Aggie was born in San Francisco on this date in 1902. She became a remarkable reporter and a city editor. Below are a couple of mementoes from her career.
Happy Birthday, Aggie!
1
Aggie and the Ice Cream Blonde
Reporter Aggie Underwood devoted a chapter in her 1949 autobiography, Newspaperwoman, to movie stars. One star she covered was Thelma Todd. Thelma, nicknamed the Ice Cream Blonde, was a popular actress appearing in over 120 films between 1926 and 1935.
Thelma was born on July 29, 1906, in Lawrence, Massachusetts. She excelled in her studies and aspired to be a schoolteacher. Despite going to college after high school, her mother still pushed her to take part in beauty contests because of her looks. In 1925, she became “Miss Massachusetts” and entered the “Miss America” pageant. Despite not winning, Hollywood talent scouts took notice of her.
Among the stars with whom Thelma appeared during her career were Gary Cooper, William Powell, The Marx Brothers, and Laurel and Hardy.
In the late 1920s and early 1930s, various male comedy duos achieved success. Studio head Hal Roach saw the potential in pairing two women. Between 1931 and 1933 Thelma and Zasu Pitts appeared in over a dozen films, primarily two-reelers.
When it came time for contract renegotiation, Zasu and Thelma found out that Hal Roach had made certain that their individual contracts expired six months apart. He concluded the stars had less leverage individually than they would as a team. He’d pulled the same trick on Laurel and Hardy. Zasu’s bid for more money and a stake in the team’s films was a non-starter with Roach. They gave her a take it or leave it option. She left. Thelma’s new partner was wisecracking Patsy Kelly, and they churned out a series of successful shorts for Roach until 1935.
Thelma’s pleasant voice made her transition from silent to sound films an easy one. She had name recognition and with financial backing from her lover, film director Roland West, she opened the Thelma Todd’s Sidewalk Café. Thelma and Roland lived in separate rooms above the café. They had known each other for about 5 years. Thelma starred in West’s 1931 film Corsair, and that is when they embarked on a passionate affair.
West’s estranged wife, Jewel Carmen, lived in a home about 300 feet above the café on a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It was an odd domestic arrangement, to be sure.
On Saturday, December 14, 1935, Thelma’s personal maid of four years, May Whitehead, helped to dress the actress in a blue and silver sequin gown for a party. At about 8 p.m. Thelma and her mother Alice were preparing to leave the Café together. Thelma had plans to attend a party at the Trocadero, where Ida Lupino and her father Stanley were the hosts.
As they were about to get into the limo driven by Ernie Peters (one of Thelma’s regular drivers) Roland approached Thelma and told her to be home by 2 a.m. Not one to be given orders, Thelma said she’d be home at 2:05.
When questioned later, West described his exchange with Thelma as more of a joke than a serious demand on his part. On that earlier occasion, Thelma had knocked hard enough to break a window and Roland let her in.
According to party goers, Thelma arrived at the Trocadero in high spirits and seemed to look forward to the holidays. She downed a few cocktails. Although intoxicated, none of her friends thought she was drunk. Thelma’s ex-husband, Pat Di Cicco, was at the Trocadero with a date, but he was not a guest at the Lupino’s party.
Very late in the evening, Thelma joined Sid Grauman’s table for about 30 minutes before asking him if he’d call Roland and let him know she was on her way home. Thelma’s chauffeur said that the actress was unusually quiet on the ride home, and when they arrived, she declined his offer to walk her to the door of her apartment. He said she’d never done that before.
It’s at this point that the mystery of Thelma Todd’s death begins.
On Monday, December 16, 1935, May Whitehead, had driven her own car to the garage, as she did every morning, to get Thelma’s chocolate brown, twelve-cylinder Lincoln phaeton and bring it down the hill to the café for Thelma’s use.
