Monday, December 17, 2012


Let's perform a thought experiment. You want to kill as many people as possible with very little chance of being stopped. Do you go to (a) a gun range; (b) a police station; (c) a hunting camp; (d) a place where people are forbidden to carry weapons? One of the common denominators of recent mass murders is that the killer has gone to a place where weapons are forbidden. This suggests one preventive measure that is relatively easy to take to reduce these types of crimes. Have highly visible armed guards at weapons-free locations.


We don't really need more gun control laws. Stringent gun control laws are like Prohibition. They may make the self-righteous feel better, but they do nothing to stop the illegal traffic in the prohibited item. Many factors contribute to the tragedy of mass murder, and I'm no smart enough name them all or know what to do about them if I could. I do, however, think I see two largely overlooked contributing factors to the enabling of such tragedies. One contributing factor can be solved relatively easily. The second contributing factor is built into the case law interpreting our Constitution.


CONTRIBUTING FACTOR # 1: It may sound counterintuitive, and it certainly isn't politically correct to say this, but gun control laws actually enable mass murders. If the law says "don't have a gun," then most people won't. But people who want to kill people will arm themselves despite the law. Gun control laws simply produce large gun-free zones where a mass murderer can run amok and kill large numbers of people before law enforcement can respond. If we are going to disarm people and make them vulnerable, then we must do something proactive to protect them. We can counteract this contributing factor easily. Place highly visible armed guards in these gun-free zones, and we will reduce the number of mass murders. Don't arm them with Uzi's, M-16's or AK-47's. Arm them with pump shotguns. These mass murders appear to me to be committed at close range, usually by people who couldn't hit the broad side of a barn at any distance. Shotguns have the range to deal with such people, and they don't have the distant lethality of a high powered rifle. You're not going to miss and accidentally kill someone 300 yards away with a shotgun.


CONTRIBUTING FACTOR # 2: Now for another politically incorrect statement. Mass murders are facilitated by a Supreme Court decision: O'Connor v. Donaldson, 422 U.S. 563, 95 S.Ct. 2486 (U.S.Fla. 1975). O'Connor severely limited the states' ability to involuntarily commit the mentally ill. The gist of this opinion was that mentally ill people cannot be locked up unless they are shown to be dangerous. To put it crudely, just acting weird is not enough for involuntary hospitalization. The Supreme Court put it more delicately, but they were saying the same thing: “May the State fence in the harmless mentally ill solely to save its citizens from exposure to those whose ways are different?” Before 1975 we regularly locked up people who were acting weird but who had never harmed anyone. And I believe at that time we had fewer mass murders. Most of the mass killers of recent vintage ( I’m thinking particularly about the man who ran amok at Virginia Tech) acted weird long before they killed anyone. Under O’Connor, they couldn’t be locked up because they hadn’t harmed anyone, or if they had harmed someone, there was a mental health professional who testified that they were all better now and weren't dangerous any more. I vividly remember one case we had where a man kept committing arsons. He'd get arrested, the doctors would say he was mentally ill, but he didn't need hospitalization, and under O'Connor he'd get put back on the street where--you guessed it, he set something else on fire. He finally "burned out" on his hobby of setting fires, and thankfully he never hurt anyone.
Now, I’m not in favor of locking people up merely because they act weird. Most people who act weird don’t commit mass murders. Just as most people who own guns don’t commit mass murders.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012


Back in the late 70’s I attended an in-service training program for law enforcement officers and heard a presentation by a Federal agent who was supposed to be an expert on officer survival. He told the story of a group of Basque separatists in Spain who hijacked a train and threatened to kill one passenger every hour on the hour until their demands were met. When the first deadline came and went, one of the terrorists went to a passenger and told him that he was going to be the first to die. The terrorist gave the condemned man some time to prepare to meet his Maker. As the terrorist waited, the victim turned to the passenger in the seat beside him and began giving the other passenger messages to be delivered to his loved ones. The terrorist stood over the victim listening to the man say his goodbyes and send his love to the various members of his family until he could stand it no more. He walked down the aisle, grabbed up another passenger, immediately shot the other passenger in the head, and threw him out of the train.

