On October 15, 1890, the Chief of Police of New Orleans was murdered. The Italian Mafia in the city, which he had been investigating, was suspected, and nineteen Italians were charged with the murder. Despite strong evidence of guilt, their skillful lawyers won an acquittal. A group of prominent citizens called for a mass protest meeting on March 14, 1891. Over 6,000 citizens came and listened to indignant speeches. One civil leader, attorney William Parkerson, told the crowd: “When the law is powerless the rights delegated by the people are relegated back to the people, and they are justified in doing that which the courts have failed to do.” Parkerson then led fifty men to the jail and, as authorities stood by, they killed eleven of the Italians. Most were shot inside the jail, but some were dragged outside where the crowd lynched them.
Three of the victims were Italian citizens, and the Italian government officially protested their deaths, and recalled the Italian Ambassador. A settlement was reached when the United States paid Italy an indemnity of 125,000 lire. Many New Orleans civic leaders denied having any animosity toward Italians, but there were violent anti-Italian incidents in Louisiana before and after 1891. Three Italians were lynched in 1896, and five more were murdered in 1899.
“Your name is very much before the public just now,” the correspondent remarked, as he was offered a seat.
“Yes; we had a thirty-minute experience that Saturday,” he said with a smile. “The most wonderful thing about it is that it was over so soon. I take more credit for that than anything else.”
He gave his version of the outbreak, bit by bit, and not without reluctance, although he seems to consider his work a public service.
“I did not take the initiative,” he said, in answer to questions. “I could not tell who did. It was all done by others. I was in court Friday morning in a distant building, attending to some business, and came back to this office after the verdict acquitting the Italians. When I got here I found a large number of citizens awaiting me, some of them old enough to be my grandfather. With those who came in afterward, there were perhaps sixty or seventy. They were talking about the outragious verdict, and told me they had come to ask me to take some measure to right it. After fifteen minutes’ conversation we adjourned to meet again that evening. I had no connection with the case beyond taking a good citizen’s interest in it, and dropping into court once or twice to see how it was getting along. That evening we met in the rooms of a young man, whose name I don’t care to give. There were about one hundred and fifty of us, among them the same men who were here in the morning. We stood up and were packed like sardines. They made me chairman. There was some more talking about the verdict and I was again appealed to. None of us drank anything and there were no refreshments in the room. We all signed a call that was published in the next morning’s papers, asking the citizens to assemble at 10 o’clock A.M., Saturday, at Clay statue, and saying that we would be prepared to carry out their instructions.”
“Meaning that you would be ready to kill the prisoners.”
“That was the feeling, we understood, of the public pulse. On Saturday I came to my office at 8:45, and at 9:45 started for the rendezvous at our friend’s room. I was a little ahead of time. Four or five of us went from there to the statue, where we found a muttering mob of many thousands. We walked around outside the railings two or three times to give our own people a chance to fall in. Then I went through the gate of the railings and up the steps. As soon as I took off my hat the people began to cheer. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I made a little speech, telling them we had a duty to perform; that it was the most terrible duty I had ever undertaken; that the law had miscarried, and that we were prepared to do whatever they desired. They shouted, ‘Come on!’ ”
“What did you understand from that?”
“That we were to go to the prison.”
“Did anybody say so in so many words?”
“Oh, it was known well enough. At the meeting on Friday night they tried to get me to the prison, but I refused to do anything that night. From the statue we started for the prison, I leading, and the crowd following us. We had to walk about a mile, and as we walked along, people came from side streets and fell into the procession. The women were crying, and the men were cheering. It was the most terrible thing I ever saw, the quiet determination of the crowd. There was no disorder. We stopped on the way at our friend’s room, where we found guns awaiting us. I had my own gun there. There were about one hundred and fifty Winchesters and shot-guns, I think, given out. I never carry a revolver, but that morning I put one in my pocket. I took a Winchester besides. At this moment I am unarmed. At the prison gate, Lem Davis, I think that is his name, came to the door. I asked him for the keys to let us in. He said he could not give them up, and we said if he did not we would break in the prison. He still refused, and I ordered the crowd to make ready to break, sent for some gunpowder, and also sent a detachment to break in at the side door, which was about a block away, the building being an immense one and covering more than a square of ground. Meantime, we got some wood and used it to batter the main door. That resisted, but the side door was forced. Then I went around to the side door, placed three men on guard, one a legal officer of this municipality, telling them whom to allow to enter, and asking the crowd to be orderly. The guards all had Winchesters.
The crowd was composed of lawyers, doctors, bankers, and prominent citizens generally. It was the most obedient crowd you ever saw. They obeyed me implicitly, just as if I was a military commander. If there was any riff-raff it was all on the outside. The intention had been not to shoot any of them, but when my men were inside—about fifty of them—they got very furious, and after the first taste of blood it was impossible to keep them back.”
“If you did not mean to shoot, why did you take the guns?”
“Because we did not know what resistance we might encounter from the officers in charge—from anybody. We meant to get into the prison, and we would have burned it down if necessary.”
“Did you kill anybody with your own hands?”
“No, I did not fire a shot. In fact, at the meeting the night before I had said that Matranga and another should be spared, the two declared innocent by Judge Baker, in whose integrity we had perfect confidence. I said I would defend these men with my own life if necessary, and they were not harmed.”
“Did it not strike you as not courageous to shoot the lot of unarmed men in a hole?”
“Well,” said the young lawyer, quietly, “there was no doubt of the courage of any man in our party. Of course, it is not a courageous thing to attack a man who is not armed, but we looked upon these as so many reptiles. Why, I was told that on Friday, after the verdict, the Italian fruit and oyster schooners along the wharfs hoisted the sicilian flag over the stars and stripes, and the prisoners themselves had an oyster supper.”
“Do you regret what you have done?” asked the correspondent after a pause.
“Not a bit,” said Parkerson, promptly. “This was a great emergency; greater than has ever happened in New York, Cincinnati, or Chicago. I did not act through a sentimental or personal interest for Hennessy. I knew him well, and asked Mayor Shakespeare to appoint him. He was a fine man and an efficient officer, and we felt that when he was killed there was no telling who would go next. While the Mafia confined itself to killing its own members we did not resort to violence. But Hennessy’s killing struck at the very root of American institutions. The intimidation of the Mafia and the corruption of our juries are to be met only with strong measures. Moreover, I recognize no power above the people. Under our constitution the people are the sovereign authority, and when the courts, the agents, fail to carry out the law the authority is relegated back to the people, who gave it. In this case I look upon it that we represented the people—not the people of the whole United States, perhaps, but the people of the state of Louisiana.…”