May said that the doors to the garage were closed, but unlocked. She entered the garage and saw the driver’s side door to Thelma’s car was wide open. Then she saw Thelma slumped over in the seat. At first May thought Thelma was asleep, but once she realized her employer was dead, she went to the Café and notified the business manager and asked him to telephone Roland West.
Once Thelma Todd’s premature death became public, local newspapers sensationalized it, hinting at foul play. The Daily Record’s headline proclaimed: “THELMA TODD FOUND DEAD, INVESTIGATING POSSIBLE MURDER”. The Herald’s cover story suggested that Todd’s death was worthy of Edgar Allan Poe:
“…if her death was accidental, it was as strange an accident as was ever conceived by the brain of Poe.”
The circumstances of Thelma’s death were puzzling, and upon receiving the news, her mother, Alice Todd, shrieked, “My daughter has been murdered!”
Whether Thelma’s death was a suicide, accident, or murder rested with the cops and criminalists. Thelma’s face bore traces of blood, and droplets of blood were present inside the car and on the running board.
According to the coroner, Thelma’s death likely occurred around twelve hours before they found her body. But a few witnesses came forward to swear that they’d seen, or spoken to, Thelma on Sunday afternoon when, according to the coroner, she would have already been dead.
The most interesting of the witnesses who had claimed to have seen or spoken with Thelma on Sunday was Mrs. Martha Ford. She and her husband, the actor Wallace Ford, were hosting a party that day to which they had invited Todd. She said that she received a telephone call and that she’d at first thought the caller was a woman named Velma, who she was expecting at the party; but then the caller identified herself as Thelma, and used the nickname Hot Toddy. Martha said that Toddy asked her if she could show up in the evening clothes she’d worn the night before to a party — Martha told her that was fine. “Toddy” also said she was bringing a surprise guest and said, “You just wait until I walk in. You’ll fall dead!” Mrs. Ford insisted the caller was Thelma.
Thelma Todd’s death evoked a massive outpouring of grief. Hundreds of mourners from all walks of life visited Pierce Mortuary where Thelma’s body was on view from 8:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. on December 19, 1935.
Patsy Kelly was said to have been so upset that she was under a doctor’s care. Thelma’s death devastated Zasu Pitts. She had been out Christmas shopping with her a few days earlier.
The sightings of Thelma on Sunday led to a multitude of theories, ranging from plausible to crackpot. Among the theories that have gained popularity over the years, even though unsubstantiated, is the rumor New York mobster Lucky Luciano put pressure on Thelma to host gambling at the Café. When Thelma said no, he had her killed.
Another theory is her ex-husband, Pat Di Cicco, murdered Thelma. He had a history of violence against women; but they found no evidence against him.
I have my own theory, of course. How could I not? Here’s what I believe happened.
On Saturday night as she was leaving for the Trocadero, Roland West told Thelma to be home at 2 am. He wasn’t joking with her as he’d said. Asserting herself, she told him she’d be home at 2:05—but at 2:45 or 3 a.m., probably to avoid an unplkeasant call, she asked Sid Grauman to phone West and let him know she was on her way.
Her chauffeur, Ernie, said they arrived at the café at about 3:30 a.m. and she declined his offer to walk her up to her apartment. I believe she declined because she expected an ugly scene with Roland about her late arrival home. She had a key in her evening bag, but the door to the apartment was bolted from the inside. Roland had locked her out again. She was tired, and she’d been drinking. Her blood alcohol level was later found to be .13, enough for her to be intoxicated but not sloppy drunk. She decided she didn’t have the energy to engage in an argument with Roland—it must have been about 4 am. The beach was cold that night as Thelma trudged up the stairs to the garage.
After opening the garage doors, she turned on the light. To stay warm, she started her car and turned on the engine. Within minutes, she fell asleep and succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning. She fell over and banged her head against the steering wheel of the car, which caused a small amount of blood to be found on her body. Later, they tested the blood and found carbon monoxide in it, indicating that her injury happened inside the garage.