The presenter explained that the first passenger narrowly escaped death because, as the terrorist listened to him say his goodbyes, the terrorist began to realize that the passenger was a human being. He killed the second passenger quickly so that he would run no risk of realizing the humanity of the second passenger.
The lesson I learned from this story was that we, as human beings, have difficulty harming our fellow beings unless we can think of them as objects rather than humans. Much of the evil that has been done in the world has been done by those who think of those outside their group as objects rather than people. We have a tendency to divide the world into “us” and “them.” This tendency to divide our fellow beings into “we who are worthy” and “those who are not,” runs deep in our history and is even seen in our primate cousins. At least since the beginning of recorded history, and almost certainly before, human beings have shown compassion to those in their in-group and savagery to those outside. Men who were otherwise kind and compassionate could, with great ease, enslave and try to exterminate those of other races. It was relatively easy because they could think of the others as somehow less than human. Even today we can see this attitude exhibited in the world all around us. I don’t need to cite examples, just look at the headlines from today’s paper.

We in America have risen above all this, however. We believe in, not the brotherhood of man, but the more politically correct siblinghood of humanity. If you really think that, I want to talk to you about some oceanfront property in Arizona. We aren’t as homicidal as some groups in some other parts of the world, but we can be incredibly callous and abusive toward our fellow beings in other ways. The financier who bilks thousands of victims out of millions of dollars in a Ponzi scheme, the CEO who ignores glaring safety issues to sell dangerous products to the consuming public, the politician who thinks the best way to stay in office is to confiscate the property of the few voters who have and give it to the many voters who don’t—all these people and many more like them can nonchalantly harm others because they do not fully appreciate the humanity of their victims.

Psychopaths differ from normal people in many ways, but I think their most salient difference comes in how psychopaths relate to others—to a psychopath another person is just a thing to be used. To most of us, other people are humans to be loved, respected, and dealt with fairly. But far too many among the normal extend full humanity only to those within their circle. Those outside the circle are either objects to be used or second-class citizens to be despised. We aren’t psychopaths, but we often display psychopathic traits. Many of our most popular contemporary television shows (“Survivor,” for example) applaud and reward psychopathic behaviors such as lying, betrayal of trust, and exploitation of others. 

This modern tendency to celebrate psychopathic behaviors might well be the death-knell of our society. There would be a lot less injustice in this world if we could all connect with all our fellow beings at least as well as the terrorist connected with the first passenger whom he spared—we might not all love each other, but we would at least shy away from harming each other.

I think that the first place to start in weaning ourselves off of psychopathic behavior is in national politics and popular culture. If the two major parties can step back from demonizing each other; if the major news networks can refrain from portraying every politically incorrect group as odious villains; if we can all display some compassion for those with whom we disagree—in short, if we can all recognize the humanity of our fellows, maybe we can keep this great country of ours running for at least another two hundred years.

Monday, December 3, 2012


I got my first job as a lawyer back in the days when you could buy three gallons of gas for a dollar. The court system was somewhat primitive compared to what it is today, and the trial of a criminal case could be a wild and woolly adventure. There is an old saying that experience keeps a dear school, but a fool will learn in no other. I wasn’t a fool as a young lawyer (at least I don’t think so), but I once did a very foolish thing. I think it was during my first week of training as a rookie public defender that my boss asked me if I wanted to try a case. I felt, quite rightly, that I needed a little more time as an observer. I could tell by his reaction that I had given him reason to doubt my manhood. I resolved never again to back down from any challenge he gave me. The next time he asked me if I wanted to try a case, I said “Certainly,” even though it was the morning of trial and I had never met my client. Wonder of wonders, I got him acquitted. I tried more cases and had more successes. I was beginning to feel good about myself, and that contributed to my decision to do the very foolish thing.

One fine morning, I was riding to a courthouse in a distant city when my boss, Public Defender Milo Thomas, said, “Well, it looks like I’m going to have to try this dumb [expletive deleted]. He doesn’t have the sense to plead out to Second Degree Murder, and it looks to me like they’ve got him dead to rights.” After a brief pause, he asked “Bob, do you want to try him?” Although I had only been working at the Public Defender’s Office for a few months, and although I had only tried five felony jury trials, I remembered my resolution never again to back down from a challenge. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll do it.”  I spent the rest of our trip poring over the rather skimpy case file we had, and I thought I was fully prepared for the trial by the time we arrived at the courthouse. I really didn’t appreciate the significance of what I was getting myself into. Florida had just reinstated the death penalty after the Supreme Court’s decision in Furman v. Georgia, and my client was going to be the first death eligible murder defendant to go to trial after the reinstatement.

