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NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN
Observations from Outside the Lines
By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@borg.com)
#315 NOVEMBER 15, 2003
THE DAY THAT SHOOK BASEBALL
Last issue, I strayed off the rocky, obstacle-filled trail of research and onto the smooth, paved road of fiction, with something I called The Day That Shook Baseball. This time, I'm staying on that new road, with Parts II and III.
After fourteen months of trying hard not to let my imagination run too wild, writing this is a fun exercise. (Notes got thru its first off-season on a steady diet of fiction, by the way, this is nothing new to Notes. But it's been a while.)
I am asking readers, as usual, to let me know if they find any errors, factual or otherwise. I am asking you to keep in mind that this is fiction -- one version of how things might have gone, on September 28, 1920. (Although I am using that watershed date as my framework, I plan to work in material from 1919, too.) I would like to hear from you if you think something strikes you as just too implausible -- or if you think it's right on. This is a work in progress (I've already revised Part I considerably). I really don't have anything special in mind here, except to see if I can carve an entertaining fiction out of all my research. As you will see, my emphasis is on dialog.
I might mention to newcomers that there are several fine works of fiction that revolve around the Series of 1919, and I recommend two: Blue Ruin by Brendan Boyd tells the tale from the viewpoint of the Boston gambler Sport Sullivan (of all people!) and will have you thinking in the dialect of 1919 in no time; and Hoopla by Harry Stein gives you the story from the perspectives of both Buck Weaver and a fictional composite reporter, Luther Pond. The NY Times blurb says, "If it's not the truth behind the Black Sox Scandal, then it ought to be." I make no boast that my version ought to be considered "the truth" -- all I'm shooting for is a reasonable version of things, that takes into account everything I know.
For a second straight week, I make no promises about having another installment or two in the next issue of Notes. But I usually finish what I start, and I do have a kind of outline. September 28 was a heck of a day, and there was so much going on, that all the flies on all the walls must have taken hours to swap their stories when the day ended. So sit back, and imagine you are one of those flies.
THE DAY THAT SHOOK BASEBALL
PARTS II & III (See NOTES #314 for PART ONE)
News of the Jimmy Isaminger interview with Billy Maharg in the Philadelphia North American reached Charles Comiskey via an early morning phone call from his lawyer, Alfred Austrian.
"Commy. Alfred. Seen the morning paper yet?"
"No, I'm just getting out of bed. What is it, did Cleveland lose? Are we in first?" Last October's World Series had set a new record for revenues, and visions of another October bonanza had been dancing in Comiskey's head for weeks.
"Commy, some two-bit gambler in Philly has spouted off to the press. Says he can pull the cat all the way out of the bag. He said the fix was Cicotte's idea."
"My office, eight o'clock. Bring Gleason and Grabiner."
Of course Comiskey knew about the fix. Charlie Weeghman returned from Saratoga in August 1919 with the word out in the gambling circles that the fix was in, come October. And it didn't matter which teams were in the Series, the gamblers had players on all of them. Of course, some would be easier to fix than others. Like the White Sox. They were the ideal team for the syndicates of New York and Boston and Des Moines and St Louis. They would be heavy favorites simply because they had the best team going, and had been to October before, having knocked off McGraw's Giants in 1917. And they were woefully underpaid by their owner, Comiskey, and his man, Harry Grabiner, who had the title of Secretary but functioned as Commy's General Manager.
Comiskey had told Grabiner to be thrifty, but Harry took that directive to the extreme. If he could get away with giving the Sox one less dollar for meal expenses, he would. If he could save a buck by having the players pay to clean their own uniforms, he would. In response, the players let the dirt build up, and that earned them the nickname "Black Sox." The team almost went on strike last summer. They all took pay cuts, because the owners all told their players that no one knew if the fans would return, after the war shortened the 1918 season. When the fans poured in, so did the revenues, but none of it trickled down to the players that the fans came to see. The manager, Kid Gleason took their case to Commy, but he just said no, and there was nothing the players could do. Times were tight, they needed their jobs, a strike was out of the question. But they would get even.
