The morning of September 23, 1901, detectives unlocked Czolgosz’s cell and led him down a dark three-hundred-foot hallway known as the “tunnel of sobs.” The “dank, reeking passage,” six feet wide and nine feet high, had been dug under Delaware Avenue in 1878 to connect the Erie County Penitentiary and County and City Hall, where his trial would take place.1 Czolgosz was, as he had been much of the time since his arrest, looking his best. Clean shaven with his hair neatly combed, he wore a new dark gray suit, a crisp white shirt, and a light blue bow tie. Handcuffed and flanked by a pair of detectives, Czolgosz seemed oblivious to all around him as he made his way to the New York Supreme Court, where he was to stand trial for murdering the president.
Czolgosz’s behavior in the days immediately before his trial date only added to his mysterious public perception. When appearing before a grand jury and during his arraignment, he had completely refused to speak. He refused to answer the prosecutor when asked if he had a lawyer. He refused to enter a plea and refused to speak with his own lawyers, simply staring at the floor when anyone addressed him. Assistant Superintendent Patrick Cusack thought Czolgosz was smarter than people gave him credit for. “There are some of the people who think he is such an exceptionally queer prisoner, but I tell you he is a bad one, and a foxy one.”2 Assistant District Attorney Frederick Haller argued that Czolgosz was doing nothing more than aping the behavior of a prototypical anarchist. He predicted Czolgosz would remain silent until a death penalty was assigned, then he would shout “Long live anarchy!” and rant about the principles of that doctrine.3
Shortly after 10 a.m., Czolgosz was led past hissing spectators, and the doors to the courtroom were thrown open. The room itself was wholly unbecoming to such an important event. A small chamber on the second floor of County and City Hall, its high drab walls showed the “need of the scrubwoman’s brush.” The judge’s bench and bar, placed near latticed windows, occupied more than half the floor space. The jury was seated on a six-inch-high stand with no bar or wall in front of them. The remainder of the room was given over to seats for about 150 spectators.4
It would be a remarkable trial, but for reasons that had little to do with the behavior of the defendant.
Perhaps most astonishing was the speed with which the proceedings were carried out, much to the delight of just about everybody involved, who simply wanted to get the affair over with.5 The jury was selected in a scant two hours and twelve minutes, a working-class group of men, “not a smooth shaven” among them.6 The trial itself began almost as soon as the final juror was named. By the following afternoon, it was over.
The pace was helped in no small part by the defense counsel, retired New York Supreme Court justices Loran Lewis and Robert Titus. Highly respected in their day, neither had worked as a trial lawyer in years and certainly didn’t want to start now. Titus learned of his nomination while in Milwaukee. “I cannot understand why I have been selected for this unpleasant duty,” he said. “I am very much depressed by the announcement. He should be defended by one of his own kind—an anarchist.”7 At Czolgosz’s arraignment, Lewis made sure the public knew he shared Titus’s view. Addressing the court, Lewis said, “I wish to say that I am accepting this assignment against my will and while it is more repugnant to me than my poor words can tell, I promise to present whatever defense the accused may have.”8
Czolgosz himself also contributed to the trial’s speed. The man who had impressed guards with his composure and confidence vanished the moment he first set foot in the courtroom. Perhaps it was coming face-to-face with the public, or his innate shyness, or simply the enormousness of what was now happening to him, but Czolgosz retreated deep into a shell from which he would rarely emerge. Throughout the trial he refused to cooperate with his legal counsel, stubbornly refusing to speak with them even in his cell. Journalists didn’t know what to make of him. To some he looked proudly defiant, to others weak and shattered. “He walked through the aisle to his place before the judge’s bench with as little concern as if he had been free and alone upon the street.… He looked as if he had just returned from an outing and was in the flush of health,” noted one reporter.9 Only rapid eye blinking suggested a deeper nervousness.
In the single remark he would utter before the end of the trial, he pleaded “guilty” when asked. Even that was wasted breath, however, when he was informed that in a trial of this magnitude he was not allowed to enter such a plea.
Much of the trial, limited though it was, focused on accounts of the assassination—where exactly all the important participants stood at the moment the president was shot and how they reacted. Nothing really contributed to the public’s or the jury’s understanding of the murder. The only time Czolgosz’s defense showed any spark was over the issue of medical attention the president had received.
