CHAPTER TWELVE
As these legal squabbles took place in Syracuse, the attention of the country had turned to the coast of Ireland, where searchers continued recovering the bodies of those killed in the submarine attack. Stories of heroism filled the front pages, but none greater than Roosevelt’s friend Vanderbilt. The bishop of London told reporters, “There is one incident the world will remember in connection with the sinking of the Lusitania. When Alfred G. Vanderbilt was face-to-face with death he said to his valet, ‘Come and let us save the kiddies.’”
While the world was still staggering from the shock, Colonel Roosevelt was lured into the politics of it. Having made his position clear and much to the consternation of his legal team, he continued his outspoken criticism of the German government as well as President Wilson’s tepid response. Fully aware of the potential risk to the outcome of the trial, Roosevelt remained steadfast and called for the end of all commerce with Germany: “Let us, as a nation, understand that peace is worthy only when it is the handmaiden of international righteousness and national self-respect.”
The president essentially ignored him, instead attempting to secure a firm, public apology and reparations from the Germans. Wilson’s approach to the crisis utterly frustrated the action-oriented Roosevelt, who rarely hesitated to brandish his “Big Stick” philosophy when he believed it necessary. While both men were progressives, Wilson’s academic background contrasted sharply with the Colonel’s derring-do. During the campaign of 1912, the former president of Princeton University summed up the essential difference between them, admitting that Roosevelt “appeals to (voters’) imagination; I do not. He is a real, vivid person, whom they have seen and shouted themselves hoarse over and voted for, millions strong. I am a vague, conjectural personality, more made up of opinions and academic prepossessions than of human traits and red corpuscles.”
T.R. was anything but vague in his beliefs. “In life as in a football game,” Roosevelt had once said, “the principle to follow is: Hit the line hard, don’t foul and don’t shirk, but hit the line hard.”
It was that part of his character that made it impossible for him to remain quiet after the brutal attack, even accepting the potential cost to himself. German organizations in America lobbied hard against joining the war, and seemed to have the support of a majority of Americans. And even members of Roosevelt’s Progressive Party in Brooklyn, New York, turned on him. It was reported, “Most of the members of this district are German-Americans, they took exception to these remarks made by Roosevelt on the sinking of the Lusitania.”
After more than three weeks of testimony and arguments, observers were confidently declaring the outcome of the trial. The Toledo Blade had decided: “What action the jury at Syracuse may take is no matter of consequence, the verdict of the people is already in. Theodore Roosevelt emerges from the clash with the enemy, his good name untarnished and his splendid public service unbesmirched. After two long years of vilification and abuse, he stands before the country today as he stood as he rose to power, the greatest citizen of his generation.”
While Massachusetts’s Fitchburg Sentinel had reached quite a different conclusion: “There ought to be no dangers from now on that Roosevelt will be a possible candidate for the presidency.”
But this was a court of law, and Judge Andrews could not be swayed by public opinion. He had to remain focused only on the equal application of the law, and as the trial resumed he was preparing to announce a decision that would stun many observers and participants.
When the morning session began, the plaintiff once again challenged the judge’s interpretation of the article. Among the sources on which Barnes’s attorneys cleverly based their argument was Judge Andrews’s father, the former chief justice of the state and recent visitor to the courtroom, who had written in an earlier decision, “Defamatory words, in common parlance, are such as impute some moral delinquency or some disreputable conduct to the person of whom they are spoken.”
The plaintiff’s counsel had been placed in a difficult situation. Ivins had to convince Judge Andrews that his prior ruling allowing the defense wide latitude to present evidence of Barnes’s “improper” conduct was completely wrong, but without alienating him. It required a great deal of polite dexterity to make that argument without being unduly critical of the judge. Dressed to the nines as usual, with his skullcap in place, Ivins demonstrated why for so long he had been among the most respected practitioners of his trade. “Now, your honor has held this article to be libelous per se and has therefore, necessarily held, that it tends to bring the plaintiff into hatred, contempt and ridicule by charging vicious or degrading conduct, not merely an impropriety but something which goes far beyond,” he began. By asserting what the judge “necessarily” held, Ivins was putting words in the judge’s mouth. Critical words if he was going to succeed in striking from the record evidence about the supposed alliance between Barnes and the Democratic leader Murphy. Ivins sought to portray the judge’s initial ruling, that the statements were libelous, as starkly as possible so that only evidence that supported that level of treachery would be admitted to justify the statements.