Long before they clinched the pennant, they were talking about it among themselves. Gandil knew people, so did Cicotte. People who often rewarded ballplayers for giving them inside information, tips that would help them decide how to place their bets. They might pay a small fortune if a group of players said they could guarantee the outcome of a Series. And if they didn't, the players could clean up betting against themselves. Either way, if everything broke right, they could double their lousy salaries, maybe triple what the winners' pot would be in the Series. They had heard that it had been done before, and nobody noticed a thing, because everybody thought baseball was the one sport that couldn't be fixed. But where there's a will....
A couple players told Comiskey they heard rumors of a fix before the Series started. The catcher, Ray Schalk, who was more management than Gleason, expressed his concern. Joe Jackson did, too, but Commy assured him that he had police everywhere. Then, after Game One, after Cicotte was shelled by the Reds in a 9-1 loss, the awful truth hit home. Gleason arrived at Commy's Cincinnati hotel room with a sack full of telegrams. Commy had his own collection, and they both agreed -- the fix was in.
* * * * *
The summons from Comiskey's lawyer to an urgent, impromptu meeting at eight o'clock in the morning startled Kid Gleason wide awake. It was hard the past weeks to keep his team focused on the ball games, with the distraction of the grand jury getting bigger each day. When Austrian told Kid that his ace right arm, Eddie Cicotte, had been implicated by a gambler, Kid's mind filled with four-letter words. Damn! Gleason muttered. Three lousy games to go and now this. Why couldn't that crumbovabitch Maharg have waited a week?
* * * * *
Kid Gleason's second year as manager of the White Sox had been as frustrating as the first had been exhilarating. With virtually the same team back -- Chick Gandil being the notable exception -- they should have been in front by a dozen games on September 28. But they weren't. Babe Ruth hit over fifty home runs, an unthinkable feat, to make New York contenders. And the Cleveland team was hitting over .300, with an ace who was on his way to over thirty wins. The pennant was still up for grabs.
The White Sox of 1920 was a Jeckll-and-Hyde bunch, and no one knew which team would show up on any given day. Gleason had moved Shano Collins from part-time outfield duty to fill Gandil's spot at first, and Collins came through, batting over .300. Eddie Collins was earning his big bucks, hitting near .370, and Joe Jackson was over .380, with twenty triples. Kid had a rotation with four twenty-game winners. But the season reminded him of nothing else so much as that damned World Series last October. Were they playing to win or not? Who was, who wasn't? It tortured Kid every time someone booted a ball, every time he took out a pitcher who was getting hit hard. He could no longer look them in the eyes. He loved his team, but at the same time he cursed them for creating this tension and doubt that filled every game.
The Series of 1919 should have been the Kid's crowning achievement after winning a pennant in his first try. Instead, it was nine days of sheer hell. Longer, really, because the rumors of a fix reached Kid before the first game. Telegrams from friends all over the country, who had been tipped off by friends, relatives, bookmakers, by their local police or aldermen. Everyone bet on the Series, it was tradition by now, and the daily papers carried the odds -- which swung wildly from the Sox being heavy favorites, to even money. The cover story was Eddie Cicotte's bum arm, but Kid knew Eddie was throwing just fine.
When he showed Cicotte and others the telegrams, they just laughed. "Happens every October, Kid. Ain't been a Series yet that was free of those kinds of rumors. And afterwards, those who lost bets will scream that the fix was in. No one wants to believe they just backed the wrong horse. There's nothing to those rumors, Kid, you'll see."
* * * * *
When Cicotte was knocked out of the first game, Kid still was hoping against hope that the rumors were wrong. But that night, he decided to pay Eddie a visit in his room at the Sinton. When he got there, he could hear arguing inside. He waited a few minutes, and heard exactly what he feared hearing most. Cicotte and some others had sold him out. The argument was over the fact that they had not received the $20,000 payoff they were promised. They were fuming mad, and Gandil and Risberg were having trouble keeping punches from being thrown.
So the Kid opened the door and joined the meeting. There were six men in the room: Cicotte, Gandil, Risberg, Williams, McMullin and Felsch. "What's the deal, fellas? And don't bullshit me, I been at the door a while now."
The players fell silent when the door swung open, and no one seemed able to break the silence. It hung in the air like the smoke of a cheap cigar, sickening everyone who breathed it in. Kid Gleason looked at each face, and as he did, each turned away. "Boys, I'll tell you what we're going to do. We are going to win this Series. Do that for me and tonight never happened. Now I want you all to leave this room, one at a time, and give me your word on the way out that whatever deals you made with however many gamblers, they're all off. If you can't look me in the eye and say that, then I'm taking off my coat and we'll argue about it with our fists until I make you swear, or else you kill me."
