The Rose Man of Sing Sing: A True Tale of Life, Murder, and Redemption in the Age of Yellow Journalism

6. Death Watch

6 Death Watch Even if Chicagoans had wanted to put the events of May  to rest, the Tribune certainly would not, at least not until its version of justice was meted out. Since the morning following the explosion at Haymarket Square, the Tribune had clamored for the arrest of the accused anarchists; once they were captured, the paper campaigned for their death. As execution day neared, Chapin was assigned to cover the hanging. ‘‘It was a nerve-straining task,’’ said Chapin, ‘‘for I had known all of them for years and had frequently reported their meetings, long before anyone suspected they were anything more than harmless cranks.’’ On Wednesday, November , , he took his place among the reporters at the Cook County jail, a low brick building attached to the back of the county’s ornate court house. The fourth estate was there in full force. Not only had Chicago’s newspapers sent their best reporters, but also milling around were dozens of correspondents from faraway city papers, including the New York Evening World, launched by Joseph Pulitzer less than a month before to keep up with Randolph Hearst’s entry into the wildly competitive Park Row. The reporters all knew the executions they would witness Friday would make the front page of their newspaper and other newspapers around the globe. The planned executions had become a rallying point for industrial workers the world over. Justice, in this case, was a two-sided coin. For business interests, the executions would preserve the rule of law. For workers, the executions would preserve the rule of capital. The fury around the hangings made it the most  The Rose Man of Sing Sing anticipated story of the year. But before the day arrived, one of the imprisoned anarchists detonated another front-page story.1 Louis Lingg was among the seven condemned to die by hanging on Friday and being kept in adjacent cells at the bottom of a four-tiered cellblock. In front of the cells were a caged visitor’s room, which was filled during the day, and a smaller caged room where a guard kept a death watch. The evening Chapin joined the watch was uneventful and quiet. About the only thing he noticed was that the prisoners all smoked incessantly and that one of them in particular, Lingg, seemed unfazed by his approaching death. He ate a hearty meal of sirloin steak and two plates of chicken salad brought from Martell’s restaurant. Lingg had remained the most defiant of the group throughout the trial and imprisonment. A twenty-one-year-old carpenter from Germany, he had told the judge at his sentencing that his death would not end the bomb throwing. ‘‘When you shall have hanged us, then— mark my words—they will do the bomb throwing! In this hope I say to you: I despise you. I despise your order, your laws, your force-propped authority. Hang me for it!’’ Only the week before, Lingg mailed the governor a letter refusing any kind of pardon that might be offered, demanding instead that he either be given his unconditional liberty or put to death.2 The waiter who brought his meal to the jail asked Lingg what he should bring for breakfast. ‘‘Nothing,’’ he replied. ‘‘What? Don’t you want anything?’’ said the waiter in surprise. ‘‘No; yes, bring me some milk toast.’’3 But before the milk toast arrived the next morning, Lingg made a final defiant act. At : .., a detonation reverberated throughout the jail. It ‘‘snapped the terrible tension on the nerves of officials,’’ wrote Chapin on the front page of the next day’s Tribune, ‘‘and for a second all hearts stood still. Deputy O’Neill, who was in front of Lingg’s cell, saw a puff of blue smoke roll from it and his call of ‘It’s Lingg’ broke the silence and the men in the office rushed into the cage.’’ As usual, Chapin’s technique was a theatrical retelling of the events rather than a straightforward report on its conclusion. The reader would not learn of Lingg’s fate until deep into the story. After the explosion, the jailer and his clerk raced from their office. ‘‘As fast as keys could be procured and turned in the locks they made their way through the two doors into the cell of the arch-Anarchist,’’ wrote Chapin, who was...