Fiend (29 page)

Since it was already 2:00
P.M.
by this point, the the judge called a one-hour recess. When the trial resumed at 3:00, Train proceeded with his summation.

He commenced by rebutting one of Robinson’s key points—that the “motivelessness” of the Millen killing was proof of Jesse’s insanity. “On the contrary,” said Train, “an insane man nearly always gives a reason for his crimes.” Citing several well-known homicides committed by certified madmen, Train pointed out that, in each case, the perpetrator had taken great pains to justify his deeds—usually by insisting that he was acting under orders from God. If Jesse were truly insane, then he, too, “would have assigned an insane reason for his acts.” Thus, argued Train, the boy’s “inability to provide a motive could not be construed into an element of insanity.”

It was now Train’s turn to wring tears from his listeners. Presumably by way of stressing the cold-blooded nature of the Millen slaying, Train proceeded to “draw a graphic picture of the struggles of the little innocent while the fiend was mangling his body and slashing him with a knife in the most demoniac fashion” (as the
Boston Globe
reported). This “all too vivid picture affected every person in court and brought tears and sobs from the ladies.”

In reality, there were at least two people in attendance who were conspicuously
un
affected by this part of Train’s performance—Ruth Pomeroy (who had wept during Charles Robinson’s climactic plea but now sat in stony-faced silence) and Jesse himself, who, as he had throughout most of the proceedings, appeared vaguely bored.

Train continued by arguing that the entire insanity plea was a last, desperate recourse on the part of Jesse’s counsel. It was not until Mr. Robinson had failed to come up with any other feasible line of defense—four full months after starting work on the case—that he called in Drs. Walker and Tyler. Those two “learned gentlemen,” Train asserted, “knew perfectly well” that the defense was relying on them to arrive at a diagnosis of insanity.

“The difference between the testimony of the experts,” said Train, “was that Dr. Tyler and Dr. Walker took a series of sane acts and constructed therefrom a proof of insanity; whereas Dr. Choate concluded from the same materials that, at the time of the commission of the homicide, its perpetrator was in the enjoyment of all the faculties of his mind, and in a healthy and sound condition.” Indeed, Train pointed out, even Drs. Tyler and Walker had been forced to admit under cross-examination that Jesse’s behavior during his crimes was, by and large, “consistent with a sane mind.”

Train concluded his summation by calling on the jury to render a verdict based strictly on the evidence presented at the trial. Clearly, the attorney general did not wish the jury to be swayed by any qualms about sending a fourteen-year-old boy to the gallows. The age of the defendant, he argued, “was of no account in the case; and his punishment should not form any consideration in making up a verdict.” It was solely “to the interest of the community” and “to the vindication of law and order” that the jurors “should turn their minds.” They must return a verdict of guilty “in order to restrain thousands of men from acts similar to those for which the defendant is being tried. It was for the fathers and mothers who had sons who might be abused as the prisoner’s victims had been that the jury should do its manful duty.”

It was nearly 5:30
P.M.
when the attorney general reseated himself at the prosecutor’s table. Turning to the prisoner, Chief Justice Gray informed Jesse that he now had the right to address the jury on his own behalf, if he so desired.

“I have nothing to say,” Jesse answered with a little shrug.

Judge Gray then proceeded to deliver his charge to the jury. Though the trial had, in fact, been conducted with remarkable dispatch—proceeding from opening statements to closing arguments in just two days—the judge began by complimenting the jurors on their patience and promising not to detain them with “any lengthy review of the testimony.”

It was not the jury’s business to question the wisdom of the law, he explained, but rather to ascertain whether the accused person had violated it. In the present case, “the first question to be asked was, did the defendant kill the boy? And the answer, he averred, was self-evident, since “the testimony of the various witnesses, as well as the confession of the accused, left no doubt on that point.”

The next question to be decided was, “what degree of murder it was.” The law, he explained, stipulated that anyone fourteen years or older was responsible for his acts, so long as he was “of ordinary capacities and sound mind.” Thus, if the defendant was sane at the time of the slaying, the verdict must be murder in the first degree. But if there was a doubt as to his sanity—if he was acting under an irresistible impulse—the prisoner should be found not guilty by reason of insanity.

In a brief review of the psychiatric arguments, Judge Gray reminded the jurors that “counsel for the defense had claimed that their client knew that his acts were wrong, but that he was neverthless drawn on by an irresistible impulse and was actually forced into their commission. Dr. Tyler and Dr. Walker testified that the boy was insane; while Dr. Choate was of the opinion that he was possessed of all his mental faculties and in a sound condition.” Ultimately it was for the jury to decide “how far the expert testimony should go in deciding on the question of the defendant’s sanity.”

Altogether, the judge’s remarks lasted less than a half hour. At a few minutes before 6:00
P.M.
—after committing the case to the jury—Chief Justice Gray and his associate, Judge Morton, rose from the bench and retired to their chambers without adjourning the court.

Though a number of spectators took their leave at that point, most remained in their seats, keeping up—as the
Herald
’s reporter noted—“a steady buzz of conversation.” For the most part, the crowd remained “very decorous and orderly, as they
had been all through the trial.” Even so, there was a good deal of heated—and occasionally contentious—debate about “which verdict the jury would bring in.” Taking an informal poll as he moved around the room, the reporter discovered a notable lack of consensus among the spectators—“opinions being almost equally divided between verdicts of guilty in the first degree and not guilty by reason of insanity.”

*  *  *

The split opinion of the spectators at the 1874 trial of Jesse Harding Pomeroy reflected the extreme difficulty of fathoming the bizarre mentality of sociopathic murderers—the kind of “human monsters” we now call serial killers. What makes the psychology of these beings so hard to understand is precisely their bewildering combination of rationality and madness—their terrifyingly cool and cunning ability to plan, execute, and cover up the most hideous crimes imaginable.

