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  A Death in Canaan

  Joan Barthel

  For Jim and Anne.

  Their book too.

  Introduction

  by

  William Styron

  Toward the end of Joan Barthel’s excellent study of crime and justice, Judge John Speziale—the jurist who presided over Peter Reilly’s trial and who later granted Peter a new trial—is quoted as saying: “The law is imperfect.” As portrayed in this book, Judge Speziale appears an exemplary man of the law, as fair and compassionate a mediator as we have any right to expect in a system where all too many of his colleagues are mediocre or self-serving or simply crooked. Certainly his decision in favor of a retrial—an action in itself so extraordinary as to be nearly historic—was the product of a humane and civilized intellect. Judge Speziale is one of the truly attractive figures in this book, which, although it has many winning people among its dramatis personae, contains more than one deplorable actor. And the judge is of course right: the law is imperfect. His apprehension of this fact is a triumph over the ordinary and the expected (in how many prisons now languish other Peter Reillys, victims of the law’s “imperfections” but lacking Peter’s many salvaging angels?), and is woven into his most honorable decision to grant Peter a new trial. But though he doubtless spoke from the heart as well as the mind and with the best intentions, the judge has to be found guilty of an enormous understatement.

  The law (and one must assume that a definition of the law includes the totality of its many arms, including the one known as law enforcement) is not merely imperfect, it is all too often a catastrophe. To the weak and the underprivileged the law in all of its manifestations is usually a punitive nightmare. Even in the abstract the law is an institution of chaotic inequity, administered so many times with such arrogant disdain for the most basic principles of justice and human decency as to make mild admissions of “imperfection” sound presumptuous. If it is true that the law is the best institution human beings have devised to mediate their own eternal discord, this must not obscure the fact that the law’s power is too often invested in the hands of mortal men who are corrupt, or, if not corrupt, stupid, or if not stupid then devious or lazy, and all of them capable of the most grievous mischief. The case of Peter Reilly, and Joan Barthel’s book, powerfully demonstrate this ever-present danger and the sleepless vigilance ordinary citizens must steadfastly keep if the mechanism we have devised for our own protection does not from time to time try to destroy even the least of our children.

  Naturally the foregoing implies, accurately, that I am convinced of Peter Reilly’s innocence. I had begun to be convinced of at least the very strong possibility of his innocence when I first read Mrs. Barthel’s article in the magazine New Times early in 1974. I happened on the article by sheerest chance, perhaps lured into reading it with more interest than I otherwise might have by the fact that the murder it described took place in Canaan, hardly an hour’s drive away from my home in west-central Connecticut. (Is there not something reverberantly sinister, and indicative of the commonplaceness of atrocity in our time, that I should not until then have known about this vicious crime so close at hand and taking place only a few months before?) The Barthel article was a stark, forceful, searing piece, which in essence demonstrated how an eighteen-year-old boy, suspected by the police of murdering his mother, could be crudely yet subtly (and there is no contradiction in those terms) manipulated by law enforcement officers so as to cause him to make an incriminating, albeit fuzzy and ambiguous, statement of responsibility for the crime. What I read was shocking, although I did not find it a novel experience. I am not by nature a taker-up of causes but in the preceding twelve years I had enlisted myself in aiding two people whom I felt to be victims of the law. Unlike Peter, both of these persons were young black men.

  In the earlier of these cases the issue was not guilt but rather the punishment. Ben Reid, convicted of murdering a woman in the black ghetto of Hartford, had been sentenced to die in Connecticut’s electric chair. His was the classic case of the woebegone survivor of poverty and abandonment who, largely because of his disadvantaged or minority status, is the recipient of the state’s most terrible revenge. I wrote an article about Ben Reid in a national magazine and was enormously gratified when I saw that the piece helped significantly in the successful movement by a lot of other indignant people to have Ben’s life spared. The other case involved Tony Maynard, whom I had known through James Baldwin and who had been convicted and sentenced to a long term for allegedly killing a marine in Greenwich Village. I worked to help extricate Tony, believing that he was innocent, which he was—as indeed the law finally admitted by freeing him, but only after seven years of Tony’s incarceration (among other unspeakable adversities he was badly injured as an innocent bystander in the cataclysm at Attica) and a series of retrials in which his devoted lawyers finally demonstrated the wretched police collusion, false and perjured evidence, shady deals on the part of the district attorney’s office and other maggoty odds and ends of the law’s “imperfection,” which had caused his unjust imprisonment in the first place.