According to tests made by criminalist Ray Pinker, it would have taken about two minutes for there to have been enough carbon monoxide in the garage to kill her. He had even tested the car to see how long it would run before the engine died—the shortest time it idled was 2 minutes 40 seconds, the longest was 46 minutes 40 seconds.
What about the light switch and the open car door? I think that when Roland heard nothing from Thelma, he looked for her. He walked to the garage to see if she’d taken her car. He went inside and saw Thelma slumped over in the front seat, just the way May Whitehead would find her on Monday morning. The car’s motor was no longer running. He opened the driver’s side door to wake her up, only to discover she was dead. Shocked, he left, leaving the driver’s side door open, switching off the garage light and closing the doors. Then he returned to the apartment.
While West did not kill Thelma, I believe he felt responsible for her death. He never told a soul about that night; unless you believe the rumor that he made a death bed confession to his friend, actor Chester Morris.
What about Martha Ford’s alleged telephone conversation with Thelma? Was it Thelma on the phone? Maybe Ford was mistaken about the time. Another of the many loose ends in the mystery surrounding Thelma’s death.
Aggie was wrapping up her first year as a reporter for Hearst when Thelma Todd died. She had never attended an autopsy before. She knew her male colleagues brought her along to test her. They wanted to know if she had the stomach for it. She did. According to her memoir, by the end of the autopsy, only she and the coroner remained in the room; her colleagues had turned green and bolted for the door.
The last words are Aggie’s. Perplexed by mysteries surrounding Thelma’s death, she wrote in her memoir, “In crucial phases of the case, official versions as told reporters varied from subsequent statements. It was known where and what Miss Todd had eaten on Saturday night. Stomach contents found in the autopsy did not appear to bear out reports on the meal. There were other discrepancies, including interpretations of the condition of the body and its position in the automobile.”
For conspiracy buffs, Aggie talked about a detective she knew who worked to clarify some of the disputed information. She said, “…he was deeper in the mystery, receiving threatening calls…which carried a secret and unlisted number. He was warned to ‘lay off if you know what is good for you.’
“In his investigation, the detective stopped and searched an automobile of a powerful motion picture figure. In the car, surprisingly, was a witness who had reported that Miss Todd had been seen on Sunday. Near the witness was a packed suitcase. The investigator told me the owner of the car attempted to have him ousted from the police department.”
Aggie would not reveal the name of the detective. In summation, she wrote, “There’s a disquieting feeling in working some of these cinema-land death cases, whether natural or mysterious. One senses intangible pressures, as in the Thelma Todd story: After the inquest testimony, in which one sensational theory was that the blonde star, who died of carbon monoxide gas, was the victim of a killer, the case eventually was dropped as one of accidental, though mysterious, death.”
Over the decades, Thelma’s death has been the subject of books, movies, and TV shows; and attributed to everything from suicide to a criminal conspiracy.
I think it best if Aggie and I leave you to make up your own minds about what happened to the beautiful Ice Cream Blonde.
If you are curious, here is CORSAIR, starring Thelma Todd and Chester Morris
Film Noir Friday on Saturday Night: The Payoff [1942]
Welcome! The lobby of the Deranged L.A. Crimes theater is open. Grab a bucket of popcorn, some Milk Duds and a Coke and find a seat. Tonight’s feature is THE PAYFF, starring Lee Tracy, Tom Brown, Tina Thayer, Evelyn Brent, Jack LaRue, and Ian Keith. In honor of Aggie Underwood month, this is a newspaper themed tale.
Enjoy the movie.
TCM says:
As prosecutor Lloyd Pearson completes his final report on a major crime ring, he is shot and killed by an unknown gunman. Later, crack newspaper reporter Brad McKay refuses to interrupt his poker game to respond to his publisher Lester Norris’ calls until he learns of Pearson’s murder. Brad, who has been following Pearson’s work, immediately goes to the scene of the crime and gets a full report from police inspector Thomas. Thomas is convinced that gangster Vince Moroni is involved, although he knows that Moroni had been playing poker with Brad all night. As Brad leaves the building, a hunchbacked beggar tells him that he saw Moroni enter the building before the murder.