The six men had been turned into schoolboys, caught breaking a window in a baseball game, or stealing candy in the dime store. They looked at each other. Gandil was the first to approach Gleason. "Shake, Kid. I'm playing to win." Then Gandil left, and Risberg took his place in front of the manager.
Swede said nothing, but stared at Gleason hard for a while before extending his hand. Gleason took it with both of his and squeezed it tightly. "Good boy, Swede."
Williams was next, then McMullin and Felsch. "Happy, you don't look so good. Feeling OK?"
"Swallowed my chaw, Kid. Done it before, I'll be OK."
Eddie Cicotte was alone in his room now with Gleason. Kid closed the door and sat on the bed. Eddie took the chair and buried his head in his hands. He started crying until his body was heaving with sobs. He took a towel from the sink and kept it over his face until he at last calmed down.
"God, I can't tell you how sorry I am, Kid. This was a rotten thing to do. We have been thinking of ways to get back at Commy ever since he turned us down for that raise. You know we almost quit on him. God, I wish now we'd have gone on strike, instead of -- this."
"What's the deal, Eddie?"
"We agreed to toss it, Kid. Weeks ago, seems like years. Ever since we done it, it's gnawed at me. I've hardly slept, got no appetite. I almost threw up on the hill out there today, Kid, that's how sick this thing has made me. I should have just said no, like Bucky. But hell, I don't know how many summers I have left, Kid, this soup bone can go any time. One? Two? I got wife and kids, mortgage. Commy don't pay me half of what I deserve, you know that. Not half."
"How much?" Gleason wanted to know the price of self-respect these days.
"They give us ten thousand a couple days ago. But we had lots of deals going, with guys in all the big cities -- Boston, New York, Philly, Detroit, St Louis. The main group promised us a hundred thousand, twenty after each loss. Another group was supposed to give us eighty. Know what they give us? A big laugh, that's what. Kid, I don't think we're going to see another penny."
"Good," Gleason replied. "This Series. I'm told, is going to have the biggest pot yet for the winners. That'll have to do." Gleason held out his hand. Cicotte took it.
"Kid -- you can trust me out there, wait and see. Today, I was just sick, and the heat got to me. Listen, this is between you and me, OK? After I hit the first batter, it was like I'd been punched in the stomach. That's how it felt. I felt so ashamed, I -- I ain't never put a batter on on purpose before, Kid, 'cept for walks with first base open. That just went against my grain. And I decided right there that I couldn't go through with it. I swear to God, Kid, I was out there pitching to win today. But my mind was so messed up, it's a wonder I got anyone out. It's my fault ... I should have made you yank me sooner. I was trying so hard ... too hard, I guess. I -- "
"It's OK, Eddie. The main thing is, the fix is off. We can win this thing, it's best of nine. Eddie, you mentioned Buck. Anyone else in on this, anyone not here tonight?"
"Lefty says Joe Jackson, but no one has heard that from Joe, and he wasn't in on any of the planning we done. Didn't Joe ask you to bench him today?"
"He did -- that's why I asked. He said the only place he'd be safe was on the bench, said if he struck out or botched a ball out his way, that everyone would think he was in on it, with the rumors flying so thick everywhere. Of course I had to play him. I think he was trying too hard today, too, Eddie, like you. He was pressing hard. But he's too good, he'll loosen up. Eddie, get a good night's sleep. We can talk tomorrow about getting you boys some protection. The gamblers I know are not usually very cordial when they give up money and don't make more back, even if what they give is a sliver of what they said they'd give." Gleason finally let go of Cicotte's hand. He winked, and closed the door behind him. Walking away into the night, he crossed his fingers.
* * * * *
After hanging up on Austrian, Gleason dressed quickly and headed for the ballpark. As the taxi bumped along the streets of Chicago, he could hear the newsboys hawking headlines. "Read all about it! Philly gambler says Sox took a hundred G's to toss the Series! Read all about it! Cicotte named as ringleader!"