Then he took that reasoning a step further and basically accused the judge of contradicting himself: “The ruling that proof of a mere impropriety establishes the truth of the libelous portion of the article appears to be inconsistent with the ruling that the article was libelous per se...
“We submit that this libel has a far graver significance. It was an attack upon the character of the plaintiff, its purpose being to render him despicable in the minds of its readers...
“The question,” he continued, reaching for an applicable definition of libel, “is not what this article means to a trained mind like your honor’s, but what does it mean to the ordinary man who reads it? What it means to a neighbor, what it means to a man and his friends, what it means to the community in which he lives. We submit to your honor that it is beyond all dispute that to the general public this article charges the plaintiff with the prostitution of political influence to his personal gain and advantage. It means he is charged with vicious, fraudulent and unlawful conduct...that he is filling the part of a Judas (or) Benedict Arnold...”
If Judge Andrews’s broad definition of corrupt was to be allowed to stand, Ivins argued, there would be no basis for the entire libel suit. A libel, he contended, wasn’t any sort of common criticism; in fact it was a heinous charge, it was a claim that unless corrected would expose an individual to shame and ridicule in his daily life. It was a statement that would damage a man’s reputation forever, not simply an aspersion that might easily be tossed aside and forgotten as the judge’s ruling might lead someone to conclude. This wasn’t a place for someone as eminent and learned as the judge to impose his belief, but rather it was simply what the people a man encountered in his daily tasks thought about it. Did it make his neighbors feel differently about him? Did it make his friends lose trust in him? Ivins made the argument with respect and passion.
And then he came around to the heart of the matter, defining the word corrupt.
“I desire to call your honor’s attention to the common and ordinary meaning of the words ‘corrupt’ and ‘corruption.’ In Black’s Law Dictionary it is defined as: ‘Illegality...the act of an official or fiduciary person who unlawfully and wrongfully uses his official character to procure some benefit for himself or for another person, contrary to the duty and rights of others.’” Ivins cited definitions from dictionaries and from court decisions. In State v. Johnson (Ohio) it was “a wrongful design to acquire or cause to be acquired some pecuniary or other advantage to the person guilty of the act.” In the Oxford English Dictionary, “probably the greatest linguistic document that has ever been produced,” it was defined as “debased in character, infected with evil, depraved, perverted, evil, wicked...influenced by bribery or the like; venal.”
Ivins went on, trying to convince the judge that his definition of corrupt didn’t square with the common understanding of its meaning, and that relying on this much broader standard lowered the legal bar for the defense. “We maintain that no part of this libel is justified by anything which may be termed an impropriety or mistake of judgement. We maintain that the language of this libel has brought disgrace and dishonor upon this plaintiff for all time, that it was done purposely, done maliciously...”
Finally, after weeks of strained good manners, it was time, Ivins had decided, for the gloves to come off. That phrase had only recently come into common use; it is believed it referred to boxers removing their padded gloves, so the more brutal bare-knuckle fighting could begin.
This wasn’t just any man making these accusations, Ivins said, this came from Theodore Roosevelt. “A man who has tremendous influence.”
“We maintain that the language used in this libel pictured (Barnes) as a debased, degraded and vicious character, and places him outside the pale of decent society, which was the purpose, the malevolent purpose of the defendant...and if the acts which have been proved fell short of justifying an assault which is utterly destructive of the plaintiff’s character then it cannot be said to be justification for the libel.”
