The Valentino Affair (46 page)

Justice Manning began his charge without any pause. First, he told the jury, they needed to dismiss from their minds Blanca’s social status; also, he warned them to banish any prejudice they might feel about divorce. He referred to Blanca’s story as one “graphically, if not dramatically told,”
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and he reminded the jury that this was a woman on trial for her life. “On the people is placed the responsibility of determining her sanity at the time of the crime,” he said, “and if there is any reasonable doubt as to her sanity you must acquit her. That is the law. The condition of this woman’s mind on that day is the vital one.”
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As for the medical experts, Justice Manning said it was impossible for them to determine whether the defendant was sane or insane when the tragedy occurred. He quoted several opinions as to what constituted insanity in the eyes of the law, then said that one of the oldest authorities—the M’Naghten defense—gave lack of knowledge of the crime as an excuse. “If . . . the defendant did not know the quality of her act and did not know that it was wrong, you will find her not guilty. If, on the other hand, she was in possession of her faculties, and did know that her act was wrong, you will find her guilty.”
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What followed next was extraordinary. Inexplicably, Justice Manning tossed out the law books and decided to invoke the scriptures as an aid to determining insanity, repeating the cry of Jesus on the cross—“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
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Such an utterance might have been excusable on the part of some counsel pleading for his client’s life, but coming from the bench it was breathtaking. Justice Manning went on, “Don’t decide this case on the addresses of either counsel, but keep your minds strictly on the evidence. No favors, no sympathy, no prejudice should be weighed against either those who are here seeking to enforce the laws or she who comes here accused of an infraction of the laws and who has denied her guilt.”
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After a reading on “reasonable doubt” that was heavily skewed in the defendant’s favor, he defined the varying degrees of homicide:

1. Murder, first degree, the result of deliberation and premeditation.

2. Manslaughter, second degree, killing without deliberation or premeditation.

3. Excusable homicide.

4. Justifiable homicide.

He explained that in this case, the last two degrees were not at issue; this was either murder or manslaughter, whereupon Uterhart leapt up and reminded the judge that he had omitted to include the possibility of “not guilty,” which oversight was amended. Forget everything else, Justice Manning told the jury, except one thing—“Did this woman know the nature and the quality of her act at the time of the commission of her act? This is the sole, important consideration of you gentlemen at this time.”
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And with this, he asked the jury to consider its verdict.

The twelve men dutifully trooped out of court at 6:00 p.m. Before the commencement of deliberations, they adjourned to the Garden City Hotel for supper. Justice Manning said he would allow them two hours to eat, and he wanted them back at court by eight o’clock. Twenty minutes before that deadline the jury returned and retired to their room on the second floor. The fact that most jurors carried their hand baggage with them suggested a quick verdict. They called for all the exhibits in the case—maps, photographs, including the X-ray of Blanca’s skull, pictures of The Box, and letters written by Jack and Blanca. And then the door shut behind them.

It had closed on a courtroom still heaving with activity. Upward of one hundred spectators had decided to either delay or forgo their evening meal rather than surrender hard-won seats in the public gallery. Outside, in the corridor, officials, attorneys, and gossipers huddled in small groups, all trying to predict the outcome. The shrewd money, those who’d seen this kind of thing countless times before, was on a verdict of manslaughter or, at worst, insanity. No one was expecting a clear-cut conviction of murder in the first degree; after all, who on that jury could live with the responsibility of having consigned this fragile flower to the electric chair?

The bets were still being struck at 9:15 p.m. when a bailiff shouted out that the jury was rapping at their door, a sign that they had reached a decision. This announcement caused a stampede for the courtroom, led by Weeks and two assistants. A few steps behind, Uterhart made his way more sedately, and certainly with more panache, back to his place at the defense table. Moments later, Sheriff Seaman brushed aside a few stragglers who were blocking a doorway to clear a path for Blanca. She was followed by quite an entourage: Amalia and Guillermo, Mrs. Seaman and Suzanne, a nurse, and members of her legal team. As Blanca reached the table, she bit her lip but was otherwise unmoved until Uterhart gave her a triumphant grin. When she leant across the table toward him, he nodded his head, and a faint smile lit her features. She turned and looked at the door expectantly and for a moment rested her head in her hands on the table.

The door opened and the jury filed in. They looked uniformly solemn. Blanca, seated just a few feet away, scanned their faces. Some smiled at her, others looked away, but once they were seated, Juror No. 5, William Jones of Freeport, a jovial looking man with snowy white hair and a mustache to match, gave Blanca a broad wink.

Moments later the door to the judge’s chambers swung open. Everyone stood as Justice Manning swept in, black robe trailing behind him. He took his seat at the bench and issued a warning to everyone present. “There must not be the slightest expression of approval or disapproval, regardless of the verdict. If anyone so offends, I will commit him to jail.”
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Clerk Daniel E. Sealey then asked the jury if they had agreed upon a verdict, and they said they had. “Jury, rise and look upon the defendant,” he said. “Defendant, rise and look upon the jury.”
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Blanca stood, the tips of her fingers resting on the table, and waited calmly.