Kid recalled vividly scenes from last October. The meeting in Cicotte's room ... the team meetings in the clubhouse that followed ... each game replayed over and over ... so many plays that made him wonder, made everyone wonder ... are they playing to win or not? The Kid had continued to blame himself for sending out Lefty Williams in the eighth and final game, but after Eddie's terrific pitching in his last two starts ... and Lefty had a few bad innings, not games ... how was Gleason to know that the word had come down that Lefty would serve up the game to the Reds is the first inning, or risk losing his life, and his wife's?
The scenes moved in and out of his brain like they happened yesterday. Gleason wanted hard to believe that his players had made the deal, but backed out, and lost the Series because the Reds had more pitching, and the Sox played the games looking over their shoulders for thugs who knew they'd been double-crossed. In the end, he was certain of nothing. Players who would cheat could also lie. Kid had conceded that his boys had every right to feel like they deserved more money than Commy was willing to part with, but would they stoop to a sellout? They had played their asses off the last games, and if you judged them just by the bench-jockeying they mounted, they were trying from the start.
* * * * *
Harry Grabiner was already in his Comiskey Park office when Austrian called to tell him of the meeting. He was working out travel plans and hotel reservations, in case the White Sox won the pennant again. Getting in and out of Brooklyn would be a bit more challenging than Cincinnati was last October. Hmmm ... taking the trolleys instead of taxi cabs will save us so much per player ... multiply by three or four games ... The ringing phone interrupted his penny-pinching calculations.
"Harry? Comiskey's office at eight. Gleason's on his way. You see the headlines about Cicotte?"
"Yeah, I saw them. Alfred, that's a petty gambler who's been reading the papers and trying to figure out how to collect Commy's ten thousand dollar reward. There's nothing substantial there -- at least that's the way I read it."
"I hope you're right, Harry, but Commy wants a strategy session. Just in case things start hopping, y'know? We've controlled things fine up till now. But this grand jury is making waves. But we can talk later, with Kid and Commy."
Grabiner's gaze never left the figures on the pad on his desk, and he continued scribbling. "I'll be there, Alfred. Bring your law books."
"Harry, the law will not get us through this. I'll bring my brain, which, as you know is expensive because it is huge, and therefore worth every dollar. Bring your check book."
* * * * *
Comiskey was seated behind his desk when Gleason and Austrian entered his office and took chairs. A moment later, Harry Grabiner joined them.
"So glad you could make the long trip from your hideout, Harry," Comiskey growled at Grabiner. "Gentlemen, the news of the hour greatly troubles me. It appears that one of Ban Johnson's old friends has found a way to repay a favor."
"How's that, Commy?" Gleason asked.
"Johnson got Isaminger his job at the North American, Kid. And we all know that during the past year, Johnson has tapped his considerable network of press contacts, minor league coaches, New York lawyers, and anyone else he can think of, to scrape together something he can use to prove the last Series was crooked. Do you not believe Johnson has been guiding this grand jury, from the day he gave Judge McDonald the green light to convene it? Of course he has, and he's determined to come out of this a hero along with McDonald, taking full credit for finally ridding baseball of the gambling influence, and setting up McDonald to be the head of things. Of course, he'll be Johnson's puppet, so in fact, Johnson will remain the czar."
Austrian cut in. He had to. If Comiskey got talking about Ban Johnson, he could go on for hours. Once allies, Ban Johnson and Comiskey together had taken the old Western League and repaired it and grew it into the American league that successfully challenged the National, becoming itself not just a major league, but in many ways a superior one. Each franchise was now a potential millionaire-maker, and if the post-war prosperity that was now seen continued, there was no limit to the riches this sport could bring to the "magnates" who owned the teams. But Comiskey and Johnson were now as close as Sherlock Holmes and Moriarty, and their antagonism for each other poisoned the league meetings. Ban Johnson was a topic to avoid here.
"Commy, set aside Johnson for a minute. Let's take a look at where we are now. Here's what I'm thinking. If the grand jury was not ready to call in the players before, after Rube Benton's testimony, then this article in Philly will force them to at least talk with Cicotte. Is that going to be a problem?"
"Not if Cicotte sticks by the same story he's told reporters all season," Gleason said. "Eddie can be convincing. Convinced me. 'Course I wanted to be convinced, no manager wants to lose an ace like Eddie if there is any way at all to prevent it."
Grabiner asked, "Why would Cicotte confess to anything that cannot be proved against him?"