As Ivins finished his long, impassioned plea, his voice high and thin and at certain times cracking, he told the court that he would sit down and his colleague Henry Wolff would continue reviewing the defense case “because of the condition of my voice.” It was not an especially unusual remark but as it turned out, this weakness was far more telling than anyone might have predicted.
But before Wolff began, Judge Andrews interjected a response that did not show a willingness to pull back, repeating his belief that the article was libelous per se because it charged a corrupt alliance between Murphy and Barnes. “By corrupt alliance,” he continued, “I do not necessarily mean that Mr. Barnes and Mr. Murphy were venal about it. It does not necessarily mean that they obtained money by reason of that alliance. I use the word (to mean) ‘to act unfaithfully in regard to their duties.’
“...I have also admitted evidence bearing upon the condition of printing affairs on the theory that they might by that evidence possibly show a corrupt alliance between business and politics...”
With the courtroom calmed, Wolff resumed the broader challenge to the defense case, asking the judge to throw out most of the testimony with a witness by witness rebuttal. Not surprisingly, considering the length of the trial, even the judge was a bit confused about his earlier rulings and the attorneys had to go through the transcript to remind him of what he had allowed and prohibited. In the end, the judge remained mostly consistent with his initial decision to allow a wide range of testimony and rejected almost every plaintiff request. After fierce arguments on both sides, the judge did, however, agree to exclude the testimony of Senator George Agnew who had described how Barnes coerced another senator into voting against a bill that would have effectively banned racetrack betting.
Judge Andrews deftly maintained his balancing act, reminding the defense, for example, “You have shown more or less a combination between the Republicans and the Democrats...you have not shown there was anything corrupt or improper about that.”
Then they reached the much debated printing evidence and the plaintiff requested that all testimony about it be struck from the record. Judge Andrews had imposed severe restrictions on that testimony but had still permitted certain testimony to be heard by the jury pending a final decision on whether the defense adequately linked it back to corruption by Barnes. But before they could make their whole argument, Van Benschoten, for the defense, was able to interject a sweeping argument about the foundation of the entire legal system: the right of a jury to hear all the evidence and reach its own decision. In a stirring presentation, he claimed that this was precisely the type of issue “that the law commits to the decision of a jury. Twelve men of the average of the community, comprising men of education and men of little education, men of learning and men whose learning consists only in what they have themselves seen and heard—the merchant, the mechanic, the farmer, the laborer—these sit together, consult, apply their separate experience to the affairs of life, to the facts proven, and draw a unanimous conclusion. This average judgment, thus given, it is the greatest effort of the law to obtain...
“...the very fundamental principle upon which the whole jury system is based, that men will look at things from different viewpoints and will, perhaps, draw inferences which could not be drawn by the court.”
That remained the key word for the defense: inference. Where did that belong in this courtroom? Where precisely was that line? In Arthur Conan Doyle’s A Study in Scarlet, the detective Sherlock Holmes had said, “From a drop of water a logician could infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara without having seen or heard of one or the other.” Conversely, the scientist Antoine Lavoisier wrote in The Elements of Chemistry, “We must trust to nothing but facts: These are presented to us by Nature and cannot deceive.” And the scientific method demanded reproducible results before a theory could be accepted as a fact.
So where between the whimsy of Holmes and the certitude of Lavoisier did the legal system belong? What line had to be crossed for speculation to become admissible evidence? It was a knotty problem on which the case might turn. Both sides argued it forcefully throughout the day. “The argument proceeds upon this theory,” explained Ivins, whose voice had recovered sufficiently for him to state his case. “That because a man is a lawyer and some people dislike lawyers and believe them to be implicated in practices they do not like, that any inference which may be drawn by anybody can be drawn from the mere fact that a man is a lawyer. There is a feeling in the community with regard to stockbrokers. Some people have an idea a stockbroker must naturally be doing crooked business; that proof, therefore, that a man is a stockbroker is proof that he is crooked and is proof that he is a gambler and proof that he had betrayed his trust. There is a similar prevailing opinion in regard to printers: All public printers are thieves; the plaintiff in this case is a printer, therefore he is a thief. But the conclusion is a false one.
