The Cincinnati Red Stalkings (13 page)

M
y eyes focused in and out. sometimes taking in the cornfields of central Indiana, sometimes catching my reflection in the train window as we rattled northwest toward Chicago. It jarred me every time the image of my face flashed on the glass; I couldn’t believe how scared I looked.

Or how alone I felt. Contributing to my sense of isolation was the expanse of flat plains outside and the lack of company in the nearly empty railroad coach. So was the knowledge that, at this very moment, the rest of the Reds team was traveling in the opposite direction, on a Pullman to Philadelphia for the start of an Eastern road trip. They were going to be playing the Phillies in Baker Bowl while I was off to face Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis by myself.

I had no allies in this fight to clear my name. Before I left Cincinnati, I’d asked Garry Herrmann and Pat Moran for letters attesting to my honest efforts on the ballfield. Both gave me verbal encouragement but refused to put anything in writing—because it would look bad for them if it turned out I really was tied to gamblers.

I’d also called a longtime friend of mine, a former newspaper reporter named Karl Landfors. For almost a year, Karl had been in Boston trying to help a couple of Italian anarchists named Sacco and Vanzetti who were on trial for murder; he was convinced they were being railroaded because of their political views. Karl had helped me out of some tough jams in the past, and I thought he might have some ideas on how I could get out of my current predicament. The first thing he told me, though, was the news that the Italians had been found guilty. I tried to sound sympathetic about the verdict. I also said I wasn’t going to be able see him next week as we’d planned. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him
why
I wasn’t going to be in Boston with the team.

I did tell Margie, the one person to whom I could confide anything. Even talking to her about it, though, I felt ashamed. Merely being under suspicion was enough to have me totally demoralized.

In the past, I’d found sufficient strength in my own knowledge of whether I was right or wrong. Not this time. It didn’t matter what
I
knew, or even what the truth was. All that counted was what the new baseball commissioner would believe. And since taking office, he’d shown little inclination to be persuaded that ballplayers were innocent of any charge.

Landis placed the eight indicted White Sox—Joe Jackson, Chick Gandil, Swede Risburg, Lefty Williams, Ed Cicotte, Hap Felsh, Buck Weaver, and Fred McMullin—on the ineligible list in March. The move was widely heralded as being exactly the sort of decisive action baseball needed. I agreed with it myself; three of the players had already confessed, and there was enough evidence for a grand jury to indict the eight, so I figured it was reasonable that they shouldn’t be allowed to play until their case was decided in court.

But two weeks later, Landis banned Phillies’ first baseman Gene Paulette, and the reasoning was less understandable. Paulette had “associated” with gamblers when he played for St. Louis, but there was no evidence that he’d ever done anything crooked.

Gambling-related allegations weren’t the only thing that could land a player on the “permanently ineligible” list. Benny Kauff of the Giants, once hailed as “the Ty Cobb of the Federal League,” was put on the blacklist for reasons that had nothing to do with baseball. Kauff was co-owner of an automobile dealership and had been indicted on charges of receiving stolen cars. In May, he was acquitted in court—but Judge Landis declared that the acquittal was “a miscarriage of justice” and kicked the former batting champion out of baseball. This action started to trigger some rumblings that the commissioner was overstepping his authority.

Landis’s June victim was Ray Fisher, one of the Reds pitchers who’d helped lead them to the 1919 championship. Fisher had decided to spend this season coaching the University of Michigan baseball team instead of playing for the Reds. He’d done everything by the book, going so far as to obtain permission from Garry Herrmann and Pat Moran before talking with university officials about the job. Landis, without giving the pitcher a hearing or issuing an explanation, banned Fisher for “contract jumping.” Not even the judge’s staunchest supporters could defend this ruling.

By now, I didn’t know what to make of the commissioner, but his actions sure seemed to be getting more eccentric. And it was now July. Was I to be this month’s example of his absolute authority?

The train lurched and I saw my face in the window again. I wanted to calm the scared kid who was looking back at me, but didn’t know how.

Having lived in Chicago for three years, I was aware that the Federal Building in the Loop was considered to be one of the city’s architectural jewels. I’d always admired its majestic style, but it was its sheer size that struck me now. Eight floors of granite and marble covered the entire block bounded by Jackson, Adams, Clark, and Dearborn. Topping the massive structure was a dome one hundred feet across and three hundred feet high—larger even than the one that crowned the Capitol Building in Washington. Federal operations for the entire Midwest were carried out from this building, and it appeared that the U.S. government wanted to make its presence and authority known by the imposing size of the edifice that represented it. And it was in this building that Kenesaw Landis presided as a federal judge.

I went inside, passing through the octagonal rotunda decorated with mosaics and gilded bronze. Then to the sixth floor, where the U.S. District Court for Northern Illinois was in session. A secretary let me into Judge Landis’s chambers to wait for him. I was twenty minutes early for my ten o’clock Monday morning appointment.

Landis’s chambers were as different from Garry Herrmann’s office as the building was from Redland Field. Not a sausage or beer bucket was in sight. The modest-sized room was conservatively furnished, with dark wood paneling, thick rugs, and high-backed leather chairs. Law books lined the built-in bookshelves, an unflattering portrait of President Harding hung on the wall, and a large American flag was in the corner.

I was aware as I waited that most of the baseball world was focused on another court building, the Cook County Courthouse, four blocks to the north. On Friday, the final jurors for the Black Sox trial had been sworn in, and opening statements were scheduled to begin today. Landis wouldn’t be there, in part because of defense objections that his presence would have an undue influence on the proceedings, and because he had his own court to run. Although he’d been severely criticized for it, Landis had elected to retain his federal judgeship—and the $7,500 salary that came with it—when he became commissioner of baseball. The owners were already paying him an extraordinary $50,000 a year—the vice president of the United States earned only $12,000—but rumor had it that Landis was not one to forego a single nickel if he could help it.

