The Valentino Affair (27 page)

When Gorman cried foul, Uterhart argued that the boy should remain in “a woman’s care.”
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Also, if Blanca were acquitted with the boy in the custody of the de Saulles family, Uterhart feared that she might have trouble reclaiming her son. The presiding adjudicator, Surrogate Robert Fowler, reserved his decision.

Elsewhere on Long Island others had clearly followed the de Saulles case closely. When Robert Carbone of Cedar Manor filed for divorce from his wife, Constance, a professional singer, on the grounds of adultery, she applied in the Supreme Court in Manhattan for an order allowing her to see her two sons. Carbone said he had no objection to any visitation, but he was wary of ceding custody because he feared that she would remove them from the jurisdiction of the court. Also, he was scared. “She has threatened me, not once, but a dozen times,” declared the plaintiff, “that if I did not give up the children she would shoot me, as she had a precedent for such action in the recent De Saulles case.”
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Justice Samuel Greenbaum, not about to deny an enraged mother access to her children, ordered the quaking husband to let his wife see the boys.

On October 11, after much legal heel-dragging, the Nassau County grand jury finally began considering the case against Blanca de Saulles. The state’s star witness, according to Weeks, would be Julius Hadamek. This move surprised the defense. They felt that the valet’s assertion by phone that de Saulles wasn’t at The Box strongly supported their view that she had no intention of killing him. Weeks promised to quash that misapprehension. Among others called to testify were Caroline Degener, Marshall Ward, Suzanne Monteau, Constable Thorne, Dr. Warner, James Donner, Noe Tagliabue, and two gardeners who worked at Crossways.

Unlike a trial, evidence to a grand jury is given in camera, so there are no reports detailing what was said. All we know is that Weeks presented his case in a single day and the grand jury said it would announce its verdict later. As grand juries exist mainly to rubber-stamp a district attorney’s wishes, it came as no surprise when, on October 15, an indictment was handed down, charging Blanca with murder in the first degree. If convicted, she faced the electric chair.

Two days later Blanca left the jailhouse for the first time since the night of the shooting. At 2:00 p.m., flanked by Uterhart and Lewis J. Smith, she walked through a darkened tunnel that led from the jail to the courthouse and into the court of Justice Jaycox. Standing in the shadow of the towering Uterhart only emphasized Blanca’s childlike frailty. She was immaculately turned out in a frock of green and white checks, with a large black bow, all topped off by a matching black hat.

When the clerk of the court said, “Blanca De Saulles, you are indicted by the Grand Jury on the charge of murder in the first degree. How do you plead?”
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she looked utterly bewildered. Uterhart spoke for her. “We plead not guilty, your honor.”
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Blanca sank into her chair and, her hands clasped in her lap, remained mute and still. For the most part she kept her head downcast, but when she did lift her face it showed the benefits of the exercise that she had been taking recently. Her eyes had a sparkle previously lacking, and some color had returned to her cheeks. A trial date was set for the latter half of November. Not having uttered a word, Blanca and her phalanx of lawyers reentered the tunnel. As she exited the darkness a press cameraman set off a flashbulb, startling her. She stifled a scream and clutched hold of Uterhart’s arm. After steadying herself, she walked, unassisted, back to her room, where reportedly she collapsed on her cot.

Now it was a matter of waiting.

During this hiatus Uterhart held all the aces. A steady stream of press releases flowed from his office, all scripted to present Blanca in the most favorable, caring light. He let it be known that his client was raising a little flower garden on the sunny side of the jail, assisted by her constant companion, Mrs. Seaman, who was doing everything in her power to make Blanca’s time behind bars as comfortable as possible.

The Errázuriz-Vergara family also played its part. Every day her mother and sister brought huge bunches of flowers. Those that Blanca couldn’t fit into her room she distributed among the other inmates. Indeed, Blanca was turning into a regular Elizabeth Fry,
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judging from her concern for the welfare of her fellow prisoners. When a Polish woman, arrested for not sending her children to school and unable to afford the ten-dollar fine, was jailed for ten days, Blanca stepped into the breach and paid it for her. The grateful mother heaped “blessings on her benefactor,”
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and, praying for Blanca’s speedy release, left the jail as quickly as possible. Amy Felix, another inmate, also benefited from Blanca’s largesse. Life had been tough for this young woman, but she was fighting back. A junkie at the time of her arrest, Amy had kicked the habit during her six months behind bars. Blanca had taken her under her wing, and just before Amy’s walk to freedom she, too, received ten dollars and an assurance that if she fell on hard times she should get in touch. Uterhart’s strategy owed nothing to subtlety, but, judging by the glowing press coverage, it was working wonders.

After further wrangling, the announcement came that Blanca’s trial was provisionally scheduled for Monday, November 19. It all depended on the murder trial of Dominick Damasco, slated to begin the Monday previous, which could overrun a couple of days. Weeks said he was ready, no matter what, and he intended calling about fifteen witnesses. Uterhart, bursting with confidence, boasted that he could make do with half that number. One person unlikely to testify was Major de Saulles. Since the shooting his already frail health had taken a serious turn for the worse, raising concerns that he might not even attend the trial.