“...We are perfectly willing to admit that Mr. Barnes was a public printer... This question of public printing came up a long time ago...in the autobiography of Benjamin Franklin. ‘My first promotion was my being chosen, in 1766, clerk of the General Assembly... Besides the pay the place gave me a better opportunity of keeping up an interest among the members, which secured to me the business of printing the votes, laws, paper money and other occasional jobs for the public that, on the whole, was very profitable.’ I am perfectly willing to admit that Mr. Barnes belongs to the Benjamin Franklin class...rather than that he belongs to the class of the defendant...
“...There is not one word of evidence to the effect that Mr. Barnes knew of or shared in any corruption or knew of or shared in any waste... That Mr. Barnes’ influence was used knowingly, with design, with purpose, with motive to produce and bring about a corrupt condition of affairs...is utterly unproven and to prove it by inference is just as impossible as it is for a man to put his arms around a hole in the ground. The thing can’t be done; it can’t be done according to law.
“The connection has not been made. (The defense) has failed in their promise, and we should not be put to proof of the impossible because of the possibility of certain minds to reason in ways that do not conform either to the rules of law or logic.”
With that he took his seat. Judge Andrews banged his gavel twice, three times and court adjourned for lunch.
When court resumed, Bowers tried to put the case into a larger perspective, telling Judge Andrews, “The motion that I am making is perhaps the most important motion I have ever presented to a court of justice... It is doubtful if your honor will often have to pass upon so serious a matter. Striking out this evidence completely destroys one of the main defenses of that part of the article that your honor has held libelous.”
In response to Ivins’s argument, he continued, “If Benjamin Franklin one hundred and fifty years ago used his position to obtain printing matter at wasteful rates, the law probably was the same as it is today, and the truth of that fact would have been a defense to the charge of the kind that is included in the article. The granting of this motion will be treated by every political wrongdoer in the nation as calling upon him to incorporate...”
Bowers reviewed all the printing evidence one more time, bringing special attention to the mysterious $20,000 Barnes was paid by the Lyon company for unexplained services. “What could those services have been? Can not the jury have anything to say about that?...
“There is room for the minds of jurors to say upon that, that the plaintiff used his political position to obtain these orders...we have established a case sufficiently plain for your honor to say that there is enough in it, even if you have grave doubt about it, to leave it to the jury.”
The quality of the lawyering on both sides had surpassed even what these venerable advocates had displayed in previous arguments to this court. And the timing was right since Judge Andrews’s decision whether to allow the jury to consider all or some of the printing evidence might well determine the outcome of the trial. There was no obvious answer. While the law gave the judge a blueprint by which to conduct a trial, this decision would rely on his wisdom tempered by experience. It was Socrates who had laid down what was expected of a judge: “Four things belong to a judge: to hear courteously, to answer wisely, to consider soberly, and to decide impartially.”
But in practice the function of most judges was similar to that of the referee in a boxing match: to make sure the combatants fought fairly and by the rules, and as much as possible not be noticed.
When Judge Andrews was selected by the legislature to fill an open seat on the state supreme court in 1899, the year before he would be officially elected to that position, he promised only to endeavor to earn the respect of members of the bar. In that he had succeeded admirably. He was admired as an indefatigable worker who immersed himself in whatever case he was adjudicating, whether it be a capital murder or a contested divorce. But none of those thousands of cases were as closely scrutinized as this complicated libel action, and whatever ruling he finally made about the printing testimony certainly was going to be met with deep resentment from the losing side.
Summing up the importance of this aspect of his case, Bowers said flatly, “The denial of this motion practically denies us the benefit of this entire defense... It goes beyond all reason...that we must be left to stand without this evidence, that all goes to the winds—is too much to believe.”