Aggie and the Los Angeles Record
Exterior view of the Los Angeles Record building (top, middle of photo), located next to the Pacific Electric Railroad tracks. Building has three large arched windows on the second floor. Photo dated: September 12, 1933.
Aggie’s newspaper career began at the switchboard of the Los Angeles Record in October 1926. The Record was at 612 Wall Street near the Pacific Electric station at Sixth and Main. The streetcars rumbled past the building providing an industrial soundtrack for the “weird wonderland” of men pounding away on old typewriters. Aggie enjoyed the ambient hum, occasionally punctuated by the shouts of reporters as they called out phone numbers for her to dial.
Gertrude Price, the woman’s editor, approached Aggie when her temporary job at the switchboard was almost over. Price wrote a column under the pseudonym Cynthia Grey. Each year at Christmas, she organized a food and gift basket program for the needy. Hundreds of letters poured in from donors and the poor alike. The job of putting together the baskets was an enormous one, and Gertrude asked Aggie to assist.
At the end of the 1926 holiday season, Aggie contemplated her return to domestic life when Gertrude surprised her with an offer of a part-time job. Price asked Aggie if she would work two hours a day taking phone messages and handling Cynthia Grey correspondence. Aggie gratefully accepted the offer.
Gertrude Price became Aggie’s friend and mentor. One of the most important lessons she learned about the newspaper business came near her twenty-fifth birthday. Los Angeles reeled from the kidnapping and mutilation murder of 12-year-old schoolgirl Marion Parker. Authorities identified William Edward Hickman as the killer. He became the subject of the biggest manhunt in Los Angeles’ history. Aggie saw a United Press flash announcing Hickman’s capture in Oregon. She was so excited she telephoned her husband and shared the news with him.
Price overheard the call and warned Aggie about discussing a story before it circulated on the streets. At first, she felt ashamed because she’d disappointed her mentor. Then she realized Price was instructing her on a fundamental principle of the news business. She would not make the same mistake again.
Aggie couldn’t stay at her desk while the bulletins of Hickman’s capture continued to flood the newsroom. She finally committed the “unpardonable sin” of hovering over the shoulder of Rod Brink, the city editor. Brink said to her, “All right, if you’re so interested, take this dictation.” In that instant Aggie realized she wanted to be a reporter.
His Girl Friday & The Front Page
Deranged L.A. Crimes celebrates reporter Agness “Aggie” Underwood this month in honor of the 121st anniversary of her birth on the 17th.
Aggie liked His Girl Friday (1940), in which Rosalind Russell portrayed a female newspaper reporter. I would love to show the film, but it is not in the public domain. Instead, listen to the 1941 Screen Guild radio version with Rosalind Russell, Cary Grant, and Ralph Bellamy reprising their movie roles.
Even though I can’t show the film version of His Girl Friday, I will show the 1931 version, The Front Page, based on the 1928 stage play.
I love the 1940 film for casting Russell as Hildy Johnson–a role originally written for a man–but the 1931 film is also excellent. Billy Wilder remade it in 1974, casting Walter Matthau and Jack Lemmon in the starring roles.
Here is what TCM says about The Front Page (1931).
Chicago’s ace reporter Hildy Johnson wants to quit newspaper work and get married, but his editor, Walter Burns, is determined to keep him on the job. Hildy refuses to talk to Walter, knowing his persuasive powers, so Walter sets off a fire alarm outside the apartment of Hildy’s fiancée, Peggy Grant. Unable to resist, Hildy runs to the street, after which Walter corners him and takes him out for drinks. While the two men drink, Walter reminisces about the great stories that Hildy covered and paints a boring picture of married life. Hildy manages to escape, and drops in on the press room at the courthouse, where the reporters are waiting for the hanging of Earl Williams.