Kenesaw Landis, wearing the black robe of his profession, stalked into the room at a quarter to eleven with no greeting and no apology for being late. I hopped to my feet. I knew people stood when a judge entered a courtroom, and I assumed the same custom would apply in chambers.

Although this meeting with me was to be in his capacity as baseball commissioner, he didn’t remove his judicial attire. Landis sat down behind his polished mahogany desk and waved me back into my chair. He looked the same in person as he did in the newspaper photos: slightly built, with a mane of white hair and a face that could chop wood. His expression was that of someone who’d been constipated since the McKinley administration.

The Judge startled me by suddenly twisting his features into a scowl that seemed to make one eye bulge larger than the other. “I see you’re wearing a wristwatch,” he snapped.

Was I late? I was sure the telegram had said ten o’clock. “Uh, yes sir, I am.”

“Were you in the
war,
son?”

Oh, that was it. Wristwatches had become popular during the Great War, when officers found them to be more convenient than the pocket variety. Some people felt that only veterans deserved to wear the new style, and apparently Judge Landis was one of them. “Yes, sir, I was, with the 131st Infantry.”

I thought that answer would be a point in my favor, but it only earned a “Hmph” in response. Was “sir” the right thing to call him? Judge? Your Honor? Commissioner? I wished Garry Herrmann or somebody had told me how to address him. I was pretty sure that the word the newspapers used for him—“czar”—was not the right one.

Landis took an accordion folder from his desk drawer and pulled out a wad of papers. The photographs Herrmann had shown me were on top of the stack. Tapping a finger on one of the pictures, the Judge said, “This is a most serious matter.”

“Yes, I understand that ... sir.” It seemed the safest choice.

He dug into the middle of the stack for some papers. “I have reports on this man.” His eyes began to scan one of the sheets. “Rufus Yates. Used to be a ballplayer. Now he’s a petty thief and general ne’er-do-well.” He turned his eye to me. “Yates is also one of Arnold Rothstein’s gambling contacts in Cincinnati. Tell me, how long have you known him?”

Was that supposed to be a trick question? “I don’t know him at all,” I said.

He pushed the photos at me. “You appear friendly.”

I looked at both of them, the shot of Yates and me shaking hands, and the one which showed him handing me an envelope. “I guess that’s the way it looks,” I admitted. I continued to study the photos, but they didn’t change. There I was with Rufus Yates, and the newsboy standing next to us holding up the
Times-Star.

“You don’t deny the authenticity of the photographs?”

“No, that looks the way I remember it.” I quickly gave Landis the same explanation I’d given Herrmann: the truth.

“You sound either well rehearsed or straightforward,” said the Judge.

“It’s the
truth,
” I said, thinking—hoping—that a firm tone of voice might help convince him.

“Very well.” He pulled a few more papers from the pile. “Let’s turn to
you.”
The eye bulge again. “After you met Mr. Yates, you went hitless in your next fourteen at bats. And you made three errors the very day he handed you that envelope.”

“That’s true. But ...” I hated resorting to this defense. “Judge—Your Honor—I’ve been playing in the big leagues for ten years. And I batted over .250 in only three of them. Sometimes I just go a while without a base hit. I’m usually put in the lineup for my glove.”

“The glove that made three errors?”

“One was a throwing error.”

Landis looked a bit taken aback. “Well, I have checked your record,” he said. “You’ve primarily been used in utility and you have a lifetime batting average of .247.”

“It’s .248,” I blurted. That’s it, Mickey, correct the commissioner. “As of my last game.”

His mouth twitched into a humorless smile. “I’m afraid I only have your record through the end of last year. I haven’t been following your slugging feats on a day-by-day basis.”

I adopted a properly chastened look.

The Judge went on, “The day you met Yates, it was common knowledge that you would be starting because of an injury to Kopf. You’d gone 6-for-9 in a doubleheader the day before. The Reds were playing Pittsburgh, and Pittsburgh and New York are the leading contenders for the pennant. This could have been an important enough game for gamblers to be interested in.” He hunched forward as if he was about to pounce on me from across his desk. “Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about the gamblers, but I
can
take action against any ballplayer who consorts with them.”

“Your Honor, it happened exactly like I said. I don’t know this fellow Yates. He came up and asked for an autograph; I signed that envelope and gave it back to him. Then I went inside the park and played as good as I could. I admit I stank up the place that day, but I
tried
—I wanted to win. You can ask Pat Moran—hell, ask any manager I ever played for, including John McGraw and Hughie Jennings—I
always
give it everything I got. I play to win.”

Landis eased back in his seat. “I intend to make those inquiries.” He tapped a finger on the desk. “According to the information I have so far, the only problems you’ve had in the past have been off the field. Last year, for example, you were accused of shooting a labor leader who was trying to unionize ballplayers.”

I started to protest that I hadn’t done it, when Landis muttered, “Point in your favor, as far as I’m concerned.” He stuffed the papers back in the folder. “I appreciate you coming in, Mr. Rawlings, but the fact remains that there are suspicious circumstances surrounding your play last week. I must consider the matter carefully, and at this point I feel further investigation is necessary.” He nodded toward the door, dismissing me.

I stood, unsure what I was supposed to do. “Should I stay here—in Chicago? How long until ... ?”