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

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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

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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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Type that attracts men. I know. Like that boob over there, she thought, while gazing at Hammond. Mrs. Simmons' glasses gleamed unequivocally, as far as she was concerned the witness' testimony was false. A point in the defendanfs favor . . . 66It's a shame that Thompson had to be here, and with a sick wife at home, thought Jensen, the enlightened day-laborer. He looked sympathetically at his friend WiHiam. Too bad? ulntelligent jurymen here. Good citizens . . . said the defense lawyer. Jensen thought that maybe the Negro wasn't so bad after all. Sure a lesson would do Thompson good, anyhow. Cathy had been Jensen's girl before Thompson got her. It still hurt. He settled down in his seat and picked at the callouses on his thumb. Michailoff, professor of sociology, of medium size, but distinguished looking, a man of obvious intellect, and Mallory Malt- bie, embryo actor, composed a study in con- trasts. The professor appeared entirely and deliberately oblivious of his associates, they were just so much dirt. He followed the pro- ceedings with sleepy, half-closed eyes. Now and then his peculiar blond eyelashes flut- tered nervously like butterflies in distress. But Michailoifis brain, an intellectual ma- chine, worked almost involuntarily. '4And suppose the Negro did kill a white man. The fellow probably deserved it anyhow. The worm must turn sometime. He pulled down the corners of his lips. Ah, what fools they all are. Wasting time. Especially the judge. Michailoff knew the price paid for the judge- ship . . . His countenance, slightly animated during his soliloquy, resumed its former languorous, somnolent expression. But Mallory Maltbie wouldn't be caught napping. Not he! His distinguishing char- acteristics were a pale, ragged, defeated-look- ing moustache, and a pair of immense silver rimmed glasses, which he nervously put on and took off . Somehow, though, Maltbie was attractive, he looked so earnest, pathetically earnest, so eager to learn, so gentle, that he possessed a kind of charm, there was nothing irritating in his disposition. He was a would- be actor. That's whv he sported the terrific name, Mallory Maltbie. He used his position on the jury to good purpose-so he thought. He was gathering dramatic material, watch- ing the faces and movements of the two lawyers, studying the reactions of his asso- ciates, memorizing the ponderouslv iudicial tone of the judge. He thought, '4Maybe I can portray some of these actions in my next role. page sixty-three WZ S ' i x E I 4-sf X f Z e 1 ' . K N tl r I lx lx ez QW 'T ' E g' s ,4 f , ' ie-XE ' e. -Y 5 C5