Happy Birthday to Aggie Underwood, and Deranged L.A. Crimes!
This is a big month for the Deranged L.A. Crimes blog. On December 17, 2012, the 110th anniversary of the birth of the woman whose career and life inspires me, Agness “Aggie” Underwood, I started writing this blog. I also authored her Wikipedia page, which was long overdue.
By the time I began, Aggie had been gone for twenty-eight years. I regret not knowing about her in time to meet her in person. But, through her work, and speaking with her relatives over the years, I feel like I know her. I have enormous respect for Aggie. She had nothing handed to her, yet she established herself in a male-dominated profession where she earned the respect of her peers without compromising her values. She also earned the respect of law enforcement. Cops who worked with her trusted her judgement and sought her opinion. It isn’t surprising. She shared with them the same qualities that make a successful detective.
This month, I will focus on Aggie. I want everyone to get to know and appreciate her. She was a remarkable woman.
Agness “Aggie” Underwood never intended to become a reporter. All she wanted was a pair of silk stockings. She’d been wearing her younger sister’s hand-me-downs, but she longed for a new pair of her own. When her husband, Harry, told her they couldn’t afford them, she threatened to get a job and buy them herself. It was an empty threat. She did not know how to find employment. She hadn’t worked outside her home for several years. A serendipitous call from her close friend Evelyn, the day after the stockings kerfuffle, changed the course of her life. Evelyn told her about a temporary opening for a switchboard operator where she worked, at the Los Angeles Record. The job was meant to last only through the 1926-27 holiday season, so Aggie jumped at the chance.
Aggie arrived at the Record utterly unfamiliar with the newspaper business, but she swiftly adapted and it became clear to everyone that, even without training, she was sharp and eager to learn. The temporary switchboard job turned into a permanent position.
In December 1927, the kidnapping and cruel mutilation murder of twelve-year-old schoolgirl Marion Parker horrified the city. Aggie was at the Record when they received word the perpetrator, William Edward Hickman, who had nicknamed himself “The Fox,” was in custody in Oregon. The breaking story created a firestorm of activity in the newsroom. Aggie had seen nothing like it. She knew then she didn’t want to be a bystander. She wanted to be a reporter.
When the Record was sold in January 1935, Aggie accepted an offer from William Randolph Hearst’s newspaper, the Evening Herald and Express, propelling her into the big leagues. Working for Hearst differed entirely from working for the Record. Hearst expected his reporters to work at breakneck speed. After all, they had to live up to the paper’s motto, “The First with the latest.”
From January 1935, until January 1947, Aggie covered everything from fires and floods to murder and mayhem, frequently with photographer Perry Fowler by her side. She considered herself to be a general assignment reporter, but developed a reputation and a knack for covering crimes.
Sometimes she helped to solve them.
In December 1939, Aggie was called to the scene of what appeared to be a tragic accident on the Angeles Crest Highway. Laurel Crawford said he had taken his family on a scenic drive, but lost control of the family sedan on a sharp curve. The car plunged over 1000 feet down an embankment, killing his wife, three children, and a boarder in their home. He said he had survived by jumping from the car at the last moment.
When asked by Sheriff’s investigators for her opinion, Aggie said she had observed Laurel’s clothing and his demeanor, and neither lent credibility to his account. She concluded Laurel was “guilty as hell.” Her hunch was right. Upon investigation, police discovered Laurel had engineered the accident to collect over $30,000 in life insurance.
Hollywood was Aggie’s beat, too. When stars misbehaved or perished under mysterious or tragic circumstances, Aggie was there to record everything for Herald readers. On December 16, 1935, popular actress and café owner Thelma Todd died of carbon monoxide poisoning in the garage of her Pacific Palisades ho9me. Thelma’s autopsy was Aggie’s first, and her fellow reporters put her to the test. It backfired on them. Before the coroner could finish his grim work, her colleagues had turned green and fled the room. Aggie remained upright.
