Townsend Harris High School - Crimson Gold Yearbook (Flushing, NY)

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THE PEOPLE vs. MASTERS By illortimer Podell It was a murder case. Peter Masters, a Negro, was accused of first degree murder. The People charged that he had put a knife in John M'Cutcheon,s back. In 1936 the newspapers gave tl1e trial much publicity, for it resembled the recent Scottsboro case in that a Negro was involved. On January 2, 1936, the selection of a jury was completed. When the trial com- menced in earnest on the 3rd, the twelve jury seats were occupied by the following men: William Thompson, Hyman Krinsky, Ali Gatore, John Norton, Pasquale Romano, Jack Jensen, Mrs. Ada Simmons, Max Schlagel, Charles Hammond, Marty Brown, Leo Michailoif, Mallory Maltbie. The twelve jurors sat down as one man. They had an expectant, rather tense air. Movie murder trials had been seen by sev- eral and they were waiting for the usual melo- dramatic climaxes and smashing speeches. The D. A., Mr. Armour, a man easily identi- fied by his remarkable height and gawkiness, began his preliminary address in a low- pitched voice. '4Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the case . . . ' The courtroom throng tit- tesedg there was just one lady in the jury- very funny. Imperviously the attorney's voice droned on, sketching incidents, citing facts. The first witness was called to the stand, silence in the room, the examination was under way. Thompson, the grocer, was a rather small man with a big lantern jaw that rendered his appearance paradoxical. He thought, '6May- be the trial will be over soon. I hope so. It's too bad I didn't get out of jury duty. Cathy's sick. I should be at home . . . I wonder how she is . . . Suddenly Armour's voice broke in-'4Wil1 you tell the jury what happened then? Speak clearly. And the witness eag- erly answered, uHe said he would tell that nigger a thing or two! Marty Brown winced. The remark was like a slap in the face. It was seldom while working on the lift in the Mahnin Building that he heard that branding epithet uniggerf, Now he would probably get it during the whole trial. His thick lips parted. Well, he should worry. Sure he was black. But he had his job, he wasn't down South. Unsympathetically, Brown glanced at Masters. A no-account coon, he thought. page sixty-one

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Mr. C.: By all means! Mrs. F.: flocking from one to the otherl: Do you really think so? Det. S. and Mr. C.: Oh, yes, indeed! Mrs. F .: Then be seated gentlemen, and let us wait. fThey all sit downJ Curtain Scene II Same room as Scene I. Mr. Crabstone and Mrs. Frandpoodle are slumped in their chairs with their eyes closed. Occasionally, Mr. Crabstone lets out a sonorous snore. Detec- tive Solomon has his eyes barely open. He seems to be enchanted by the sight of the French door. Presently, he opens his eyes wider, looks at his watch, and calls out: Wake up, it's almost three. Mr. Crabstone and Mrs. Frandpoodle give a start and open their eyes. Mr. C.: Wattzamatter? Det. S.: It's almost three. KA pause., Mr. C.: Better turn off the lamp, otherwise the light will be seen. fHe yawns.j Mrs. F. fnervouslyj: Is that necessary? Det. S. and Mr. C.: Why, of course! Det. S.: And let us hide in various parts of the room. You, Crabstone, by the fireplace: Mrs. Frandpoodle, behind the table: I'll go by the staircase. QHe gets up, turns off the lifrht, and moves off toward the staircase. The room is in darkness except for the light shining through the French door. Only the respiratory sounds of the three people can be heard-all else is quiet. Suddenly a shadow appears behind the French door, and a key is heard rattling in the lock. The door opens and a man enters. Outlined against the light, his high hat and well-groomed pants are clearly visible. At first sight he appears to have a gem in his hand, but one soon per- ceives that it's a whiskey bottle. In his other hand he has a pair of shoes, accounting for the absence of them on his feet. Mrs. Frand- poodle breaks the deathly stillness with an awful cry. The man drops the shoes and the bottle and throws up his hands. At the same moment Mr. Crabstone and Detective Solo- mon jump on him. After a short struggle they pin him to the ground. Mrs. Fraud- poodle approaches the three figures on the floor cautiously. Detective Solomon draws out a pocket-lamp from his pocket, and shines it into the intruder's face. Det. S.: Mrs. Frandpoodle, do you know this man? Mrs. F.: Oh, my heavens, yes . . . it's my husband! Curtain page sixty

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2 ff: S'5 at 'Z 4 .fm wang' ' ,925 fl!! re 47 .Y si 7 A! Xen 'F A il.. f Ulf 5' Brown's skin was two shades lighter than his accused compatriot's, and his nose was straighter. The clothier, Krinsky, was a thick, heavy set man, with a nondescript moustache and friendly, inquiring eyes. He was following the proceedings with evident interest. He worked his ugly, intelligent face convulsively and ruminated, Business is slow. A little rest will do me good. It makes nice pocket money-the pay I get. He saw Master's stupid, frightened face and remarked half aloud, '4Ah, the poor colored man Next wit- ness! cried the court clerk, Krinsky shifted his bulk, he resumed his interest in the trial. A girl, pretty, in a cheap, 6'imitation way, hair carefully shingled, shoes with ridiculous spike heels, ascended the stand, she deftly ar- ranged her skirt so that the sheer, transparent hose might not be too concealing. A good eye- ful for those simps on the jury, she thought. It would help to keep the home fires burning -and burn that lousy chocolate bar. She crossed her legs . . . the electrician, Schlagel, sat next to Krinsky. Schlagel was narrow to the core. His old-fashioned spectacles, his thin, bloodless lips, his sharp-nosed face, all these showed what the man was. When Hyman Krinsky muttered aloud, Schlagel shot a look loaded with venom and hate at him. Working at electrical repairs, day in and day out, Schlagel had time to think. He had drawn up an iron-bound indictment against all men whom he did not like, that is, men with noses like Krinsky's and skin like Master's. Chinks and .laps filled out his cate- gory of the damned. His sentiments were astonishingly sincere. He thought, 6'Dirty--l He smells like a sweat-shopla' To Schlagel the testimony was irrelevant. What need had prejudice of evidence? Masters, in Schlagel's mind, was already a dead man. '6That plump little steno has nice lipsf' whispered Charley Hammond, the demon salesman, to himself- and legs. Lookit those lips, willya? Like little red trap-doors opening and closing. His watery blue eyes were animated. He pulled at his weak chin. He considered dating her. But the darned trial cramped his style. Still, he was enjoying himself, it was like a free movie, he just sat, and he was being paid for it, too. But that 'rl . . . gl Mrs. Ada Simmons, fat and 60, a depart- ment store supervisor, curved her lips and looked at the petite witness contemptuously. She heaved her ample bosom scornfully. 6'Nasty little snip. Met too many like her. page sixty-two