"Well, Harry, some people have what they call a conscience," Gleason answered. "Eddie happens to be one of those that has one. Ever since that grand jury was announced, I seen Eddie change. It's like he's going through a nervous breakdown, but real slow, like another piece comes loose every day. I seen guys break down before, and trust me, I think Eddie is cracking under the pressure of his having to keep quiet, while others are telling what they know."
Comiskey interrupted. "Kid, that reminds me -- did you get the word to Schalk to stay away from the press?"
"Done. He didn't like it, he really wants to testify, but he won't say another word without getting our OK first."
Comiskey continued to look at Gleason. "Good. Say, Kid, do you think you can fetch Eddie in here to talk with us? I think I'd like to hear what he is thinking of telling the grand jury, if they call him."
Austrian cut off Gleason before Kid could answer. "It's not if anymore, gentlemen, it's when. I wouldn't be surprised if they don't call on Eddie this morning as soon as they all take their seats. I agree with Commy, let's talk with Eddie first. Besides, no matter what he says, it will look good if we take him over to the courthouse, before they ask for him. Remember, what is said to the grand jury is privileged information, not public, and no matter how many leaks there are, they are just that, leaks. If we control the leaks, we control the perceptions of what was said behind those closed doors. And the first perceptions we need to control are those which show us delivering Cicotte."
The phone rang, and Comiskey answered it. "Sure, come on over," he said, then hung up. "That, my friends, was Eddie Cicotte. He said he went to church this morning and talked with his priest. And he has decided to go to the grand jury. But he agreed to stop by here and see us first."
Austrian then asked, "Which player is most likely to tell the truth?"
Gleason never hesitated. "Cicotte."
"Then," Austrian said, "I want to talk with him, alone, before Replogle and the others get to him. A little coaching can't hurt anything. Harry, meet Eddie at the gate and bring him directly to my office. Commy, Kid, if anyone asks -- and they will ask -- tell them Eddie was here and you told him to tell what he knew to the grand jury. Tell them it was our idea to call him in and escort him to the courthouse, to keep the reporters at bay. What Eddie says -- leave that to me."
"What are you going to advise him to say, Alfred," Gleason asked. He never quite trusted Austrian, or any lawyer, for that matter. The Kid was also uncomfortable in a suit, in an office. The dugout was his home.
"I'm going to instruct him to confess. It's what the grand jury wants to hear. It's what the reporters from New York and Boston and the rest want to hear. A confession will make headlines. But I think it might also save Eddie's skin. If he lets out the word that they double-crossed the gamblers, they might as well stand before a firing squad. But baseball fans are a forgiving bunch, look at how they cheered Hal Chase, after everything."
"But Chase was exonerated by Heydler, the fans thought he was acquitted, innocent," Gleason argued. "I'm not sure how forgiving the fans will be if Eddie says he played crooked."
"Look," Austrian explained, and his voice took on the tone of a teacher, spelling things out for a slow student. "What is most important is A, Eddie's life. We save Eddie's life not by having him say there was no fix, because in fact there are dozens or hundreds of gamblers out there, armed with guns, who think there was a fix, and that the Series was lost because of the players they paid. Why do you think we advised Cicotte and the others to keep the cash they got?
"Now B is Eddie's career. We will make him look as sympathetic as possible. He only has a few good years left in his arm anyway, I'm told. He confesses, so the grand jury can nail a few of the gamblers. They won't get anyone high up the tree, like Rothstein, they'll settle for the Maharg level, the ones who can't afford high-priced lawyers. That's business as usual. So we make Eddie a hero, he helped root out the crooks from baseball. And his motives were pure, he did it for love of the game."
"Will the grand jury give him immunity for his story?" Gleason asked. "Maybe that should be B."
"Uh ... no, Kid. Did you hear me say his motives were pure? I'll have Eddie waive his immunity. His testimony cannot be seen as part of some back-room bargain or secret deal, to escape jail time." Austrian looked at Comiskey, then Grabiner, then Gleason. He waited. Gleason scowled. But no one objected.
"Let's get our story straight then," Austrian moved on to his wrap-up. "Eddie came here, confessed, and we all sent him straight to the grand jury. Agreed?" Silence. "Harry, you will meet Eddie at the gate and bring him to my office, got that? To my office, not the grand jury. Tell him it's standard procedure to get the team's lawyer's advice. Tell him he's entitled to legal counsel."
