Time after time they gave answers that were like nails to seal my doom, yet each thought she was assisting me.
J.J. saw how their testimony could be turned to our advantage.
He asked, “How many miscarriages have you had? How much sickness in your family? How much does your husband earn?” The answers were seven, eight, nine dollars a week.
At last one woman more miserable and more poverty-stricken than the rest was summoned. “How many children have you?”
“Eight and three that didn’t live.”
“What does your husband earn?”
“Ten dollars a veek—ven he vorks.”
Judge Freschi finally exclaimed, “I can’t stand this any longer,” and the court adjourned over the week-end.
J.J. was jubilant, because he said there was nothing for him to do; the court was arguing his case for him.
I myself was feeling a little conscience-smitten. A mass meeting of sympathizers had been organized by the Committee of One Hundred for that evening in Carnegie Hall, and I went straight there from the courtroom. I had a speech ready in which I said we were being persecuted, not prosecuted; that the judges were no better than witch-burners. It was unfortunate, but copies had already been released to the press and the wording could not be changed.