In fact, almost as soon as McKinley died, a very public debate erupted among surgeons and other experts over his medical care. The cause of death, according to the coroner’s report, had been “gangrene of both walls of the stomach and pancreas following gunshot wounds.”10 For most experts, this was a far from satisfactory explanation. What had caused the gangrene? Dr. Park, who had followed the case closely, would later say he believed that injuries to the pancreas, which Mann had failed to recognize, were ultimately to blame.11 Had the doctors discovered that, they might have been able to prevent the onset of toxemia by placing drains in the abdomen.12 But there were other questions: Should the surgeons have carried out a more determined hunt for the bullet? What harm may it have caused resting in McKinley’s back? Had his physicians done something during the operation to contribute to the onset of gangrene? And shouldn’t they have known better than to issue such positive statements about the president’s condition in the days after the attack?13
Drs. Mynter and Mann, both of whom would be called to testify, dismissed such questions as pointless. Dr. Mynter said there were a number of possible reasons for the onset of gangrene, but that none could have been prevented during the surgery. The president’s condition, he said, was so delicate that they had been forced to conclude the operation as quickly as possible. That meant there was no time to look for the bullet or to hunt extensively behind the stomach for other damaged tissue. Finding the bullet, he said, would have entailed significantly enlarging the incision and removing all of the president’s intestines, a process that would have killed him on the operating table. Mann said the autopsy proved they could not possibly have found it. The coroner, he pointed out, had labored over the president’s body for four hours and never did find the bullet.
The most obvious means of sparing Czolgosz, the one everyone expected his defense to channel their energies into, was to establish that he was insane. It was clear from the very beginning, however, that that strategy was going to be a nonstarter.14 Except for one brief episode of denial, Czolgosz had always been lucid, conversant, and more than willing to take responsibility for the murder. The only odd behavior they could name was his extreme fastidiousness about his clothing, which hardly qualified him as mentally deficient. Numerous experts paid visits to his cell almost from the day of his arrest to carry out tests and to study the assassin at close range, but found nothing that suggested he was mad. Probably the most noteworthy study was conducted just before the trial started.
Czolgosz was examined by Dr. Carlos F. MacDonald, a professor of mental diseases and medicinal jurisprudence at the University-Bellevue Medical College, and Dr. Arthur W. Hurd, both leading psychologists of the day. But Czolgosz refused to cooperate. Rather than answer their questions, he walked to the corner of his cell, turned his back on the pair, and gazed out the small window into the prison courtyard. When they refused to leave, he returned to his bed, lay down, and closed his eyes. During the entire interrogation, Czolgosz did not utter a single word. Having done all they could, the two doctors immediately conferred with others who had examined Czolgosz and pronounced him sane.15
With the only real means of defending Czolgosz eliminated, Lewis gave up on calling any witnesses. His twenty-seven-minute closing summation was the total of Czolgosz’s “defense.” In it, he praised the president as “one of the noblest men that God ever made … a man of irreproachable character … a loving husband, a grand man in every aspect that you could conceive of … and his death has been the saddest blow to me that has occurred in many years.” He explained that he could not call any witness because Czolgosz had refused to cooperate with him. All he could do was feebly warn the jury against mob justice. All in all, it was a statement aimed more at defending his place in the community than an effort to spare his client the electric chair. As the judge discharged the jury and read them their instructions, Czolgosz, sweating, slunk down in his seat.
The jury would spend only thirty-three minutes in their quarters before returning with the verdict. And it didn’t even take them that long to make up their minds. At least part of the discussion was on whether to kill some time before returning to court so that it would look like they had taken their job seriously.16 At four twenty-four, the jury filed back in. Clerk Martin Fisher spoke first: “Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?”
“We have,” replied foreman Henry Wendt.
“How do you find?”
“We find the prisoner guilty of murder in the first degree as charged in the indictment.”17 Sentencing was set for 2 P.M. on Thursday, September 26, 1901.
Shortly before eleven o’clock the next morning, Czolgosz was removed from his cell in “the dungeon” and escorted to a more hospitable room. Visitors were coming. It had been an uncharacteristically hard night, and the arrival of relatives was a welcome respite. He smiled when he saw who it was. Victoria, his baby sister, was the first to approach. “Leon,” she sobbed as she buried her head in his shoulder. “Leon, what have you done? What have you done? Why did you do it Leon? Oh, God. Why did you do it?”