Gleason interrupted. "Shouldn't Eddie have his own lawyer?"
Austrian frowned, and took on his teacher tone again. "Kid, Kid, Kid. I'm the lawyer for the White Sox, the whole White Sox family. Remember, we want to A, save Eddie's life, and B, his career."
"What's C?" snapped Gleason.
"Why, C is the franchise, Kid. It your jobs, your livelihoods. Those are worth saving, too, aren't they? If it means you lose a few players -- really, don't you think they'll just be suspended a while, or fined? It's not like their careers will be over forever. 'Remember Hal Chase,' that's our motto." Austrian stood as if the meeting would end with those words.
It did not. "Some motto," Gleason spit out at the lawyer.
III
Eddie Cicotte was surprised when Harry Grabiner met him at the ballpark gate. He was expecting to talk to Comiskey, alone, in his office. He wanted to apologize again for the embarrassment he had caused the team. He would tell Commy that he was on his way to the grand jury, to tell them the truth. The whole truth. Instead, Grabiner flagged down a cab and took him to the offices of Alfred Austrian. Harry walked beside Eddie, and a little behind, as if he was prepared to tackle the pitcher if he made a break. Grabiner delivered Cicotte to Austrian's anteroom, then went to tell the lawyer that he had completed his assignment.
"Come in, Eddie. Have a seat. Coffee?"
"Thanks, Mr Austrian. That would help."
"Here you go, Eddie," the lawyer said, filling a cup on a saucer and handing it to the pitcher. "Sit back and relax, Eddie, we have a lot to talk about."
"I don't want to be too long, sir ... I'd like to be there at the courthouse when the hearing starts up."
"Call me Alfred, Eddie. Now tell me, what are you planning to tell the grand jury?"
"The truth. That we planned to fix the Series, all right, but things went wrong. I can't speak for every player in on it, but I was trying to win after I hit the first batter. I know that will be hard to swallow, because I took two losses. But it's the truth."
"What else?"
"That the team knew about the fix from the start ... Kid will confirm that, if Commy lets him, that is. That Commy talked with some of us right after the series. I guess he argued with Gandil and decided he didn't want Chick back because of the names he called him, so he offered him a pay cut, while the rest of us got real good raises."
"What if they ask you about what was in the papers the other day, about the World Series checks being held back from eight players?"
"I'll say they was held back."
"And the team picked out those eight because ...?"
"Near as I can tell, it was because a paper printed those names right after the Series was over. Or else they got the names from their gambler friends, maybe Monte Tennes. I heard Gleason talked with some St Louis gamblers a couple days after the Series. I think they grabbed every name they heard, and judged all eight guilty until proven innocent."
"Were any of the eight innocent, Eddie? Were you?"
"I wasn't, I took money and told gamblers I'd lose for them. I helped Chick get some of the others to agree, too -- like Lefty. But Bucky never agreed to nothing and got no money. McMullin hardly got up to bat in the Series, but he was buddies with Chick and Swede, so they cut him in. I only have Lefty's word about Jackson. And Happy, who knows? I thought he was in, but he made some great catches. A couple of us played better ball in the Series than Eddie Collins, but no one suspected him."
"Did you ever think Eddie Collins was playing crooked?"
"Not really. But it was awful, no one knew what to think. We gave our word to the gamblers, then we gave it again to Gleason, and we never talked much with each other after that about which counted. I know Commy hired a detective to check bank accounts and to talk with Gandil in California ... Jackson said no dick ever bothered him in Savannah. But Grabiner went down there personally to sign him up for next season -- I guess Harry made all the rounds, except for Chick."
"Was that unusual, for Harry to meet with players before the new season?"
"Yes and no. The team usually mails out a contract, and if the player has no gripe, they mail it back. If they want to hold out, they tell the team that their offer is no good. Sometimes the team will raise the ante, but not often. As you know, the players got no leverage to bargain with. In the end, we have to take it or leave the game. But last winter, the funny thing was, when Harry delivered the contracts in person, they were all higher than anyone expected. But that was explained by Harry. He asked us all to be quiet about the fix. Said he understood that low paychecks was part of the problem last season, and Commy wanted to change that, so we could tell the gamblers to take a hike if they wanted to deal with us again."
"Can you prove Grabiner said that to each player?"
"No. But it's the truth."
"Eddie, let me tell you what I think you should say to the grand jury."