I will call my client Paul Bunyan because he worked as a pulpwood logger at a time when automation had not yet arrived in the pulpwood industry. As a consequence, he was heavily muscled and rapier thin. Working with axes and crosscut saws and loading logs by hand in the humid heat of North Florida insured that you would have lots of muscle and very little fat on your body. Pulpwooders worked hard through the week and partied hard on Friday and Saturday nights, and often those parties ended in violence as large volumes of whiskey mixed with large volumes of testosterone. On this particular Saturday night, Bunyan had come second best in a bar fight, and he wasn’t one to lightly admit defeat. He left the bar and went home to get his pistol. By the time he returned, the night shift deputy sheriff was sitting in the parking lot of the bar taking his “lunch” break. As the deputy sat in his patrol car eating a fish sandwich, he saw Bunyan return to the bar and take up a position by the door of the bar. Bunyan had not stood there long before his antagonist had left the bar and headed for his pickup truck to go home. Bunyan followed him. As the man opened the door of his truck and began to sit down, Bunyan opened fire with his pistol. When he was done shooting, he walked off, left his victim lying on the pavement and headed straight for the deputy’s patrol car. He walked up to the window and told the deputy, “If you try to arrest me, I’ll kill you, too. Tell the Sheriff that I’ll be at home if he wants me.” The deputy had plenty of moxie, but Bunyan had the drop on him, so he let Bunyan go and called for backup. In short order the Sheriff arrived on the scene and organized a team of officers to surround Bunyan’s house. When they had the area secured, the Sheriff called on Bunyan to give himself up. Bunyan came out with his hands up and meekly submitted to arrest.

When we had first interviewed Bunyan shortly after his arrest, he maintained that he fired in self defense and that the deputy was lying about how it happened. When we asked why the deputy might be lying, Bunyan replied “He wants to get me out of the way so he can have my wife.” The facts that Bunyan’s wife wasn’t particularly attractive and that the deputy was happily married were not necessarily insurmountable obstacles to Bunyan’s defense, but another fact seemed to doom it. Everyone else who had been in the parking lot that night agreed with the deputy—the victim had not threatened Bunyan and Bunyan had shot him down for no good reason. If I were going to wager on who was telling the truth, I’d put my money on the deputy.

As we approached the courthouse that morning, I began to get cold feet. “Do you think Judge Agner will be happy with me handling a murder case with so little experience?” Milo assured me that everything would be fine. “I’ll be right there with you.” Milo’s definition of right there with me was somewhat different from mine. I assumed that he would be sitting at counsel table with me. He decided that he would be close enough if he sat in the grand jury box on the right hand side of the courtroom. It was only 15-20 feet from counsel table to where he was sitting, and I could always get up and walk back to the grand jury box to ask him questions. We met briefly with our client and made him understand that I would be his lawyer now. We could not make him understand that getting on the stand and accusing the deputy of perjury would be counterproductive.

Finally, the time came for jury selection. We took our places at counsel table and I put my briefcase on the floor immediately to the left of my chair. Judge Agner called 12 people into the box, and the prosecutor started asking them questions. I had trouble hearing what they were saying because I was too busy worrying about what questions I should ask. The prosecutor finished and it was now my time to ask questions. I got up, turned left, took two steps, and tripped over my briefcase. I was able to catch myself on the table before I hit the floor. I righted myself, walked to the lectern, and asked a series of questions that I hoped sounded intelligent. When I finished, Judge Agner gave us time to discuss among ourselves who we might want to challenge. I walked back to the grand jury box and asked Milo what he thought. “Looks like a pretty good jury to me.” I asked him how I was doing. “You’re doing great. Keep up the good work.”

The State’s case went by quickly. The only fireworks came over a difference of opinion between me and the prosecutor as to what constituted a leading question. Judge Agner broke the tie in my favor, but the prosecutor insisted on continuing to ask leading questions. I continued to object, Judge Agner continued to sustain my objections, and the prosecutor’s face got redder and redder as his anger mounted. I felt completely at sea, conducting my cross examinations in a tentative, hit-or-miss manner. Between witnesses I would walk back to the grand jury box to ask Milo how I was doing. His answer never varied. “You’re doing great.” Did Milo have any suggestions? “Keep up the good work.” As the day wore on, Milo got restless. Often, when I started back to the grand jury box, I would see that Milo had left the courtroom. Finally, the prosecution rested. I put on the few witnesses Bunyan wanted us to call, and then we got to the essential point of the defense. Would Bunyan testify?