His lip quivering, he pushed her gently aside. “There is father. I must speak to him.”
Paul took his son’s hand but said nothing when Czolgosz addressed him in Polish. His brother Waldek spoke up. “I am sorry you have come to this, Leon.”
Waldek then made a vain attempt to convince Czolgosz to provide the names of accomplices. Twisting the button on his coat and hanging his head, Czolgosz again insisted he had acted alone. Victoria sobbed so uncontrollably that Czolgosz asked her to stop. When it was time for them to go, Czolgosz held the hands of his father and brother as long as he could. Victoria kissed him good-bye.18
If Czolgosz ever intended to unleash a tongue-lashing on society and tout anarchism, it would have been at his sentencing. But now, with the spotlight on, the stage his alone, Czolgosz shrunk. It took the urging of the judge and the prosecutor to get him to say anything, and even those remarks were little more than clipped accounts of his life. There was no diatribe against government, the president, or the plight of the workingman—only a restatement that he had committed the act alone. As he clutched the back of a chair, Czolgosz whispered, “There was no one else but me. No one else told me to do it, and no one paid me to do it.” So quietly did Czolgosz speak that Titus felt compelled to repeat his comments more loudly. Czolgosz went on: “I was not told anything about the crime and I never thought anything about murder until a couple of days before I committed the crime.”19
“Anything further, Czolgosz?” White asked.
“No, sir,” mumbled Czolgosz.
Judge White then read the judgment. “The sentence of the court is that in the week beginning October 28, 1901, at the place, manner, and by means prescribed by law, you suffer the punishment of death. Remove the prisoner.” Detective Geary helped the weakening Czolgosz sit down and placed handcuffs around his wrists. Titus turned to his client. “Czolgosz, good-bye,” he said, and the two shook hands. Solomon and Geary led Czolgosz back to his cell and watched as he took off his coat, sat down, and buried his head in his hands.20
At slightly after 3 A.M. on September 26, 1901, a train carrying Czolgosz, guards, and a collection of newspaper reporters screeched to a stop at the Auburn Prison, home to New York’s electric chair—“the journey to the tombs” as one newspaper reporter called it. Rolling through the chill night, Czolgosz observed the crowds that had gathered at points along the tracks to shout insults. Those who had spent time with the prisoner noticed that he was now, however, as relaxed and comfortable as he had been at any time since his arrest, gorging himself on a large dinner before he left Buffalo, and then snacking continuously on sandwiches, pickles, and cheese.
He was also in a mood to open up to the newsmen traveling with him. As the train rattled and pitched through the night, Czolgosz expressed contrition for the first time. His exact words vary according to the report, but by one account he said, “It is awful to feel you killed somebody. I wish I had not done it. I would like to live, but I can’t now. I made my mistake. I was all stirred up and felt I had to kill him.” He went on to say he felt sorry for Ida and hoped she wouldn’t die. And as a simple son of an immigrant, he had had no idea what the trial would be like. “It was all surprising to me,” he said. “It was more than I expected. I thought I would be sentenced right off. What I heard there was more than I had heard before. I hated to hear about the wound and all that.”21
Czolgosz’s relaxed disposition swung violently when the train arrived at Auburn Prison. Built in 1817, the oldest prison in the state was located smack in the middle of town, and as luck would have it, right across the street from the train station. Several hundred people were there waiting for him, all apparently anxious to cheat the electric chair of its victim. Chanting and cursing, the mob was determined to grab Czolgosz before the police could get him within the safety of the prison.
Surrounded by a phalanx of guards, Czolgosz was pushed, pulled, and dragged the fifty yards that separated the railway platform and the front gates of the prison. Ordering Czolgosz to remain close to him, his police escort absorbed repeated blows that were meant for the convict. Another guard tried unsuccessfully to restrain the crowd by brandishing his pistol. The mob was so rough that at one point it knocked Czolgosz to his knees. Picking up their charge “like a bag of salt,” the guards carried him to the gates of the prison, where the crowd very nearly got its prey. One blow fell heavy on Czolgosz’s neck. Someone managed to grab his shoulder. When the group finally reached the penitentiary gates, guard John Martin, a giant of a man, grabbed him and “with a mighty heave tossed him through.”22
The experience terrified Czolgosz and reduced him to a stammering, helpless wreck. Martin had to pull him down the prison hall on his stomach and knees toward death row in the south wing, Czolgosz screaming, frothing at the mouth, and hysterically shouting “Save me! Save me,” his voice echoing down the cell block and waking other prisoners. As one police officer put it, Czolgosz “shook and shivered and trembled and went all to pieces.”23
The time Czolgosz would spend at Auburn was a torturous countdown for the emotionally empty prisoner. Where his guards at Buffalo had at least been able to respect him at some level for his cool head, here he was a universal object of derision. All were forbidden to speak with the prisoner, and extra guards were placed in his cell block because it was feared other inmates might try to escape just to murder him. Finding one guard who would talk, Czolgosz asked, “How does it feel?”
