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Executioner's Current: Thomas Edison, George Westinghouse, and the Invention of the Electric Chair - Hardcover

Moran, Richard

 
9780375410598: Executioner's Current: Thomas Edison, George Westinghouse, and the Invention of the Electric Chair
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0375410597 ISBN 13: 9780375410598
Verlag: Alfred a Knopf Inc, 2002

Inhaltsangabe

Tracing the origins and development of the electric chair, a story of industrial and political intrigue describes the battle between Thomas Edison and George Westinghouse for commercial control of electricity, the first use of electricity to execute a criminal, the legal battle that ensued over the punishment, and its long-term implications for the capital punishment debate. 20,000 first printing.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Richard Moran is professor of sociology at Mount Holyoke College and the author of Knowing Right from Wrong: The Insanity Defense of Daniel McNaughtan and numerous articles and reviews. He has also served as a commentator for National Public Radio’s “Morning Edition” and written op-eds for the Boston Globe, Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, Philadelphia Inquirer, Chicago Tribune, Christian Science Monitor, New York Times, and Newsweek.

Aus dem Klappentext

story of how the electric chair developed not out of the desire for a method of execution more humane than hanging but of an effort by one nineteenth century electric company to discredit the other.

In 1882, Thomas Edison launched the age of electricity by lighting up a portion of Manhattan with his direct current (DC) system. Six years later George Westinghouse lit up Buffalo with his less expensive alternating current (AC). They quickly became locked in a battle for market share. Richard Moran shows that Edison, in order to maintain commercial dominance, set out to blacken the image of Westinghouse s AC by persuading the State of New York to electrocute condemned criminals with AC current. Westinghouse, determined to keep AC from becoming known as the executioner s current, fought to stop the first electrocution, claiming that use of the electric chair constituted cruel and unusual punishment. The legal battle that ensued ended when the Supreme Co

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ChapterOone

"William, It Is Time"

In the predawn hours of August 6, 1890, twenty-seven men of law, science, and medicine left their lodgings at the Osborne House and quietly made their way down State Street toward Auburn Penitentiary. It was a dull and gloomy morning with a few wet clouds in the sky. The night before had not been an easy one, and the results were written on the faces of each hunched figure. As the men walked, there was little conversation. Nearing the prison, they encountered a crowd of nearly five hundred spectators. Every tree and rooftop surrounding the ivy-covered stone prison was filled with expectant faces, and young men and boys were perched atop telegraph poles, eager to catch a glimpse of the condemned man scarcely visible through the narrow window of his lighted cell. Western Union had opened a temporary office across from the penitentiary in the dimly lit freight room of the New York Central railroad station. Inside, newspapermen and telegraph operators anxiously waited to dispatch word around the world that the first execution by electricity had taken place.

Although a ticket of admission had been issued to each witness, the men had difficulty gaining entrance to the prison. The crowd was reluctant to give way and security was tight. Warden Charles Durston had ordered the gatekeeper not to let anyone in without a ticket; one witness who had forgotten his was forced to return to the hotel to fetch it. Even the morning shift of guards was not permitted to enter the prison until the bells rang, signifying a completed execution. District Attorney George Quinby, who had prosecuted the condemned man, looked pale as he walked through the prison gate below the statue of the Continental soldier standing guard on its roof. Though he had convicted many murderers, he had never witnessed an execution.

Once inside, the men were escorted into Warden Durston's office where prisoners in white caps and aprons served them coffee and sandwiches. Warden Durston did not join his distinguished guests for breakfast. He had gone directly from his prison lodgings to the basement cell of William Kemmler, the condemned man. After an exchange of pleasantries, Warden Durston drew an official, impressive-looking document from his breast pocket, for the law required that the death warrant be read prior to execution. For his part, Kemmler remained outwardly calm. "William, it is time," said the warden. "I am ready, Mr. Durston," the condemned man responded. Then the warden, his voice trembling, read the death warrant. It differed from all previous warrants only in the prescribed method of execution. William Kemmler was to receive a current of electricity sufficient to cause death.

Kemmler listened in resolute silence. When Warden Durston finished, the condemned man replied: "All right, I am ready." The two men then sat on Kemmler's iron bunk and spoke for a few moments before Durston returned to his office on the second floor. In the entranceway he met the witnesses, now standing about, waiting. They exchanged polite nods, nothing more. The atmosphere was decidedly funereal, although the condemned man was not yet dead.

