[1] In justice to the Prosecuting Attorney it must be added that over two years after the trial he apologized to the writer in the presence of Judge John J. Freschi, at the Press Club.
THE TOMBS PRISON
The next thing I remember is being "frisked," as they say in prison parlance, when the keeper looks through the prisoner's pockets for contraband.
They lead me to my cell and the iron doors clang behind me. A deep sigh of relief escapes me. The terrific mental strain of the last ten months, the long and sleepless nights of vigil, the knowledge of impending danger, have been blown away like an unhealthy mist, and I feel calm, secure, safely barred beyond the reach of the Mexican Czar's sicarii and thugs.
The necessary things for comfort are sent by kind friends, and I inspect my future abode.
The cell is spacious, enclosed on three sides by solid steel; air, light and ventilation come through the bars; two iron beds are attached to chains on one side and let down at night; there is running water for washing, drinking and sanitary purposes. An electric bulb and a small wooden bench complete the furniture.
The first thing in the morning I make the acquaintance of a prisoner who eagerly offers to become my guide and monitor.
We walk around the spacious corridor which surrounds the prison proper like an ellipse, and by a connecting gallery cuts it in half like number 8. Three tiers of steel cages go up to the ceiling and can be observed by standing close to the wall opposite our cells.