Though Aggie never considered herself a feminist, she paved the way for female journalists. In January 1947, they yanked her off the notorious Black Dahlia murder case and made her editor of the City Desk, making her one of the first woman to hold this post for a major metropolitan newspaper. Known to keep a bat and startup pistol handy at her desk, just in case, she was beloved by her staff and served as City Editor for the Herald (later Herald Examiner) until retiring in 1968.
When she passed away in 1984, the Herald-Examiner eulogized her. “She was undeterred by the grisliest of crime scenes and had a knack for getting details that eluded other reporters. As editor, she knew the names and telephone numbers of numerous celebrities, in addition to all the bars her reporters frequented. She cultivated the day’s best sources, ranging from gangsters and prostitutes to movie stars and government officials.”
They were right. Aggie dined with judges, cops, and even gangster Mickey Cohen. I hope you will enjoy reading about Aggie, as much as I will enjoy telling her stories.
Joan
Aggie and the City of Forgotten Women, Conclusion
This is the third of a series of articles by an International News Service staff correspondent who obtained the first comprehensive inside story of California’s unique all-woman prison.
Tehachapi, Cal., May 2 — Forbidden to read newspapers, their only source of information being occasional letters and visits by friends, the 145 women inmates of California’s “City of Forgotten Women,” Tehachapi, have one question that is always asked early during a visit.
“Something new?” It was the first question asked me by Mrs. Anna de Ritas, 39-year-old convicted slayer of her sweetheart Mike Lotito. The dormitory in which she is housed is by far the “happiest” sounding building of the prison group. Anna de Ritas shot her lover to death.
Housed with her are Miss Thelma Alley, Hollywood actress, convicted of manslaughter in connection with an automobile accident; Mrs. Eleanor Hansen, who murdered the husband whom she charged failed to properly feed her and their daughter; Emma Le Doux, who has spent more than 20 years in state prisons for murder in Stockton.
Another interesting inmate of Tehachapi, and another really happy one, is Mrs. Trinity Nandi who has spent more than 17 years behind prison walls for murder. She is to be released in May, and she is full of plans for the future.
Since her removal from San Quentin to the Tehachapi institution, Mrs. Nandi has been working in the rabbitry and has qualified as an expert. It is her hope to start a rabbit farm when she is released. The women in Tehachapi are learning how to make themselves useful when they leave it.
When Burmah first entered Tehachapi, she was full of ambition and conducted classes in commercial courses, Miss Josephine Jackson, deputy warden, says Burmah did a fine job of it. She taught oral English, typing, and dramatics to fellow inmates.
She fell ill for almost two months and during that illness her ambition and vivacity seemed to disappear.
“I’ve gone into it very thoroughly,” Burmah said softly, and sadly, after announcing that her interviewer was the first visitor she has had since last November. Her father, who was loyal to her throughout her arrest and trial, is dead now.
“The prison board can’t do a thing. The judge who sentenced me fixed that up and I just can’t see any sense in working hard every day when there’s nothing to work for. I can’t see any sense in hoping for the future, when there’ nothing to hope for. I can’t see any sense in training for work to do when I get out of here, because I’ll be an old lady then–maybe not old physically, but I know from what it’s already done to me that I’ll be hundreds of years old mentally.”
The girl the nation read out as the “jazz baby,” Burmah White, the blonde bandit moll, wife of one of Los Angeles’ most notorious slain criminals, Thomas White, has vanished. The “tough,” cynical 19-year-old girl who entered the prison 16 months ago has been transformed into a quiet mannered, sad-eyed girl, her face framed in soft dark brown hair which she had let grow back to its natural color.
“You know,” she said, with a slightly cynical smile, “they tell me there’s civilization beyond them thar hills!”