“How does what feel?” the guard asked.
“That in there,” Czolgosz answered, jerking his thumb in the direction of the death chamber.
“Oh, you’ll know,” the guard replied.24
Other death row inmates enjoyed needling him. Clarence Egnor, who had killed a guard at the prison the year before and occupied the next cell, got a photo of McKinley, which he decorated in black crepe paper, hoping that Czolgosz would see it on his way to the chair.25 Another prisoner, Fred Krist, taunted Czolgosz, “You will go through there and you’ll never come back.… If you listen, you’ll hear us cheer as you go.”26
The repeated attempts of priests to console him offered Czolgosz no comfort. Asked if he wanted to see one, Czolgosz replied, “No, damn them. I don’t want them and don’t have them praying over me when I’m dead. I don’t want any of their damned religion.” Even when he did later relent, Czolgosz was unmoved. A Polish priest, the Reverend T. Szandinski, urged Czolgosz to give up anarchy and return to the church. Czolgosz refused.27 Another priest, the Reverend Hyacinth Fudzinski, met with Czolgosz the night before the execution but was unable to connect with him and left frustrated. “It seems hopeless,” he said. “I have tried in vain to bring Czolgosz to God.… He is the most heartless man I have ever saw. He has not the grace to love God. I think he is so without conscience that he will actually sleep tonight.”28
In these final days of Czolgosz’s life, Americans were gripped by a strange, pitiless fascination with what was about to take place. By the day of the execution, Auburn had received more than 1,200 requests to witness the event, even though there was room for only 26. Strangers submitted requests for Czolgosz’s autograph, medical researchers had asked for portions of his brain. One museum curator offered $5,000 for either Czolgosz’s body or his clothes. A kinetoscope owner offered $2,000 for permission to film him entering the death chamber. All were denied.29
Czolgosz was sleeping soundly at 5:30 A.M. on October 29, 1901, when Warden Mead unlocked his cell, stepped in, removed a piece of paper from his pocket, and began reading. It was the death warrant, the first step in a well-defined process that the state had prescribed for killing a man. Moments later a guard appeared with a stack of clothes—a pair of dark trousers with a slit in the left side for an electrode, a dark gray shirt, and a new pair of shoes. Czolgosz quietly got dressed. Though the journey to the execution room was only a few short steps, Czolgosz’s knees had turned to rubber and were hardly strong enough to support his weight. Warden Mead would later say the guards “had virtually to carry him to the chair, he so nearly collapsed.”30
The execution chair itself was made from simple rough wood and stood upon a rubber mat. Leather straps with heavy buckles had been prepared to bind the wrists and ankles. A headpiece, hanging from a wire about the width of a pencil, dangled from the ceiling. Czolgosz’s lips quivered as uniformed guards fixed the straps around his body and placed a leather mask—with holes cut for the mouth and nose—across his face. He appeared to be searching the room for someone. As the guards finished their work, Czolgosz cried out: “I killed the President for the good of the laboring people, the good people. I am not sorry for my crime but I am sorry I can’t see my father.”31
Accounts of his final moments are remarkably varied. Some witnesses said he went to his death screaming, others that he was stoic. When Warden Mead gave the order to send 1,700 volts through his body, one witness said Czolgosz ground his teeth and cursed under his breath. The New York Times reported, “The rush of the immense current threw the body so hard against the straps that they creaked perceptibly. The hands clinched suddenly, and the whole attitude was one of extreme tension. For forty-five seconds, the full current was kept on, and then slowly, the electrician threw the switch back, reducing the current, volt by volt until it was cut off entirely.”32 Silently, the witnesses filed out of the observation room and into the morning.