to “that chair.” , governor, seated comfortably in his study, had just been awak- ened from his sleep by a phone call from the district attorney. He was attired in a gilk bathrobe under which me with Warden Lewis, please. Hek lo, warden, Governor Grey speaking. ‘Stay the execution of that Italian radical, Dante Secato. He may be in- nocent, there is a confession from what seems to be the actual murder er. Yes. What—Good God, governor, you don’t say,” came the staccato re- ply over the wire. “Oh, my, he was just led into the execution room Wait, wait, hold the wire a minute Pll see if I can stop them yet.” The governor pressed the receiver to his ears and listened. He kept puffing nonchalantly at hig cigar, al- lowing a smile to spread over his im- mobile lips. Hmm, funny how fate shuffles her cards. Fate, yes that was it, why surely he mused, What a subterfuge this thing called fate is a giant hedge always ready for every misdeed to hind behind, ~ Some minutes later the receiver be- gan to buzz in his ear. The governor leaned forward. “Hello, governor, Lewis speaking. You called just a few seconds too late, “Yeah, they just turned the juice on—too bad, too bad. They tell me the wop died game, too,” END,