“I was an example to the youth of this country when I was sentenced for the wrongs I had done. That was the sole purpose in giving me that stiff sentence–to set an example. I wonder if it has deterred any girls in Los Angeles from a life of crime–I doubt if it even made an impression on any of them,” she said bitterly.
I found she had been making a new blouse out of a bit of silk that she had managed to obtain. A particularly becoming blouse–peach colored, with a white lacing down the front.
“Oh, can you wear those things up here?” I asked her, and then she grinned her old grin and said, “Well, we can wear dark skirts and blouses on Sunday–only the blouses have to be white–but making it helped pass the time of day.”
NOTE: This is the final installment of Aggie’s interviews with inmates in the Women’s Prison in Tehachapi. . When the series appeared, Aggie had been working for William Randolph Hearst for less than a year. The series was syndicated which gave her national exposure, and helped her earn a reputation as a reporter to be reckoned with.
Aggie and the City of Forgotten Women, Part 2
This is the second of a series on California’s unique women’s prison, which has bestirred national interest among sociologists and penologists. An International News Service staff correspondent was able to obtain the first comprehensive “inside story” of the institution where Clara Phillips and other noted women offenders are now confined.
Tehachapi, Cal., May 1, 1935 — Eight months in the “death house!”
Eight months in which to sit in one tiny room, forbidden to talk to anyone except matrons–Eight months in which to remember–what?
Possibly the sound of six shots, ringing out in the still of night–six shots which ended the life of Eric B. Madison, movie studio cashier.
Eight months in which to hear over and over again, the voice of a judge saying “You are sentenced to hang by the neck until dead”.
That is the fate of Nellie B. Madison, comely widow, who is the only woman in California now under sentence to die on the gallows.
Just eight months ago last March 12, Nellie Madison entered Tehachapi prison and was placed in the “death cell.”
This “cell” is merely a room in the prison hospital. Architects who designed the state institution for woman at Tehachapi omitted “death cell.” That’s another way this prison is different.
So, in this room on the second floor of the administration building, Nellie Madison sits day after day. She seems a quite different person from the Nellie Madison who amazed Los Angeles court attaches during her trial with her cool, calm demeanor.
Her nattily tailored clothes are, of course, discarded for the regulation prison costume–blue denim dresses with a white pinstripe.
Her jet-black hair, now greying, has grown from the trim modern bob until it almost reaches her shoulders.
“In Los Angeles, I was thoroughly benumbed by all that had happened,” she said after the first glad welcome of seeing someone whom she had seen in the outside world.
“I couldn’t realize just what had happened to me, but now that I have been here–let’s see is it only eight months or is it ten years–well, I’ve begun to get all the confidence in the world that the State Supreme court will reverse my conviction.”
This was Mrs. Madison’s only interview since she has entered the state institution.
“It seems to me that one’s conscience would be the greatest punishment in the world,” she said.
“My conscience doesn’t bother me one bit, but I do feel the disgrace that I have brought on myself and my family. One’s past good name and character seem to mean nothing when a person gets into trouble, but it apparently doesn’t mean a thing.”
Mrs. Madison’s recreation consists of short walks on the grounds each day–in company with a matron and the letters she receives from friends.”
Aggie became interested in Nellie’s case when she covered it for the Herald. As she learned more about the abuse Nellie suffered at the hands of her husband, Eric, the less she believed Nellie deserved to hang. Through her coverage of the case, and her advocacy, Aggie and others were successful in getting Nellie’s sentence commuted to life; which made her eligible for parole. On March 27, 1943, nine years and three days after the murder, the state released Nellie.
In her 1949 autobiography, Newspaperwoman, Aggie said this about the case.
“While one’s work as a reporter may serve justice and work for or against a defendant, one shies from taking bows for presumed triumphs. Even in commendation, one does not want to feel one’s fairness impugned. I was embarrassed, therefore, when Nellie Madison embraced me gratefully at Tehachapi when I informed her that her sentence to be hanged had been commuted to life imprisonment by Governor Frank F. Merriam.”
