My lawyer, K——, runs out. He is to try to get a certificate of reasonable doubt, which acts as a stay of sentence; otherwise I would be taken early in the morning to the penitentiary.
While these proceedings are going on, I am temporarily transferred to the old prison, which is full of crawling parasites. Luckily, however, in a few hours I am returned to my cell in the Tombs to wait until the certificate is either granted or denied. But the certificate is refused, of course, as I knew it would be, and as I think my lawyer knew it would be. It was a forlorn hope.
In the evening a letter is brought to me and I am asked to sign for it. It is written in Spanish and is an attack on Vice-President Corral of Mexico, who is accused of having furnished me with money to publish "Diaz, Czar of Mexico," and then of leaving me in the lurch. This piece of Spanish fiction is inspired by a bitter enemy of Corral in the hope of eliminating Corral as a Vice-Presidential candidate. But I refuse to sign the letter.
Another fairy tale comes directly from the District Attorney's office; I am told that they know that President Cabrera of Guatemala, a bitter enemy of Porfirio Diaz, has furnished me with $5,000 to publish my libelous pamphlet.
A friend arrives from Mexico and brings an oral message from Ramon Corral, who inquires if I have empowered an agent to negotiate the sale of my book for $50,000, as he doubts the statement. A letter is written advising the Vice-President that he is right in his surmise, and that the alleged agent is only trying to get money under false pretences.
A labor leader visits me offering financial help in my fight. As money will not be needed in the penitentiary, I suggest that an investigation might be started in Congress into the persecutions of Mexican liberals by American officials in this country. The promise is made and fulfilled seven months later.
VII
Two sisters of mercy come to see the prisoners during the hours of exercise; they distribute fruit, and walk freely and unconcerned among the men, who seem to think a great deal of them. One of them has kindly and intelligent looking eyes behind large, gold-rimmed spectacles, and speaks in the well modulated and authoritative voice of the woman of the world. Unlike other prison missionaries, they do not make religious propaganda by distributing tracts and pamphlets; their attitude is one of charity, humility and usefulness.
Protestant clergymen, rabbis, and even a theosophist, come to save us in spite of ourselves. Their attitude is one of aggressive virtue and militant religious contention—or contagion. A certain missionary is very indignant because I refuse to look at his tracts or listen to his childish twaddle; and finally becomes so arrogant and insulting that I have to order him away from my cell door.