During the interim, Blanca’s legal team won a significant victory on November 8 when Surrogate Fowler handed down a decision refusing to appoint Charles de Saulles as Jack Jr.’s guardian. “I do not quite understand why the Supreme Court originally saw fit to deprive the mother, being the innocent party to the divorce action, of the sole custody of her infant, under fourteen, ordinarily granted to the innocent parties.” He added darkly, “No doubt there were good reasons.”
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Fowler held that the death of Jack de Saulles had nullified the divorce decree and that, in the normal course of events, he would grant the application of the uncle. But because accusations had been made that Charles de Saulles was “not a fit and proper person and that his ordinary residence has been the scene of debaucheries in times past,” Surrogate Fowler deferred the matter for the taking of testimony “in order that I might inspect the parties and their witnesses.”
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He intimated that even if the application were granted he would insist that Blanca be allowed to see the boy whenever possible.

Responsibility for conducting the trial lay in the hands of Supreme Court Justice David F. Manning. At age sixty, Manning was long on experience and notoriously short on patience. He conducted his trials briskly, always with an eye on the clock and the taxpayer’s dollar; time wasters received no mercy. But other factors were beyond his control. On November 13, it was announced that the judge had received a threatening letter. Scrawled in pencil and unsigned, it forecast that Justice Manning would face a “dire fate” unless he “did his duty”
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and ordered the jury to discharge Mrs. de Saulles and allow her “to return to her baby.”
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Manning dismissed the letter as the work of a “religious crank”
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—the note was larded with biblical references—but it was noted that two officers accompanied him when he entered court for the Damasco trial.

In matters of courtroom decorum, Justice Manning ran a tight ship: no cameras and definitely none of the frippery that marred the trial of Mrs. Carman, in which rows of knitting women had raised the specter of Madame Defarge with her clacking needles in the shadow of the guillotine. Court would open promptly at 10:00 a.m., lunch would be taken between 12:30 and 1:30 p.m., and the court would adjourn at 4:00 p.m. Because of the crank letter, Justice Manning placed a strict embargo on anyone standing in the corridors, nor would any spectators carrying bundles be admitted to the public gallery. He also ordered extra policemen to be drafted in with instruction to admit only those who could be seated. Anyone without a seat would have to wait outside the courthouse.

Justice Manning’s circumspection was well placed. According to one newspaper, interest in the trial “eclipses anything that has been encountered before in the criminal history of Long Island.”
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Applications for seats were oversubscribed threefold. Because of the limited seating capacity and the wide public interest, the clerk of the court first issued tickets to newspapermen and others with business in the court, and the remaining 175 seats were made available to the public on a first-come, first-served basis. Society friends of the de Saulles family had made numerous applications for seats, but Justice Manning ruled that none except those directly involved in the case should receive favor.

Both sides made last-minute preparations. In a curious and surprising move, it was reported that the defense team would do “all in its power” to prevent the unveiling of Jack’s “Broadway career”
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during testimony. Such a decision can only have been driven by trepidation. If the defense did open that can of worms, it would allow the prosecution similar license to dig into Blanca’s background, and, clearly, there was something buried there that Uterhart didn’t want exhumed.

Weeks declared himself confident that the prisoner would be convicted. “The case is a simple one,” he said. “The wife came to the house and shot her husband, from whom she was divorced. Eyewitnesses were standing within a few feet of her. I don’t know how that can be explained away.”
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But as trial day drew closer, Uterhart continued feeding the insatiable press hunger for news about his client. The latest update outlined Blanca’s intention to provide Thanksgiving dinner for all sixty inmates of the jail. Dinner would consist of roast turkey, cranberry sauce, and all the trimmings of a regular Thanksgiving feast. The jailhouse cook—said to be “some chef”
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—would prepare it, and Uterhart promised that the meal would be served regardless of the jury’s verdict.

On the eve of the trial, Weeks drafted two late additions to the prosecution team: Charles I. Woods and Elvin N. Edwards. The stage was now set. After three months of waiting and millions of words in the press, the young lady from Chile was about to face a jury of twelve good men and true.
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T
HE
T
RIAL,
D
AY 1

November 19, 1917

The crowds flocked in from every fashionable corner of Long Island. Fancy automobiles jammed the streets around the Old Mineola Courthouse; horns honked, and irate drivers shouted as chauffeurs unable to find a parking spot on the wide expanse of paved highway in front of the building were steered into the nearest available field. For most it was a wasted trip. Justice Manning had mandated that members of the public be excluded from the voir dire process. As a result, only journalists were on hand as Blanca entered the Mineola courtroom at 9:45 a.m.

She was deathly pale, thin to emaciation. A plain white silk blouse fastened with pearl buttons, a short skirt of black cloth, and low, patent leather shoes accentuated her schoolgirlish appearance. The outfit was stylish but understated. Flouting current fashion, she wore no hat, which allowed spectators to see the mane of dark hair pulled back in a thick coil at the nape of her neck. Her steps were faltering, and at times she seemed almost to stumble and might have fallen had the ever-present Mrs. Seaman not held her arm. Blanca took her seat at the defense table, immediately adjacent to the jury box, and where she was bookended by Uterhart and Smith. She folded her arms and spoke only to whisper occasionally to her attorneys.