“‘You did it! You did it!’ she wept. ‘I owe it all to you!’”
NEXT TIME: In the third article, Aggie tells of interviews with other inmates at Tehachapi.
Film Noir Friday-Sunday Evening: Try and Get Me! aka The Sound of Fury [1951]
Welcome! The lobby of the Deranged L.A. Crimes theater is open. Grab a bucket of popcorn, some Milk Duds and a Coke and find a seat. Tonight’s feature is TRY AND GET ME! aka THE SOUND OF FURY, starring Frank Lovejoy, Kathleen Ryan, and Lloyd Bridges.
The film is based on the 1947 novel The Condemned by Jo Pagano, who also wrote the screenplay. The Pagano novel was based on events that occurred in 1933 when two men were arrested in San Jose, California for the kidnapping and murder of Brooke Hart. The suspects confessed and were subsequently lynched by a mob of locals. The 1936 film, Fury, directed by Fritz Lang, was inspired by the same incident.
Enjoy the movie.
TCM says:
Impoverished Howard Tyler decides to move his pregnant wife Judy and their young son Tommy from Massachusetts to the friendly town of Santa Sierra, California, to find his fortune working in the mines. Once there, however, Howard cannot find a job and the family’s poverty deepens to the point where Judy cannot even afford a doctor to monitor her pregnancy. In his desperation, Howard meets a petty thief named Jerry Slocum and is easily convinced to work for him, helping him to commit a series of robberies. Convinced that the town is experiencing an incipient crime wave, publisher and editor of the Santa Sierra Journal Hal Clendenning assigns featured columnist Gil Stanton to sensationalize the new trend.
Eddie Muller, the Czar of Noir, introuced this film for TCM’s Noir Alley, which he hosts. Check it out.
The Cold Turkey Pinch
What’s a cold turkey pinch? In the 1930s, it was cop speak for an officer who made an arrest with no effort–no gathering of evidence, no investigation, nothing.
Thanksgiving Day on “The Nickel” (Fifth Street) in 1937 was desperate living personified. LAPD Detective Lieutenants Bailey and Olson sat in the Chicago Cafe at 209 Fifth and watched as drunks shuffled past, oblivious to those who would do them harm. Old Man Depression brought an abundance of misery, leaving The Nickel devoid of warmth, joy, and delicious aromas found in other city neighborhoods.
The detectives sipped their coffees and kept their eyes peeled for predators who preyed on helpless drunks. Known as drunk rollers, the vultures robbed Skid Row inebriates of their few possessions. A man, seemingly down on his luck, seated himself beside Bailey and said, “you wouldn’t mind staking a thirsty guy to a nickel beer would you.” After looking the stranger up and down, Bailey bought the man a brew.
Chicago Cafe at 209 Fifth Street c. 1937. [Photo is from Schultheis collection at the LAPL]
The man sat silently nursing his beer, then he turned to Bailey and pointed at a man in a booth who had obviously passed out. “Watch me,” the beer drinker said–then he walked over to the unconscious boozer and searched through his clothing.
When he returned to his seat he grinned at Bailey and Olson and said, “See what I got?” and held up a dollar bill. “Now I guess it’s my treat.”
“Yes, brother, I sure guess it’s your treat all right,” said Bailey as pulled out his badge and arrested his would-be benefactor. Bailey booked Jack Orchard, 35, at the City Jail on suspicion of robbery.
If you wonder what Jack Orchard’s Thanksgiving repast was like in the county slammer, they served prisoners veal turnovers w/cream gravy, mashed potatoes, sugar peas, combination salad, one doughnut and coffee. The jailers, however, got turkey with all the trimmings. Crime doesn’t pay.
May your Thanksgiving be happier than Jack Orchard’s (although he got a free beer.) Have a great Holiday and stay safe. Those Black Friday sales can be murder!
NOTE: I’ll pick up the rest of Aggie Underwood’s Tehachapi series in my next post.