For the Thrill of It: Leopold, Loeb, and the Murder That Shocked Jazz Age Chicago by Simon Baatz Page A
Authors: Simon Baatz
Tags: United States, General, History, Biography & Autobiography, True Crime, 20th Century, Biography, Non-Fiction, Chicago, State & Local, Law, Murderers, Murder, Criminals & Outlaws, Case studies, Legal History, WI), Illinois, Midwest (IA, ND, NE, IL, IN, OH, MO, MN, MI, KS, SD
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night. He had not yet heard that both Nathan and Richard had confessed. Darrow, like everyone else in Chicago who knew the families, found it difficult to believe that they were the murderers.
“But they are not guilty…. Their innocence should not be difficult to prove.”
“No, no!” Loeb cried out in frustration. “Dickie and Babe confessed….”
“Then what can I do?”
“Save their lives! Get them a life sentence instead of a death sentence. That’s all we ask of you.” Jacob Loeb clutched at the attorney’s arm. “Money’s no object. We’ll pay you anything you ask. Only for God’s sake, don’t let them be hung.” 24
W HILE J ACOB L OEB WAS IMPLORING Clarence Darrow to save them from the gallows, Richard and Nathan were having breakfast in Daly’s Restaurant on 63rd Street. Richard had had another restless night in the prison cell: his eyes were puffy and his face was pale and drawn. He sipped a cup of black coffee moodily—his food lay on his plate, untouched.
Richard stared glumly across the table at Nathan. It irritated him that the other boy was always so chipper; even now, Nathan was laughing and joking, bantering with the police escort, flirting with the blond waitress, and asking for a second plate of scrambled eggs. One would have thought Nathan had not a care in the world.
The chief of detectives, Michael Hughes, had finished his own breakfast, and now he was looking apprehensively at the crowd gathering outside the restaurant—news had obviously spread through the neighborhood that the police had brought Leopold and Loeb there. He looked at his watch—it was already nine-thirty, and Robert Crowe wanted the boys back at the Criminal Court Building by noon. It was time to go. Nathan was now munching a jelly doughnut and drinking a cup of coffee; as soon as he had finished, Hughes announced, they would be on their way. 25
Crowe had asked Hughes to search for the two pieces of evidence that had eluded the police the previous day: the Underwood typewriter, thrown into the harbor at Jackson Park; and the belt belonging to Bobby Franks, hidden in grass near Hessville. It was only a short drive from the restaurant across to Jackson Park, and Hughes was optimistic that they would pick up the typewriter that morning. He had already directed police divers to the spot where Nathan had thrown it; the divers would be waiting for them at the harbor.
Three thousand spectators waited at the outer edge of the harbor. The crowd stirred when it saw the long cavalcade of black cars pull up; then, as Nathan Leopold stepped out of one car, followed by Richard Loeb from a second car, a roar of recognition flashed around the crowd, a deafening cheer as everyone pointed and waved and shouted at the two murderers. 26
Nathan leaned over the parapet. He had thrown the typewriter as far as possible—he guessed that it had landed about fifteen feet from the bridge. He pointed to the spot. The diver disappeared into the water, and the crowd waited, but the thick mud at the bottom of the harbor was impenetrable.
Michael Hughes signaled to Walter Sullivan, a reporter for the Chicago Herald and Examiner , and to Morrow Krum of the Chicago Daily Tribune . The police cars would leave shortly for the drive to Hessville; would they like to ride in the cars with the two prisoners?
The relationship between the police and journalists in Chicago during the 1920s was one of mutual dependence. The reporters would write favorably of the police department in its war against crime, and in return the police would grant access to criminals, supply the newspapers with valuable information, and leak important tidbits about sensational trials. Hughes had known Sullivan and Krum, both veteran journalists, for many years. They were reliable allies who could be trusted to write well of his men.
Michael Hughes knew also that in allowing the reporters access to Nathan and Richard, he might help the two prisoners convict themselves
“But they are not guilty…. Their innocence should not be difficult to prove.”
“No, no!” Loeb cried out in frustration. “Dickie and Babe confessed….”
“Then what can I do?”
“Save their lives! Get them a life sentence instead of a death sentence. That’s all we ask of you.” Jacob Loeb clutched at the attorney’s arm. “Money’s no object. We’ll pay you anything you ask. Only for God’s sake, don’t let them be hung.” 24
W HILE J ACOB L OEB WAS IMPLORING Clarence Darrow to save them from the gallows, Richard and Nathan were having breakfast in Daly’s Restaurant on 63rd Street. Richard had had another restless night in the prison cell: his eyes were puffy and his face was pale and drawn. He sipped a cup of black coffee moodily—his food lay on his plate, untouched.
Richard stared glumly across the table at Nathan. It irritated him that the other boy was always so chipper; even now, Nathan was laughing and joking, bantering with the police escort, flirting with the blond waitress, and asking for a second plate of scrambled eggs. One would have thought Nathan had not a care in the world.
The chief of detectives, Michael Hughes, had finished his own breakfast, and now he was looking apprehensively at the crowd gathering outside the restaurant—news had obviously spread through the neighborhood that the police had brought Leopold and Loeb there. He looked at his watch—it was already nine-thirty, and Robert Crowe wanted the boys back at the Criminal Court Building by noon. It was time to go. Nathan was now munching a jelly doughnut and drinking a cup of coffee; as soon as he had finished, Hughes announced, they would be on their way. 25
Crowe had asked Hughes to search for the two pieces of evidence that had eluded the police the previous day: the Underwood typewriter, thrown into the harbor at Jackson Park; and the belt belonging to Bobby Franks, hidden in grass near Hessville. It was only a short drive from the restaurant across to Jackson Park, and Hughes was optimistic that they would pick up the typewriter that morning. He had already directed police divers to the spot where Nathan had thrown it; the divers would be waiting for them at the harbor.
Three thousand spectators waited at the outer edge of the harbor. The crowd stirred when it saw the long cavalcade of black cars pull up; then, as Nathan Leopold stepped out of one car, followed by Richard Loeb from a second car, a roar of recognition flashed around the crowd, a deafening cheer as everyone pointed and waved and shouted at the two murderers. 26
Nathan leaned over the parapet. He had thrown the typewriter as far as possible—he guessed that it had landed about fifteen feet from the bridge. He pointed to the spot. The diver disappeared into the water, and the crowd waited, but the thick mud at the bottom of the harbor was impenetrable.
Michael Hughes signaled to Walter Sullivan, a reporter for the Chicago Herald and Examiner , and to Morrow Krum of the Chicago Daily Tribune . The police cars would leave shortly for the drive to Hessville; would they like to ride in the cars with the two prisoners?
The relationship between the police and journalists in Chicago during the 1920s was one of mutual dependence. The reporters would write favorably of the police department in its war against crime, and in return the police would grant access to criminals, supply the newspapers with valuable information, and leak important tidbits about sensational trials. Hughes had known Sullivan and Krum, both veteran journalists, for many years. They were reliable allies who could be trusted to write well of his men.
Michael Hughes knew also that in allowing the reporters access to Nathan and Richard, he might help the two prisoners convict themselves