Making Lemonade behind Bars, Part Two

I hurried through my appointed calls that day, thanking my lucky stars there were no trials to keep me in the vicinity.  I headed back to the newspaper office with my stomach in my high-heeled shoes, trying to calm my anxiety and formulate a plan.  I just knew “they” were coming for me soon.

I won’t tell, I promised myself.  I’ll go to jail first and won’t tell.   My reporter’s ethics about not revealing sources were strong, I kept reminding myself.  The whole prospect had me terrified.  I was only nineteen by then, and I was doomed to who knows how long a stretch in jail for contempt of court.  Maybe forever, I thought, because I was not going to tell.

I knew which attorney I’d ask to represent me, to try to keep me out of jail.  I figured the newspaper would have one for me, but I wanted my own, just in case they didn’t hire the best.

I didn’t return to the courthouse after lunch, as was my usual habit.  My editor looked at me questioningly.

“Nothing going on there,” I responded.  I was still trying to figure out how to stay out of jail and didn’t trust myself to not cry.  I was trying to be this seen-it-all, hard-bitten, cynical newspaper reporter and was darned if I’d let them see me cry.  Inside, I was scared to death.  I spent the afternoon in the office, worrying and working on mundane newspaper stuff.  My editor kept eying me, his eyebrows forming question marks.  I kept to myself.

It was a sleep-deprived young reporter who approached the courthouse the next morning, throat dry, stomach clenched, insides threatening to mutiny.

“They’re questioning everyone on the District Attorney’s staff today,” I was told.  “They’re even threatening lie detector tests on the ones they’re already questioned.”

Oh, boy.  I KNEW this was the day I was headed for jail.  I began trying to picture what it would be like, how I would handle it.  I’d heard awful rumors about how tough it was “inside.”   After all, I’d seen the movies, the television shows.

They wouldn't have far to take me because the jail was attached to the same building.

 

My very vivid and active imagination showed me repeatedly what was going to happen:  “They” would show up at the newspaper office, or worse, snatch me from the courthouse hallway.  If it were the latter, I wouldn’t even have the opportunity of going out in style, head held high, suffering the handcuffs in silence, while my fellow reporters in the newsroom stood respectfully, applauding, urging me to stand firm on my principles, and taking photographs for the special edition of the paper that they were planning.

I would be hauled before the bench of a Superior Court judge (I was hoping it would be Judge Fitzgerald, as he seemed the most likely to be kind), where I would stand respectfully, if mutely, while he asked me to reveal my source.  I would feel my fellow reporters in the gallery silently sending encouraging messages by mental telepathy.  I would then say to the judge, “Your Honor, I respectfully decline to answer.  I cannot reveal a source.”  The gavel would come crashing down, and he would, regretfully and with admiration for my courageous stand, sentence me to an indeterminate time in jail for contempt of court.  The bailiff would meet with no success when he tried to silence the uproar from the gallery…..

All that, of course, was during my stronger moments, which were very few.  Usually I saw myself quaking with fear, perspiring with nausea, leaving town under cover of darkness—except that it was mid-summer in Alaska and there was no darkness.

Preoccupied, staring at the floor, trying to keep a low profile, I rounded a corner in the hallway and ran smack into the attorney I’d decided upon the day before, the one I was hoping would save me from my looming jailhouse fate.  The hallway was deserted except for the two of us, so I told him my problem and said that I might need his help.  I was close to tears by the time I’d finished.

He laughed out loud!  He thought it was hilarious!  I was scared half to death, about to throw up, and here he was tickled silly!   He laughed so hard and for so long that eventually I started laughing, too.  It was somewhat forced, but it was laughter, so when the tears started leaking out, I could blame them on that.  And, somehow, through the laughter, I began to see another way through this, which might have been the intent of his laughter all along.

He gave me his assurances that he would indeed be available should it come to that and he walked away still chortling.   I almost got the feeling he was proud of me.  I returned to the newspaper office and told my editor what was going on, why I was “laying low.”  I saw a sparkle in his eyes—he was proud of me too!

I’d made my decision.  I wasn’t hiding anymore, nor was I taking the easy way out.  I was going to stand right up there and take whatever came my way, because I had realized while standing in that hallway with my attorney friend, who was laughing delightedly, what a great story it would make if I DID go to jail.  “They” wouldn’t dare let anything happen to me in there, not with me filing daily stories from the “inside.”

And, yes, I started to hope it WOULD happen.  I had the ingredients and was planning my batch of lemonade.

 And, no, it never did.  They never came for me.  I never got my big story from the inside of a jailhouse.

I also never told anyone how I found out that information.  More than fifty years later, I’m the only one who knows, and I’m still not telling. 

-30-

Federal courtroom. Haven't found a photo of any of the state courtrooms yet.   They weren't this elaborate.

The other end, the post office side, of the Old Federal Building in Anchorage.  The structure is on the National Register of Historic Places.

Making Lemonade behind Bars, Part One

(One of the great things about growing up in Anchorage and Alaska during the mid-twentieth century was that because of the small population, young people had the opportunity to work in positions that usually were filled by older, more experienced workers in more populated places outside of Alaska.   I was one who benefited from that very thing.)