"I just told you what I'm going to say, I'm telling them the truth."
"Eddie, honesty is not always the best policy. Do you love your wife and kids?"
"What kind of sick question is that? Of course I do."
"You wouldn't want the missus to be a widow, would you, Eddie? Or your kids to grow up without a father?"
"What are you saying?"
"That the truth will likely make you a marked man, Eddie. This grand jury is out to put gamblers in jail. They don't care about hearing how this player played to win, and this one was in on the plans but got no money, and another one got money but hardly played, and no one knew for sure what was going on. All they want are the gamblers. The gamblers who gave thousands of dollars to ballplayers to toss the Series. You took money, Eddie, so did Jackson and Lefty and -- "
"But the team told us to keep that money. I know I was ready to give mine back, with interest, but Commy and Harry both told me to keep it. So did Gleason."
"They told you that, Eddie, because they were following my legal advice. And the advice I'm giving you now, Eddie, I'm giving for the very same reason. To save your life. And who knows how angry those mobsters will be if they hear you say you were playing to win, while taking their money to lose? They might even go after your wife and kids."
"No!"
"Yes, Eddie. That's the truth. That's the real world, Eddie. You have to live with the consequences of making deals with thugs. Cross them, and it could cost you your life. If they only broke your hands and legs, you'd be lucky."
Cicotte fell silent, pondering his predicament from the new angle. It seemed so simple when he confessed to his priest that morning. "The truth will set you free, Eddie. After all these hellish months, your conscience will finally be clear. And in God's eyes, you'll be forgiven, ready to start a new life." Now, just an hour or so later, Eddie was confused again.
"Here's your story to the grand jury, Eddie. Tell them the Series was fixed. Don't get bogged down in the details. Tell them it was fixed, so they don't think this whole thing is a waste of their time. You don't have to talk about other players, just give them some of the gamblers' names. Don't mention Rothstein, that could get you killed. Stick to the little guys, like this Maharg in Philly. Who else?"
"Sleepy Bill Burns. He was a chum of Maharg's. There were lots of others but I don't know all the names. Maybe Attell, they'll ask about him because Maharg named him."
"Two or three will be fine, Eddie. When you talk to the grand jury, I want you to keep one thing in mind. Whatever you say may or may not be leaked to the press. But the underworld will definitely hear every word you say. Trust me, they will. And I've heard that Rothstein has ways of erasing from the evidence any testimony implicating himself in any crime. I'm told that he can make witnesses disappear, too, if they say the wrong thing."
"I understand. OK, we got paid to lose and we lost. Can I at least say that I played to win?"
"I think you can say that, Eddie, but those two losses -- I just don't know if they will believe you."
"Any more advice?"
"Yes, Eddie. Not a word about the team knowing about the fix during the Series, or paying anyone off to be quiet about it, or keeping what they knew to themselves. That would look like you were trying to bring down Comiskey and the team, Eddie. You know how popular Commy is in Chicago -- he could be mayor, if he wanted. And the reporters love him, they might as well be on his payroll ... the way he wines and dines them after the games.... Better to focus on yourself, and let Commy speak for himself. This might all go away sooner than you think, Eddie. Remember Hal Chase -- what you did isn't a fraction of that fellow's sins. I'm not saying you'll get off light -- to be honest, I think they will suspend you, maybe fine you, but if you come across as sincere and cooperative, as someone on their side in this crusade to cleanse baseball of the gambling menace, then you might even be a hero, Eddie. Can you imagine that?"
"No, sir, I can't. I'm no hero, what I done was wrong. But I'm ready to pay for it and start all over, make a fresh start."
"Good. Now I need you to sign this little paper and then I'll go over to the courthouse with you. We have plenty of time, they won't convene for another half hour."
"What's this?" Eddie read the paper Austrian had handed to him. Waiver of Immunity, the heading went.
"It's just a legal formality, Eddie, trust me. It'll save time if you sign it here instead of at the courthouse. Everybody signs it, Eddie, or they won't let you testify. Here's a pen. Now don't worry about a thing, we'll take care of you. I'll put in a good word with the judge. You'll do just fine over there."
Cicotte signed the waiver and Austrian took it, folded it carefully and tucked it inside his suit. Done, the lawyer said to himself. Done, the pitcher prayed. Thy will be done.