During the previous afternoon, Warden Durston had shown the witnesses the newly constructed death chamber, where electricians were putting the finishing touches on the execution apparatus. Dr. George E. Fell, a Buffalo professor who had played an important role in the chair's final design, volunteered to be strapped into it for purpose of demonstration. As he did so, Warden Durston declared his utmost confidence in the reliability of the chair. Not everyone shared this optimistic assessment: specifically, some experts had doubts about the strength and dependability of the first-ever electric chair, but ultimately, they decided it was too late to make changes. The chair, they claimed, was indeed the perfect example of science employed for the betterment of humanity-death would be quick and painless.

From the time of his arrest for the murder of his paramour, Matilda "Tillie" Ziegler, on March 29, 1889, until four days after he was sentenced to death, Kemmler remained in the Erie County jail at Buffalo. Then, in accordance with the law, he was transferred to Auburn State Prison. During the trip, Kemmler told his keepers that years before an elderly fortune-teller in Philadelphia had foretold his execution, and everything had transpired exactly as she had predicted. Five days later, on the night of May 23, Kemmler was placed in solitary confinement. He was allowed no visitors except his keepers, his lawyers, his religious advisers, and a few friends of the warden.

About three months prior to his execution, Kemmler dictated his last will and testament to the head turnkey, guard James Warner. The men were interrupted several times by the sound of hammering from two convicts working nearby on the plain pine box that would serve as Kemmler's coffin. Electrician Edwin F. Davis, who would continue as an executioner for the next twenty-four years-throwing the switch on 240 condemned men-could be heard installing the execution apparatus in the room adjacent to Kemmler's cell. Seemingly indifferent to his impending execution, Kemmler assigned his meager belongings with great care. He designated that his principal keeper, Daniel McNaughton, should receive a pictorial Bible that had provided great solace to Kemmler. To the Reverend Dr. W. E. Houghton he left a pig-in-the-clover puzzle. He gave a slate with his autograph to prison chaplain Horatio Yates. To keeper William Wemple he left a small Bible. To Mrs. Durston, the warden's wife, Kemmler gave fifty autographed cards. While in confinement, Kemmler had learned to write his name. He was very proud of this accomplishment, and presumably wanted to share it with the woman who had taught him. He also believed that after his death, the cards would be of significant monetary value.

Kemmler distrusted reporters and had always refused to answer their questions. But he was talkative with visitors, and at times quite entertaining. "He sings, cracks jokes, and . . . tells stories-the sort of stories that wouldn't look well in print," reported the Buffalo Evening News. The paper stated blithely that there was a second reason the ax murderer should be executed: "He is a bad rhymester."

While in jail Kemmler composed several drinking songs, such as this one, published in the Buffalo Evening News.

I used to live in Buffalo,

The people knew me well,

I used to go a-peddling,

A plenty did I sell.

My old clothes were ragged and torn,

My shoes wouldn't cover my toes.

My old hat went flippity flap

With a schuper to my nose.

I can't sing sing,

I won't sing sing,

I'll tell you the reason why.

I can't sing sing,

I won't sing sing,

For my whistle is getting dry.

Despite the condemned man's penchant for ribaldry, Sheriff Oliver A. Jenkins reported that Kemmler was a model prisoner. Head turnkey Warner credited Kemmler with "bearing up wonderfully well" under the constant strain of imminent death.

When he arrived at Auburn on May 24, 1889, Kemmler was an habitual cigar smoker in poor physical condition, and of a "morose" and "taciturn" disposition. While at Auburn, however, Kemmler's personal health and appearance improved greatly. He attributed this change to his enforced temperance and claimed that while in the Erie County jail awaiting trial, the guards had constantly given him tobacco and whiskey. In the months prior to his execution, he was neatly dressed and his collar was turned up in accordance with the latest fashion. His whiskers were trimmed and parted at the chin in the English style, and he always wore a black tie....

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Verlag
Alfred a Knopf Inc
Erscheinungsdatum
2002
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0375410597
ISBN 13 
9780375410598
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
271
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Verantwortliche Person
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