Word: conviction
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Dates: during 1930-1939
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...years since, U. S. opinion and Tom Mooney have changed considerably. Time, and doubt about his guilt, have made Mooney, to a majority of the U. S. (as revealed by a Gallup Poll last January), seem the victim of an outrageous miscarriage of justice. In San Quentin jail. Convict Mooney has come to see himself clearly in the role of the nation's No. 1 martyr. In his 21-year fight to prove his innocence, Tom Mooney has thrice emerged from San Quentin to tell his story of the bombing to California courts in San Francisco. Last week...
...narrow margin (37-to-30) the Assembly had voted down a proposal to have the proceedings broadcast over a national hookup. Concealing whatever chagrin he felt at this. Convict Mooney, dressed in the neat blue suit he wears on such occasions, began his story quietly into a loudspeaker which promptly required adjustment. While it was being repaired, newspaper and newsreel cameramen flocked about the celebrity. Said Convict Mooney: "I hope you people in the room will bear with me but after being buried for 21 years ... I sort of take to all this...
Into the loudspeaker when it was working again Convict Mooney poured the sorry tale that has become his lifework. (In his San Quentin cell the walls are lined with 20 volumes of legal records in his case.) Rambling back to his childhood, he explained how a beating when he played hookey from school "made Tom Mooney rebel"; how his activities as an agitator caused San Francisco's Pacific Gas & Electric Co. to take "possession of the District Attorney's Office"; how when the Preparedness Day bomb exploded he and his wife were elsewhere. Said he: "Tom Mooney...
Though each year 700 new convicts arrive at Devil's Island, at year's end death and desertion account for about 700 missing. Thus the convict population remains constant at about 3,500. Dry Guillotine illustrates these grim statistics in the making, grinds on with an almost casual description of diseases, guillotinings, tortures, feuds, corruption. In the end a kind of tranquillity creeps into Belbenoit's account...
...second time, he and eight companions got hold of an Indian dugout, headed into the Caribbean. When they ran into rough weather and it turned out that none of them knew navigation, they beached the boat, started back through dense jungle for the Penal Colony. A peg-legged convict killed a comrade for his can of condensed milk, and the leader in turn killed him. They roasted and ate his liver and his good left leg, of which Belbenoit confesses that one mouthful (which tasted like wild pig) was enough...