front of American embassies in Portugal, Ecuador, Uruguay and Venezuela and a cry of condemnation from public figures worldwide. In life, Chessman might have been a violent petty criminal. But in death – and in his preparation for it – his name was amongst the best-known on the planet.
Part of the reason for the outcry was that, so far as was known, Chessman had never killed anyone. Yes, he’d been a criminal from his teens: he’d served time for robbery and escape. But the crimes that had taken him to Death Row were acts of what were called, in the prim language of the times, ‘sexual perversion,’ forced on two young women he abducted from their cars in the hills above Hollywood in January 1948. The two victims provoked enormous sympathy, of course: one was a married polio sufferer who’d only recently come out of hospital; and the second, a teenager, was later consigned to a mental asylum as irredeemably troubled – she was still there when Chessman was executed.
The evidence, for its part, was more or less watertight. But Chessman had the whole law book thrown at him. He was convicted on seventeen charges in all, including two under what was known in California as the ‘little Lindbergh Law,’ which covered ‘kidnapping with intent to rob with bodily harm’. It was these that carried the death penalty.
For twelve years, from 1948 onwards, Chessman literally fought for his life – it became his career. He wrote a novel and three other books about his experiences – one of which, Cell 2455 Death Row , became a best-seller. With money from royalties and with the prison library as his basic resource, he launched suit after suit in state and federal courts, attempting to show that he’d been denied due process. The California attorney-general disagreed. But, though Chessman’s execution-date was seven times set, he was reprieved seven times by judges in different jurisdictions, including the US Supreme Court.
By the time of his seventh reprieve, Chessman had become famous, a hero, a totem of anti-American sentiment across the globe; and he even played a part, to some degree, in affairs of state. For his eighth reprieve – ten hours before he was again due to die in February 1960 – was granted on the grounds that President Eisenhower would have to face hostile demonstrations on an official visit to Uruguay if he were executed.
It’s hard now to imagine the crescendo of outrage that slowly built up around Chessman’s case. Telegrams poured in from across the world: from Belgium’s Queen Mother; from parliamentarians, Quakers, veterans, private individuals – at least one of whom offered to take Chessman’s place in the gas chamber. Two million Brazilians signed a petition; even the Vatican newspaper launched a withering attack. Cowed by all this, the governor of California called his legislators together in a special session to consider the outlawing of the death penalty, and even released a long letter from Chessman, in which he’d said he’d be willing to die in return for its abolition.
It wasn’t to be. There was no ninth reprieve, and Chessman was gassed to death, in front of sixty witnesses, on May 2nd 1960. In a statement released after his death, he said:
‘In my lifetime I was guilty of many crimes, but not those for which my life was taken.’
He added:
‘Now that the state has had its vengeance, I should like to ask the world to consider what has been gained.’
D.B. Cooper
‘Dan Cooper,’ said the man in the black raincoat when asked his name by the ticket agent. It was the day before Thanksgiving in 1971, and he was buying a seat on a flight between Portland and Seattle. He looked like a regular businessman – short-haired, neat, close-shaven, well-spoken – but whoever he was he turned out in the end to be anything but. For once the Boeing 727 had taken off, Dan Cooper – or D.B. Cooper, as he came to be known from mistaken early newspaper reports – handed a flight
Part of the reason for the outcry was that, so far as was known, Chessman had never killed anyone. Yes, he’d been a criminal from his teens: he’d served time for robbery and escape. But the crimes that had taken him to Death Row were acts of what were called, in the prim language of the times, ‘sexual perversion,’ forced on two young women he abducted from their cars in the hills above Hollywood in January 1948. The two victims provoked enormous sympathy, of course: one was a married polio sufferer who’d only recently come out of hospital; and the second, a teenager, was later consigned to a mental asylum as irredeemably troubled – she was still there when Chessman was executed.
The evidence, for its part, was more or less watertight. But Chessman had the whole law book thrown at him. He was convicted on seventeen charges in all, including two under what was known in California as the ‘little Lindbergh Law,’ which covered ‘kidnapping with intent to rob with bodily harm’. It was these that carried the death penalty.
For twelve years, from 1948 onwards, Chessman literally fought for his life – it became his career. He wrote a novel and three other books about his experiences – one of which, Cell 2455 Death Row , became a best-seller. With money from royalties and with the prison library as his basic resource, he launched suit after suit in state and federal courts, attempting to show that he’d been denied due process. The California attorney-general disagreed. But, though Chessman’s execution-date was seven times set, he was reprieved seven times by judges in different jurisdictions, including the US Supreme Court.
By the time of his seventh reprieve, Chessman had become famous, a hero, a totem of anti-American sentiment across the globe; and he even played a part, to some degree, in affairs of state. For his eighth reprieve – ten hours before he was again due to die in February 1960 – was granted on the grounds that President Eisenhower would have to face hostile demonstrations on an official visit to Uruguay if he were executed.
It’s hard now to imagine the crescendo of outrage that slowly built up around Chessman’s case. Telegrams poured in from across the world: from Belgium’s Queen Mother; from parliamentarians, Quakers, veterans, private individuals – at least one of whom offered to take Chessman’s place in the gas chamber. Two million Brazilians signed a petition; even the Vatican newspaper launched a withering attack. Cowed by all this, the governor of California called his legislators together in a special session to consider the outlawing of the death penalty, and even released a long letter from Chessman, in which he’d said he’d be willing to die in return for its abolition.
It wasn’t to be. There was no ninth reprieve, and Chessman was gassed to death, in front of sixty witnesses, on May 2nd 1960. In a statement released after his death, he said:
‘In my lifetime I was guilty of many crimes, but not those for which my life was taken.’
He added:
‘Now that the state has had its vengeance, I should like to ask the world to consider what has been gained.’
D.B. Cooper
‘Dan Cooper,’ said the man in the black raincoat when asked his name by the ticket agent. It was the day before Thanksgiving in 1971, and he was buying a seat on a flight between Portland and Seattle. He looked like a regular businessman – short-haired, neat, close-shaven, well-spoken – but whoever he was he turned out in the end to be anything but. For once the Boeing 727 had taken off, Dan Cooper – or D.B. Cooper, as he came to be known from mistaken early newspaper reports – handed a flight
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