  These experiences, then, led me to absorb the Barthel article in New Times with something akin to a shock of recognition; horrifying in what it revealed, the piece recapitulated much of the essence of the law’s malfeasance that had created Tony Maynard’s seven-year martyrdom. It should be noted at this moment, incidentally, that Mrs. Barthel’s article was of absolutely crucial significance in the Reilly case, not only because it was the catalytic agent whereby the bulk of Peter’s bail was raised, but because it so masterfully crystallized and made clear the sinister issues of the use of the lie detector and the extraction of a confession by the police, thereby making Peter’s guilt at least problematical to all but the most obtuse reader. Precise and objective yet governed throughout, one felt, by a rigorous moral conscience, the article was a superb example of journalism at its most effective and powerful. (It was nearly inexcusable that this piece and its author received no mention in the otherwise praiseworthy report on the Reilly case published by The New York Times in 1975.) Given the power of the essay, then, I have wondered later why I so readily let Peter Reilly and his plight pass from my mind and my concern. I think it may have been because of the fact that since Peter was not black or even of any shade of tan he would somehow be exempt from that ultimate dungeon-bound ordeal that is overwhelmingly the lot of those who spring from minorities in America. But one need not even be a good Marxist to flinch at this misapprehension. The truth is simpler. Bad enough that Peter lived in a shacklike house with his “disreputable” mother; the critical part is this: he was poor. Fancy Peter, if you will, as an affluent day-student at Hotchkiss School only a few miles away, the mother murdered but in an ambience of coffee tables and wall-to-wall carpeting. It takes small imagination to envision the phalanx of horn-rimmed and button-down lawyers interposed immediately between Peter and Sergeant Kelly with his insufferable lie detector.

  This detestable machine, the polygraph (the etymology of which shows that the word means “to write much,” which is about all that can be said for it), is to my mind this book’s chief villain, and the one from which Peter Reilly’s most miserable griefs subsequently flowed. It is such an American device, such a perfect example of our blind belief in “scientism” and the efficacy of gadgets; and its performance in the hands of its operator—friendly, fatherly Sergeant Timothy Kelly, the mild collector of seashells—is also so American in the way it produces its benign but ruthless coercion. Like nearly all the law enforcement officers in this drama Sergeant Kelly is “
nice”; it is as hard to conceive of him with a truncheon or a blackjack as with a volume of Proust. Plainly neither Kelly nor his colleague Lieutenant Shay, who was actively responsible for Peter’s confession, are vicious men; they are merely undiscerningly obedient, totally devoid of that flexibility of mind we call imagination, and they both have a passionate faith in the machine. Kelly especially is an unquestioning votary. “We go strictly by the charts,” he tells an exhausted boy. “And the charts say you hurt your mother last night.”

  In a society where everything sooner or later breaks down or goes haywire, where cars fall apart and ovens explode and vacuum cleaners expire through planned obsolescence (surely Kelly must have been victim, like us all, of the Toastmaster), there is something manic, even awesome, about the sergeant’s pious belief in the infallibility of his polygraph. And so at a point in his ordeal Peter, tired, confused, only hours removed from the trauma of witnessing his mother’s mutilated body, asks: “Have you ever been proven totally wrong? A person, just from nervousness, responds that way?” Kelly replies: “No, the polygraph can never be wrong, because it’s only a recording instrument, reacting to you. It’s the person interpreting it who could be wrong. But I haven’t made that many mistakes in twelve years, in the thousands of people who sat here, Pete.” Such mighty faith and assurances would have alone been enough to decisively wipe out a young man at the end of his tether. Add to this faith the presumed assumption of Peter’s guilt on the part of the sergeant, and to this the outrageously tendentious nature of his questioning, and it is no wonder that a numb and bedraggled Peter was a setup for Lieutenant Shay, whose manner of extracting a confession from this troubled boy must be deemed a triumph of benevolent intimidation. Together the transcripts of the polygraph testimony and Peter’s confession—much of which is recorded in this book—have to comprise another one of those depressing but instructive scandals that litter the annals of American justice.

  Yet there is much more in the case of Peter Reilly, set down on these pages in rich detail, which makes it such a memorable and unique affair. What could be more harmoniously “American,” in the best sense of that mangled word, than the spectacle of a New England village rising practically en masse to come to the support of one of their own young whom they felt to be betrayed and abandoned? Mrs. Barthel, who lived with this case month in and month out during the past few years, and who got to know well so many of Peter’s friends and his surrogate “family,” tells this part of the story with color, humor, and affection; and her feeling for the community life of a small town like Canaan—with its family ties and hostilities, its warmth and crankiness and crooked edges—gives both a depth and vivacity to her narrative; never is she lured into the purely sensational. As in every story of crime and justice, the major thrust of the drama derives from its central figures, and they are all here: not only the law’s automata—the two “nice” cops whose dismal stratagems thrust Peter into his nightmare at the outset—but the judge, prosecutor and counsel for the defense. Regarding these personages, Mrs. Barthel’s art most often and tellingly lies in her subtle selectivity—and her onlooker’s silence. What she allows the State’s Attorney, Mr. Bianchi, simply to utter with his own lips, for instance, says more about Mr. Bianchi and the savagery of a certain genus of prosecutorial mind than any amount of editorializing or speculative gloss. As for the fascinating aftermath of the trial—Arthur Miller’s stubborn and deservedly celebrated detective work in company with the redoubtable Mr. Conway, the brilliantly executed labors of the new defense counsel, the discovery of fresh evidence that led to the order for another trial, and other matters—all of these bring to a climax an eccentric, tangled, significant and cautionary chronicle of the wrongdoing of the law and its belated redemption.

