about some early schoolhouse, there was nothing. Not any kind of plaque or marker- even one hostile to the defendants. There was nothing. And that seemed strange, considering the fuss New Englanders make over history. They're forever holding parades for people who've been dead a hundred years. But here, where the world's attention had been riveted during the summer of 1927, there was not a thing to mark the occasion or any mention made of it.
We went on to the jail. Things had not changed much there either. Again Joe flashed the badge and we went through the lobby and into the cell blocks. We were shown the cells that Sacco and Vanzetti occupied during their long incarceration. We saw the courtyard where they exercised. It was in this very courtyard that Celestino Madeiros caught Sacco's attention one day. He whispered:
'Wick! I know who pulled the South Braintree job!'
Sacco ignored him and returned to his cell. Why? Ehrmann said it was because he feared that Madeiros was a plant, a spy put there by the government to get a confession out of him. They had tried that the year before. But there could be another reason Sacco had ignored him: because he, Sacco, had pulled the job.
The courtyard was ringed with barbed wire and a new, shiny type of concertina wire that was drawn from a flat strip of metal with prongs extruded from its edges. It looked like old ripped-apart tin cans. It looked about as attractive as a swarm of maggots. Then I recalled two things from the reading I'd done. One was the reminiscence of a guard who one day overheard Sacco and Vanzetti arguing about who had the best singing voice. To resolve the dispute, each convict sang to the other. The song they sang was 'Let Me Call You Sweetheart.' The other thing wasn't so cute; it was the recurring periods when one or both of the prisoners had to be taken to Bridgewater State Mental Hospital for treatment and observation. It seemed that the length of the confinement, and the men's inability to accept or believe what was happening to them, drove them crazy now and then. It was supposedly especially hard on Sacco, who missed his wife, son, and infant daughter dreadfully. Of course, the other side of the coin was the argument that the men were faking to buy time and public sympathy.
Is it a vase, or is it two faces? Is it the top of the basement stairs or the bottom of the attic stairs?
'Let's get the hell out of here,' said Joe with a groan. 'I've had enough for one day.'
We walked back inside and down the corridor and overheard one of the guards yelling at an inmate.
'I am held here wrongly, mon,' said a deep booming voice. 'I am held on suspicion, nothing more. And because I came here in a leaky-sponge boat, does that take away all my rights? You hear me talkin', mon?'
The guard slammed the door with a clang and passed us in the hall. 'Fuckin' jig,' he muttered under his breath so we could all hear, especially the man behind bars. He was huge and rich chocolate-brown, with green eyes. He gripped the bars, and the big muscles of his jaws bunched and leapt at the sides of his face. He rocked sideways, back and forth, back and forth, as he gripped the steel in front of him. He swayed to and fro on his feet, like an elephant eating hay.
'What's the huge black guy in for?' Joe asked the superintendent.
'Vagrancy and resisting arrest. Don't think it'll stick though. He'll probably walk in a week. Why, you want him?'
'Naw. just curious. He one of the Caribbean boat people?'
'Uh-huh. Jamaican. Nothing but trouble, the whole bunch of 'em, and they're coming farther north every day now. Oughta kick 'em right back out. Oh, but he'll walk; you wait and see.'
On the way out of the cell block something- I'm not sure what it was- made me retrace my steps to the cell that held the giant Jamaican. He looked at me.
'What did you do that they put you in here?' I asked.
'Nothing. They call it vagrancy. I am an illegal alien. I was arrested loitering at a bus station. Are you a policeman?'
'No. A doctor. What is your name?'
'Amos Railford. Fisherman and carpenter. You will help me? I cannot pay now, but later-'
'Amos Railford, are you innocent of any crime except being here? You've heard of a polygraph, or lie detector? Would you take a polygraph test?'
'Hmmmmph!' He snorted, and jerked at the bars two inches in front of his face. His forearms bulged like Popeye the Sailor's. His chest was a bronzed, chiseled slab of muscle two feet wide. I was a little thankful for the bars. '
'Will you take it?'
'Yes, mon.'
'And what is your bail set at?'
'Bail? I don't know.'
'Thank you Amos. Good luck.'
I walked back down the corridor, smelling that peculiar and depressing jail smell so well described by Raymond Chandler. On the way out I could not help thinking that nothing much had changed since 1927, except perhaps the appearance of those on the lowest rung.
We walked back to the courthouse building. It was just a couple of blocks. Sacco and Vanzetti made the trip there and back every day during the weeks of the trial, surrounded by armed guards. I stood facing the courthouse steps and recalled the film. Turning toward the jail, I took myself back in time. The small, squared-off Datsuns and Vegas became rounded Packards and Overlands. The people wore wool and cotton instead of polyester. The women had on wide hats with flowers on top; the men wore top hats, boaters, snap-brims, and bowlers. A crowd came dance-stepping around the comer, heading my way. Throngs of onlookers pressed close. Kids shouted and ran around the edges of the crowd. A big square of blue-coated policemen formed the nucleus of the mob, each one toting a Winchester pump scatter-gun. Here they came bouncing fast up the street. They were jump-roping without rope. The cars zigged and zagged. People waved their arms and hopped around. Where was Harold Lloyd? Buster Keaton? The mob was close now, approaching the courthouse steps. I could see the two defendants: Vanzetti with his proud carriage, tipping his snap-brim hat, gesticulating to the crowd with raised fist. Injustice! he is crying, and for him it certainly is. Almost everyone agreed that Bartolomeo Vanzetti was innocent. The other man, though- what's going through his mind? Sacco walks on silently, having to pause when his companion does because they are chained together. But he says nothing, looking straight ahead, noncommittal. Is he scared? Seething with outrage? Bored? Or is he lying? Is he merely disgusted with himself at having been caught?
A car horn jerked me out of my reverie, and I moved off the street. The driver rolled down his window and grinned.
'Don't tell me. Don't tell me- I know what ya wuz lookin' at. Yuz lookin' at the jail and then the court building. Well, I tell ya, mistah… they wuz guilty!'
He drove on, and we got back into Joe's cruiser and went back home.
After dropping off Tom, Joe and I went back to the house.
Joe's mood was still dark. He paced the living-room carpet, drink in one hand, cigarette in the other, muttering to himself. The only words I caught were 'can't believe it… just can't believe it,' over and over again.
'Can't believe what?' I finally asked. 'That they were probably guilty?'
'Not that so much. I'm thinking of Andy. I can't believe the community would turn against him. You know the Sons of- oh hell, skip it.'
He returned to pacing and muttering until the phone rang. Mary answered it in the kitchen and called Joe.
'[oey, you know anything about Christopher Columbus?'
'Sure. He discovered America in- what? What the hell are you asking me a stupid-ass question like that for?'
'No, dummy. There's a guy calling you from the Christopher Columbus. What's that?'
Joe rushed toward the kitchen like a fifty-yard man out of the blocks. 'Gimme that,' he said, panting.
There was a short, intense conversation in the kitchen, with hoarse whispers and oaths. Comments like 'you're goddamn right that's what I thought. What would you think, for Chris-sake?' and 'I didn't mean you, Mike. I was thinking of the young guys- '
Mary and I waited in the living room until he was finished, which wasn't long. He came stomping through the room and hooked his finger at me. I followed him out the door as Mary sank dejectedly onto the couch and stared at the wall.