To which Ivins responded, “The argument as finally presented really amounts to this: that a coroner’s jury would be justified in finding that a man died by eating too much plum pudding because he had complained of hunger. That is what it amounts to; does it amount to anything?
“Lewis Carroll was probably one of the greatest mathematicians and probably one of the greatest logicians of his time. He wrote Alice in Wonderland and Alice in the Looking Glass to prove what a logician could do when dealing with a mind that carried nothing but logic. Since I assume your honor’s mind does carry out logic I am not going to present that authority of Alice in Wonderland and Alice in the Looking Glass.”
Judge Andrews finally announced his decision, “I think I will grant the motion.” He would not allow the defense to use Barnes’s alleged involvement in printing industry corruption to justify the claims made in the article. He continued, admitting his difficulty in this ruling, “I am not sure about all this evidence. What I say is this: I shall not submit to the jury as justification of the alleged libel any evidence with regards to this printing situation in Albany. Now just what particular sentences in the evidence you ask me to strike out I don’t know.”
Lacking any evidence of a direct connection between Barnes and the alleged corruption in the printing industry, Judge Andrews had decided, the defense claims could not go to the jury to justify the statements in Roosevelt’s article. The defense simply had not demonstrated, according to the New York Times, “that Mr. Barnes was in a corrupt alliance between corrupt business and corrupt politics.”
The defense team sat quietly, absorbing the magnitude of that decision. Bowers and Van Benschoten had spent much of the last few weeks carefully constructing a circumstantial case to show that there was corruption throughout the printing industry and that Barnes was in a position to influence contracts and profit from them. But the defense had been unable to produce a witness, a note, a contract, anything at all that proved Barnes was aware of the corruption. To the layman, perhaps even to jurors in their normal lives, it was easy to make the short, logical jump that ensnared Barnes, but in a court of law it had to be proved. Judge Andrews was clear: the fact that Barnes profited from his work in the printing industry was not evidence that he had any knowledge of wrongdoing.
Both sides asked for and were granted an exception, a legal term signifying that they did not agree with the ruling, which would permit them to show that disagreement to a higher court on appeal. When Ivins asked for a further explanation, Judge Andrews said wisely, “I have ruled on it distinctly enough to give both of you an exception.” His meaning was clear; on appeal, judges could disagree with his ruling and he was providing to both the plaintiff and the defense a platform to make certain they got that hearing.
The reaction of the principals was just as might be expected. The defense team sat glumly at its table, absorbing the blow. Bowers’s shoulders slumped, and it seemed like all energy had drained from his body. A seasoned lawyer does not make a show of either excitement or disappointment, but this was difficult to absorb. Colonel Roosevelt moved close to him and began whispering urgently into his ear, as if to inject him with newfound determination. A few feet away a broad smile appeared on Barnes’s face as the ruling was announced; Ivins couldn’t help grinning and looking around the courtroom to share his delight.
This Herald sketch portrays all of the principals in the trial, among them (3) Barnum, (4) Ivins, (9) secretary Cassie Doran, (10) Judge Andrews, (12) Barnes, (14) attorney Stewart Hancock, (15) Roosevelt, (19) Bowers, and (20) Van Benschoten.
Onondaga Historical Association
The ruling seemed devastating to the defense. The Times called it “the hardest blow the Colonel has received in this trial.” But looking at it most closely, it might have actually been, to quote the eighteenth century British Reverend James Hervey, a blessing in disguise. “The evidence is still in the record,” Ivins complained, “and not stricken out.”
“I think you will not be bothered about that,” Judge Andrews replied, then added almost as an aside, “Of course I will not allow you to give any evidence as to the Albany situation on your side of the case.”
And that condition of the ruling had the potential to become a serious problem for the plaintiff. The testimony painting Barnes as a corrupt politician who used his influence for personal profit already had been heard by the jury. Now Judge Andrews had prevented Ivins from offering any rebuttal or explanation for it. The plaintiff could not present witnesses who might further explain how business was regularly conducted within the industry or show that Barnes’s actions were commonplace or benign. Rather, it locked into place the image of corruption, and there was nothing Ivins could do about it. He had gotten his motion, and now he would have to live with that result.