You know the old platitude, “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade?”   Try believing that when you’re facing time behind bars.

A week out of high school I went to work at the Anchorage Daily News as a summer cub reporter, filling in for vacationing reporters.  The first thing I covered was the police beat.   Those two weeks were exciting and  I enjoyed them immensely.    Then I was assigned to write features, school, and church news until the city reporter went on vacation.  I covered city hall, city council, and school board meetings.  It was okay, but lacked the excitement of the police beat.

In mid-July I had a three-week assignment to cover the court system.  At this time, 1960, the state and federal courts were in the Old Federal Building on Fourth Avenue in downtown Anchorage.  Also housed there were the main post office, the US Marshal’s office, the US Attorney’s Office, as well as a number of other federal offices.  The State District Attorney’s offices were across the street above the Woolworth store, which in a previous life had been the Oyster Loaf café.

            Alaska was in its first year of statehood and had launched its own court system just in April.  Here I was, eighteen years old, less than two months out of high school, covering criminal and civil trials in municipal, state, and federal courts.  Never before had I felt so inadequately prepared for anything. 

By the end of the second week I hated it and couldn’t wait for the third week of my own “trial” to be over.  In particular, I was dreading Monday—the start of the very first trial of a woman in the new state for first degree murder.

Inevitably, Monday came and I found myself in courtroom “B” of the State Superior Court, sitting on a wooden bench next to the very seasoned reporter from the opposition newspaper.  The first day involved jury selection and I stayed to watch this process as it was new to me.  It was mostly boring and repetitious, the same questions asked over and over.  Eventually I began to see the strategy in which juror the attorneys accepted and which they excused.

The trial began in earnest the next day.  The feeling in that courtroom was intense and deadly serious.  I felt overwhelmed, not for myself, but for how critical a matter this was for those involved−the defendant, the prosecuting and defense attorneys, the judge, and the jurors.  There is no high school civics class that can prepare you for that feeling.

When the state called a certain prosecution witness, it hit me:  I knew these people!   The witness had been my employer during a brief summertime job, and the victim had worked for her also.  I had never met the defendant, but had seen her once at the jobsite.  I was almost sick to my stomach and I’m sure my face went pale when I recognized the witness.  That was a difficult day for me.  It was a slam-dunk introduction to real life.

The last of the testimony and closing arguments consumed the next day, and by Thursday a first degree murder verdict was returned in open court.  It had been many, many years since a jury had brought back a first degree verdict in Alaska.   My story of the verdict was printed under a bright red banner headline on the front page.  

 

I was caught hook, line and sinker.  I had fallen totally in love with the court beat.  I’d met most of the people who worked in the system, called most by their first names.  I was becoming comfortable, getting to know my way around, not so overwhelmed with the responsibility.  Alas, the usual court reporter showed up to take his beat back on Monday morning.

Next I was assigned to an eternity in purgatory on the society pages for a whole month.  Never was anyone so unqualified.  Never had I suffered so much.  I had absolutely no interest in “rounding out my journalism experience.”   I wanted back in my beloved courts!

Part of the note from the boss, who had been an Associated Press features editor.   It shows the "quality" of the typewriters we used in those days.  I called my ancient one the "typewriter prototype."

And it came to pass.  When my time in purgatory finally ended, I was offered a permanent job—and the court beat.  I grabbed it in exultation.

A year later I was right at home.  This is what I was meant to do.  I was learning new things daily, meeting phenomenal people, the builders of this new state.  I knew every lawyer in town, every judge, every prosecutor, all the secretaries and clerks and bailiffs.   Most were on a first name basis.  Only the judges were addressed more formally.

I also had developed a friendly rivalry with my opposite number at the competing paper.  He scooped me on a story one time, an arraignment on a secret indictment that I had missed.  It was a simple thing of not much import, but I vowed it wouldn’t happen again.

Secret indictments were brought by grand juries usually because the suspect was not in custody or under bail.  The defendant’s name was not released to the public until the person was in custody, thus the “secret” nature of the bill.  It was done mostly to prevent the suspect from fleeing.

For us reporters, the problem was that when the defendant was going to be brought into court and formally charged, the matter appeared on the court calendar for the day with no fanfare.  It would be shown only as “State vs. Smith” or whatever the defendant’s name was.  The case could be something quite mundane, or it could be something quite newsworthy.  There was nothing to call attention to the fact that it was an arraignment on a secret indictment.

Therein lay the puzzle.  How to know?  I found a way to find out the names on the secret indictments.  I did nothing improper with the information, never revealed it to anyone, but used it strictly for my own information so I could watch for those particular arraignments.  This went on for well over a year.  Nonetheless, this was a serious matter and would not be taken lightly should anyone in authority ever discover why I was usually the only reporter who showed up at all the “secret” arraignments.

The courthouse side of the Old Federal Building in Anchorage where I spent many hours.   1941 photo from Wikimedia Commons.   The building is in a prominent place on Fourth Avenue, the main street in downtown Anchorage.

On one fateful day I was approaching the courthouse and was taken aside.  “They know,” I was told quietly.  “The place is in an uproar.  The cops are questioning everyone.”

(to be continued)