“Gentlemen, what is your verdict, guilty or not guilty.”
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The foreman, John C. Bucken, said loudly, “Not guilty.”
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Simultaneously his fellow jurors joined him and a chorus of “Not guilty” reverberated up and down the double row of jurors.

Blanca beamed at the jury. Her lips moved as if she were saying “Thank you,” but apart from that there was no other sign of emotion. Elsewhere, the court was eerily quiet, with barely a sound. Blanca sat back down. Uterhart leant across the table and shook her hand.

Justice Manning took a moment to gather his thoughts and then addressed the jury. “Gentlemen, the case of Blanca De Saulles is over forever. I assume you have discharged your duty according to your consciences, and with my best wishes for your future, I bid you good night.”
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He then turned toward Blanca. “The verdict of the jury is not guilty and you are therefore free. You may go.”
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The court now burst into life. Telegraph messengers dashed from the reporters’ table, desperate to get their copy back to the newsrooms before the final deadline, as a surge of well-wishers surrounded Blanca, all eager to add their congratulations. One of the jurors, Philip H. Ohm, a retired grocer with two sons, pushed his way through the crowd and shook hands with Blanca. His gray head wagged with joy as he looked down upon her. “I want to say that we are all pleased that you are going to get your boy. ‘We’ means all of us. I came to say it for them. It was the boy that was in our minds most of all.”
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He withdrew his hand and Blanca’s placid wanness of the trial gave way to a radiant smile as she turned toward Uterhart, “I hope you will get my boy for me now.”
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Uterhart answered quickly. “Yes, I’ll see to it.”
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As the jury dispersed, Blanca shook hands with each and exchanged a few words. One said, “We’re your friends, little girl.”
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Even the judge wanted to add his best wishes. In an unusual gesture, Justice Manning returned to court and held out his hand to Blanca. “I hope you will be happy now.”

“Thank-you, Judge, oh, thank-you.”
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Almost unnoticed on the far side of the court, Charles de Saulles, the only family member in court to hear the verdict, sat with his back to the wall and did not show by even a blink of his eyelids that the verdict affected him in any way. For a long time he appeared too stunned to move. Eventually, he left court, head bowed and without saying a word.

As Blanca walked from the court, a woman ran up and kissed her on the forehead. Bailiffs sprang forward to thrust the woman back but Blanca only laughed. Then, releasing the arm of her counsel, she skipped down the stairs, through the basement, and out into the drizzling rain. Hatless and coatless, she grinned and took a deep draught of the air of freedom. A volley of flashbulbs greeted her as she kissed her brother and sister.

Moments later she disappeared behind the iron gate of the jail for the last time. The sheriff’s dog bounded down the steps to greet her. She patted him and continued to her room, which had been bedecked with flowers. News of her acquittal had preceded her and all the inmates cheered as she entered. Mrs. Seaman, weeping with joy, threw open her arms in a welcoming embrace. Suzanne had already packed her belongings and these were bundled downstairs and into an automobile.

On the street outside the court, a crowd of well-wishers sought to grasp Blanca’s hand. Men and women were driven back by a home guardsman, who brandished a rifle that he loudly declared to be “well loaded.”
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Blanca turned to Uterhart and laughed: “It will seem strange to wake up anywhere but in the jail.”
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In the brief press conference that followed, Blanca was radically different to how she had appeared throughout the trial. The transformation was incredible. The lethargy was jettisoned, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were aglow, and she beamed nonstop. “I’m so happy,” she said. “And I thank you with my whole heart for being so glad for me.”

“Does your mother know of the verdict?” asked one female reporter.

“Oh, yes,” said Blanca. “I telephoned myself.”
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She stressed the personal pronoun. Then Blanca, accompanied by her brother and sister, climbed into a car and, with Amalia at the wheel, raced off.

Uterhart was left to handle the press, who wanted his reaction to the greatest victory of his career. “It’s a good clean verdict,” he said and smiled, “there being no restrictions as to insanity.”
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He said he would be asking the family to deliver the boy into Blanca’s custody the next day.

Weeks was, understandably, more subdued. Deep in his heart, he had not expected a verdict of guilty in the first degree, but he was shocked by the absence of any mention of insanity, temporary or otherwise. “I feel that we could not do any more than present the case. The responsibility lay with the jury and that’s all there is to it.”
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Others, too, were uneasy. At the beginning of the trial, there had been almost universal press support for the “White Widow,” but as the evidence unfolded, much of the cheerleading had died down, and now, with the verdict in, a palpable sense of unease afflicted the fourth estate. Had they in some way helped to undermine the judicial process? Did their hyperbolic coverage of this wealthy, glamorous defendant contribute to this perverse verdict? Or was there something deeper in the American psyche, a disturbing refusal on the part of all-male juries to apportion serious criminal blame to any member of the fair sex (provided, of course, that she was white, rich, and beautiful)? One newspaper that evening went even further, posing the question: “Is it worthwhile to put women on trial for murder?”
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