Indeed, one of the most astute discussions of this phenomenon was composed not many years after the Pomeroy trial by the great American novelist, Herman Melville. In his last, posthumously published masterpiece,
Billy Budd,
Melville creates a portrait of sheer, personified evil in the figure of John Claggart, the malevolent master-at-arms who sets about, with fiendish calculation, to utterly destroy the naive title character. Seeking to comprehend the viciously depraved nature of creatures like Claggart, Melville offers an analysis that stands, even today, as one of the best definitions of the sociopathic mind ever written:

But the thing which in eminent instances signalizes so exceptional a nature is this: Though the man’s even temper and discreet bearing would seem to indicate a mind peculiarly subject to the law of reason, not less in heart would he seem to riot in complete exemption from that law, having apparently little to do with reason further than to employ it as an ambidexter implement for effecting the irrational. That is to say: Toward the accomplishment of an aim which in wantonness of atrocity would seem to partake of the insane, he will direct a cool judgment sagacious and sound. These men are madmen, and the most dangerous sort, for their lunacy is not continuous, but occasional, evoked by some special object; it is protectively secret, which is as much to say it is self-contained, so that when,
moreover, most active it is to the average mind not distinguishable from sanity, and for the reason above suggested: that whatever its aims may be . . . the method and the outward proceeding are always perfectly rational.

Though the term “serial murder” is of relatively recent origin (dating back only to the early 1970s, when it was coined by FBI Special Agent Robert Ressler), Melville’s description, written more than a hundred years ago, makes it clear that psychopathic criminals have always existed. And it also explains why the ordinary person finds it so hard to judge the mental state of such beings. Though a killer like Jeffrey Dahmer might engage in acts whose “wantonness of atrocity,” as Melville puts it, “partakes of the insane”—mutilation-murder, cannibalism, necrophilia, sexual torture, etc.—he will generally operate with a high degree of rationality and shrewdness: “a cool judgment, sagacious and sound.” Moreover, as Melville perceives, such killers, for the most part, present a perfectly normal facade to the world, their “lunacy” remaining dormant until triggered “by some special object.”

Clearly, judging the mental soundness of a person whose intelligence and reason are employed in the service of insanely violent drives is no easy task. So it is not at all surprising that, when the reporter for the
Boston Herald
polled the crowd at the Pomeroy trial, he found a good deal of disagreement over the question of Jesse’s responsibility. And though the jury itself would quickly arrive at a unanimous decision, a certain measure of ambivalence would be apparent in their verdict as well.

*  *  *

Shortly before 8:30
P.M.,
Chief Justice Gray and Associate Justice Morton reentered the courtroom, having been informed that the jurors required clarification on two key points. A minute later, the jury emerged from the deliberation room and put two questions to the judges. First: “If the prisoner took the Millen boy down to the marsh with the intention of inflicting torture on him, such as he’d inflicted on the other boys, and after getting him there, he concluded at the last moment to kill him, would such an act be premeditated aforethought?” Their second question was: “Does a homicide committed under circumstances of extreme atrocity, unaccompanied by premeditation, constitute murder in the first degree?”

After a brief, whispered consultation with his associate, Judge Gray explained to the jurors that “it did not require any specified time to constitute premeditation. If the resoluton to kill was clearly and definitively formed at
any
moment before the act was committed, it would be malice aforethought.”

As for the second issue, the judge replied that, according to statute, “a homicide committed under circumstances of extreme atrocity
or
with premeditated malice aforethought constituted murder in the first degree.
Either
of these elements, therefore, was sufficient.”

Having obtained these answers, the jury then retired again to resume its deliberations.

Shortly before 10:00
P.M.
, there was sudden stir in the courtroom. The clerk, the sheriffs, and other officials began to move about, as though making ready for the entrance of the judges and jury. Excited whispers ran through the crowd: A verdict had been reached—guilty of murder in the first degree!

A few minutes later, Jesse was led back into the courtroom and seated himself in the dock. Every eye studied the prisoner’s face for signs of his feelings at this excruciatingly tense and decisive moment. But though his very life hung in the balance, Jesse seemed as unnaturally indifferent as ever.

At precisely 10:10
P.M.
—after less than five hours of deliberation—the jury filed back into the courtroom and took their places. The clerk then rose and, following the ritual formula, asked: “Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?”

“We have,” came the reply.

“Who shall speak for you?”

“Our foreman.”

“Well then, Mr. Foreman,” the clerk continued, addressing Henry Linell, “is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty of murder in the first degree,” Linell replied with all the solemnity befitting the occasion.

Though rumor had already foretold this decision, Linell’s words brought a gasp from the crowd. Jesse’s mother buried her face in her hands and broke into wracking sobs. Jesse alone seemed utterly unaffected by the awful pronouncement, appearing so “careless and indifferent” that, according to one observer, “it was difficult to decide whether he really understood what the verdict was. He made not the slightest motion, showing either
absolute stupidity or a hardness and stubbornness that was aggravating to witness.”

Immediately after the verdict, Linnell handed a note to the clerk, who passed it along to Judge Gray. After scanning the paper, the judge announced that it was a recommendation from the jury. Though the verdict carried a mandatory death sentence, the twelve men urged that—because of his extreme youth—Jesse’s punishment be commuted to imprisonment for life. Promising to transmit the recommendation to the governor, the judge adjourned the court after praising the jurors for their efforts.

The jury’s divided feelings—between their outrage over Jesse’s crimes and their reluctance to execute a fourteen-year-old boy (which Pomeroy himself had predicted)—foreshadowed the bitter controversy that would embroil the public for months to come. The trial was over and the verdict rendered. But in a very real sense, the battle over Jesse Pomeroy’s fate had only just begun.

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