With that decision the defense case ended and the plaintiff began its rebuttal. Ivins intended to refute those defense claims that had survived his appeals. His first witness was Francis Stetson, the former president of the American Bar Association, an organization that had been formed in 1878 to “promote the advancement of the science of jurisprudence, the promotion of the administration of justice and a uniformity of legislation throughout the country...” Essentially, to turn lawyering from a trade into a profession with recognized standards. Stetson, a respected political player and a longtime friend and correspondent of T.R.’s, had been the go-between sent to Barnes’s home by Democratic insurgents who had met with Franklin Roosevelt to see if Barnes might join them in finding an alternative candidate for the US Senate to Sheehan. “I went there...to find out what was Mr. Barnes’ attitude toward the insurgents.” His attitude, Stetson said, was not to support them. “I was to take back his rejection, not his acceptance, but his rejection.”
Bowers on cross-examination asked, “Did you know at the time that he was not a member of the senate?” Stetson did and the meaning was clear. The Democrats had sent him from New York City to Albany to speak with Barnes, who held no elective position, but was recognized by the Democrats as the person who controlled Republican votes.
That accusation hung in the air as Ivins tried to rehabilitate his witness, showing that Stetson had made the trip at the behest of Senator Brackett, then the official Republican leader in the state senate, for several reasons.
As Stetson left the stand he paused by the defense table, as if drawn by a magnet; Colonel Roosevelt rose to greet him and the two men warmly grasped hands and whispered to each other. Even when sitting quietly the Colonel remained the center of this universe.
As they embraced, state senator William F. Sheehan, the unsuccessful candidate for the open United States Senate seat in 1911, was called to testify. For the spectators this trial was like watching the front pages of the last decade come to life. The political leaders they had been reading about appeared one by one in the flesh. There had even been strong rumors that if he felt his case was failing, Ivins intended to request former president William Howard Taft and Elihu Root, who had served as the Colonel’s secretary of state, come to Syracuse to testify. Both men once had been close to Roosevelt and subsequently had broken with him, and both of them would have fascinating stories to tell. Few men knew the Colonel as intimately as these two, and their testimony could shed bright light on his political dealings. Ivins hinted to reporters that he would ask Taft directly whether Roosevelt had asked for political favors in return for his support in the 1908 presidential election. But thus far Barnes was reluctant to ask these political titans, and friends, to join in the courtroom mudslinging.
Sheehan acknowledged that before seeking the senate seat, he had been the Democratic leader in Buffalo and later lieutenant governor of the state. When Ivins asked him if he believed Murphy was the leader of the Democratic machine, Bowers objected, stating it called upon the witness to draw conclusions. “They can ask him facts.”
Ivins turned and said, heatedly, “I am doing as you did. I can go about it in a roundabout way.”
Bowers nodded. “You will follow a very excellent way if you do it my way.”
“Personally,” said Sheehan, “I never recognized him as a leader of the Democratic party in the state.” In response to several questions, he denied that Murphy had suggested he run for the Senate post and that he had never, either orally or in writing, discussed his candidacy with Barnes. Although minutes later, perhaps to hedge his bets, he added, “I will say I believe Mr. Murphy had great influence in the councils of the Democratic party during that time, but I didn’t consider it was enough to justify me in considering that he was dominant.”
Ivins’s last question went right to the core of Colonel Roosevelt’s defense. “Did you ever hear or know of any arrangement made by anybody, directly or indirectly, in writing or orally, with regard to any agreement or arrangement, or anything tending to show any agreement or arrangement between Mr. Barnes and Mr. Murphy to further your candidacy?”
“No, sir.”