  Joan Barthel’s book would deserve our attention if for no other reason than that it focuses a bright light on the unconscionable methods, which the law, acting through its enforcement agencies, and because of its lust for punishment, uses to victimize the most helpless members of our society. And thus it once again shows the law’s tragic and perdurable imperfection. It also reminds us that while judicial oppression undoubtedly falls the heaviest on those from minority groups, it will almost as surely hasten to afflict the poor and the “unrespectable,” no matter what their color. But rather triumphantly, and perhaps most importantly, A Death in Canaan demonstrates the will of ordinary people, in their ever astonishing energy and determination, to see true justice prevail over the law’s dereliction.

  PART ONE

  1

  When Barbara died, some of the news stories described her house as a little white cottage. The phrase made the place sound picturesque, as if it were one of the many charming cottages tucked into the northwestern corner of Connecticut, nestled against the mountains.

  But the little house where Barbara and Peter lived was drab and boxy, set very close to the road. Once it had been a diner. It didn’t nestle against the mountain, although the mountain was there, a rugged hulk behind the house. At night, especially, the setting was desolate and lonely.

  On the north side of the house, stretching toward the town of Canaan, five miles away, there was a swamp with some scrubby evergreens, a few birches, and a billboard stuck in the marsh. On the south side, the owners of the property lived in a big old Colonial house that was only partly used, the rest of it closed off and musty. Past the big house, several houses were scattered down the road. There were no houses across the road, only a gas station. During the day, when Peter was in school, Barbara sometimes wandered over there, to have somebody to talk to. She was there talking when Peter came home from school on the day she died.

  Although the house was small, it wasn’t cozy, just cramped. There was one bedroom, ten by twelve feet, where Barbara and Peter slept in bunk beds. There were no table lamps in the bedroom, just a naked ceiling bulb, so Barbara put a clamp-on light by the top bunk for reading. She loved to read, especially mysteries. She went to the Falls Village Library regularly, two mornings a week, and when she died, she left two books overdue.

  The front door of the house opened directly into the living room, also ten by twelve feet. A person coming through the front door could easily see the bunks in the bedroom just by looking to the right.

  Beyond the bedroom was a bathroom, a closet, and a back door leading outside. To get to the bathroom or the back door, it was necessary to walk through the bedroom. The back door was kept locked, except when Barbara washed clothes in the bathtub and took them out to hang on the line, or when Peter took his bike out. Since Barbara rarely did laundry, and since Peter, once he got his driver’s license, almost never rode his bike, the door stayed locked and unused. The night Barbara died, the door was unlocked and standing partly open.

  As cramped and cluttered as the house always was, Peter was used to it. It was home. Peter was still a child, just turned twelve, when he and Barbara moved in. When she died, he was eighteen, legally a man, so he had spent some important years growing up in the little house. Besides, Peter was the kind of person who got used to things. He seemed to take life pretty much as it came. Barbara was a casual person, and Peter was too. “My mom never got uptight about anything,” he said. “I got used to playing everything by ear. I think things work out best that way, myself. Things work out; they always do. Just give it time.”

  It never seemed to bother Peter, for example, that his last name was different from Barbara’s.

  “She just picked my name right out of the air,” Peter explained. “I don’t know who my father was, and I don’t think anyone knows it. When I was old enough to understand, about fourteen, my mom told me what happened. She told me—this may shock you—she told me that she was raped in Van Cortland Park when she lived in New York. But she felt I should have my own name, so she picked a name she liked, and she said, ‘Peter Anthony Reilly. That’s what his name is going to be.’

  “She got up so early in the morning,” Peter marveled. “I need twelve hours sleep, but sh
e’d be up at four-thirty or five, just as refreshed. Wide awake! First thing I’d hear, when I got up at a quarter to seven, was Bob Steele on the radio, lots of old music and old jokes. That was too early in the morning for me, but my mom used to get out her pen and paper and write down the jokes and tell them to me when I got home from school. By then I was awake. I remember this one: Two caterpillars crossing the road. A butterfly goes over their heads. One caterpillar looks up and says, ‘You’ll never get me up in one of those things.’

  “Sunday mornings, my mom would drive over to Mansfield’s General Store. They had fresh-baked bread on Sunday morning, and she’d get The New York Times too. All Sunday afternoon she’d read The New York Times. She liked the Double-Crostic. She could do any kind of puzzles, upside down or rightside up. She was something else. She was reading better when she was five than I am now. She knew opera, you name it. She was terrific.”

  Barbara was casual about Peter’s school work, so he was, too. But it bothered her, when he started high school, that he didn’t like to read. “Let’s just read one book,” Barbara said to Peter. “I know you’ll enjoy it.” So she took him to the Falls Village Library and got Tarzan of the Apes. Sure enough, Peter was interested. “I read it and I thought, ‘That was pretty good,’” Peter recalled. “So I began to read more. I could read a book a week and report on it pretty well. In Modern Literature you could read anything you wanted to, so I read James Bond, and I got eighty-five on it.”

  Once Barbara had got Peter off to school, she didn’t have much to do. She hadn’t worked for several years, since she was fired from her job at an insurance agency. Barbara always drank a lot, and after she stopped working, she drank more. She spent most of her time reading, and writing, and drinking. As time went on, Barbara seemed more and more adrift.