The respected financier August Belmont Jr. was next to the stand. Belmont, a Democrat, was one of the wealthiest men in New York. He had founded, built and served as president and chairman of the Interborough Rapid Transit Company, the city’s first underground subway line while also owning and operating several other railroad lines. His passion though, was Thoroughbred racing, and a decade earlier he had built the grand Belmont Park in Queens, which he had named after his father. In other situations he might have been a star, but here he was simply a dapper supporting player.
As the owner of the racetrack, he had opposed the Hart-Agnew bill, which prohibited betting at the track and fought the effort to toughen penalties for racetrack gambling that had failed by that single vote in the state senate. He admitted having contacted President Roosevelt to ask for his assistance. “He knew my views,” Belmont said. “I took the view that racing was an institution that ought to have the support of the State rather than its condemnation; that racing represented an important element in improving the breed of horses because it was an elimination test which was a guide for the breeder, and that in view of the automobile coming in use the light horse, which was necessary for military purposes, would gradually be driven out by the horse of utility, the farm horse, which did not answer the purpose at all...”
Ivins sought to depict the Colonel as an active political broker in New York state politics even while in the White House. Belmont was asked to read a letter he had written to President Roosevelt suggesting progressive policies that Charles Hughes should embrace in his campaign for governor, pointing out, “The Republican platform refers to nothing that directly touches the labor interests locally. With reference to the eight-hour (workday) law...the tenement law, the child labor and ‘sweatshop’ laws of the state, it seems to me, are questions which Mr. Hughes could make an excellent point at the outset of his campaign.
“You well know how important these are to the welfare of the laborer and they appeal to his wife and children... It would be essentially good policy for Mr. Hughes to make some sane and convincing statement on these questions...”
According to Belmont, Roosevelt responded that no more important suggestion had been made and he had handed the letter to Hughes, who was delighted to receive it.
Belmont also testified that Roosevelt had asked if he would meet Barnes to discuss the racetrack gambling matter, reinforcing the impression that the Colonel and Barnes had once worked together to further common interests.
As Belmont concluded his answer, the Colonel could be heard not quite whispering to his counsel, “That’s right, that’s exactly what I told him!”
And finally, Belmont testified that as far as he was aware, and clearly contrary to previous testimony, the opposition to the racetrack legislation had been completely proper, without deceit, and that if it were anything less he would not have been personally involved with it.
When his testimony concluded, he walked directly to the defense table, just as others had done, and chatted amiably with the Colonel. That too was subtle but important evidence; each man on the jury could see for himself the respect powerful men like Belmont had for the defendant, even when the testimony might not benefit him. As the two men chatted, Judge Andrews gaveled the day to a close.
Horace Wilkinson had scheduled a dinner party that evening, and even this distressing day in the courtroom did not prevent Roosevelt from attending. Among the invited guests was Wilkinson’s neighbor, Syracuse University chancellor James Day. The chancellor had been a longtime and highly vocal critic of the Colonel, complaining that he had tried to turn the presidency into a monarchy. But the two men had come together over the crisis with Germany. As they greeted each other, Roosevelt told him, “I am dee-lighted to renew our former acquaintance.”
Chancellor Day later told reporters, “I am far away as ever from him on big business, the recall and the referendum, which I thought were socialistic views, but personally I regard him as an exceptionally interesting man because of his limitless fund of knowledge derived from books, travel and experiences with men. Colonel Roosevelt is probably the most remarkable citizen of the republic at the present time.”
A large reception was held following the dinner, attended by business and educational leaders of the city. Among them was Reverend Dr. Jerimiah Zimmerman, a recognized expert on ancient coins, who spent a considerable amount of time discussing that subject in depth with Roosevelt and came away marveling about “Colonel Roosevelt’s breadth of knowledge.”
The next morning the Syracuse Journal reported dutifully upon the Colonel’s legal setback and Wilkinson’s grand dinner, but perhaps as a reminder of simpler pleasures also told readers that “next Saturday is straw hat day, when Syracusans can put their soft fleece hats and derbys on the attic hook and...observe the passing of the chill bleakness of Spring breezes and the debut of summer zephyrs.”