Bunyan wanted to testify; he insisted on testifying. There was nothing either Milo or I could do to talk him out of it. He took the stand and, though I felt it was my duty to believe in my client, I felt very strongly that nobody else in the courtroom was buying his story. When the prosecutor crossed him, Bunyan accused each and every state witness of perjury. Bunyan especially accused the deputy of perjury. Finally, it was over, and we could go to final arguments. What was I going to argue? My reasoning went this way: I had to believe my client. My client said everyone else was the liar and he was the oracle of truth. I had to argue to the jury that my client was the oracle of truth. Bunyan had said that the deputy was the biggest liar among the prosecution witnesses; therefore I had to echo that sentiment in my argument to the jury.  

We finished our arguments; the judge instructed the jury on the law; the jury retired to deliberate on its verdict; and we went into a holding pattern waiting on their verdict. We hadn’t waited more than an hour when the jury knocked on the jury room door and the bailiff went to ask them if they had a verdict. They did not, but they did have a question. Judge Agner sent a yellow pad into the jury room with instructions that they write their question on the yellow pad, and I conferred with my client on the new development.

Based on my vast experience with jury trials, I told my client “The jury has a question. That’s a good sign. It means that they’re confused about something, and confusion almost always works to the benefit of the defense.” We waited some more. Eventually, another knock came on the door, and the jury foreman handed the yellow pad to the bailiff. The bailiff took the pad to Judge Agner, making sure that none of the lawyers could get a glimpse of it before Judge Agner had a chance to see it.

We assembled in Judge Agner’s chambers and he studied the yellow pad. He then handed the pad to the lawyers and we got a look at it. The question was: “Do we vote on the death penalty now, or does that come later?” Judge Agner asked if we agreed that the penalty was not to be considered at this point in the trial, and when we agreed, he wrote a note on the yellow pad telling the jury not to consider the penalty at this time. Almost as soon as the note was passed into the jury room, they came out with their verdict: Guilty of Murder in the First Degree. I asked the judge if I could have a few minutes to prepare for the penalty phase and he graciously allowed me 15 minutes.

For the first time in my legal career, I read the chapter of the Florida Statutes dealing with the death penalty. I learned that before the jury could recommend the death penalty, they had to find that at least one “aggravating circumstance” existed. The aggravating circumstances were listed in the statute, and I read them carefully. There were no aggravating circumstances in Bunyan’s case. I breathed a sigh of relief. I pointed this fact out to the judge and the prosecutor, but they both insisted that the jury had to hear evidence and argument and render their advisory sentence. Neither the state nor the defense had any evidence to put on, so we moved directly to arguments. I am quite certain that I was far more frightened by the proceedings than Bunyan was. The prosecutor asked the jury to recommend death, and then it was my turn to speak. The gist of my argument was “Please don’t kill my client,” and I bolstered the argument by reading each of the statutory aggravating circumstances and explaining how none of them applied. Mercifully, the jury returned an advisory sentence of life in prison without possibility of parole for a period of 25 years. It was the Third Judicial Circuit’s first Capital Murder case to go to penalty phase after the reinstatement of the death penalty, and we didn’t even have a proper advisory sentence form. The advisory sentence was hand written on a piece of paper torn from a yellow pad. I had trouble sleeping for weeks afterward.

I filed a motion for new trial on a very hypertechnical argument about the sufficiency of the jury instructions, and we argued the motion the next month when we came back to town to hold court again. Judge Agner took the motion under advisement and sat on it for almost nine months. During that time I tried several more First Degree Murder cases and actually got one client acquitted. No client of mine ever again got convicted of First Degree Murder, and I never again had to make a penalty phase argument for the defense. I got to the point that I was feeling cocky about my abilities as a homicide defense attorney. Some of those First Degree Murder cases I tried were even more one-sided than the Bunyan case, and the prosecution never got a verdict for anything greater than Second Degree Murder. If I could only get another crack at trying Bunyan again, I was certain I could do a much better job. In addition to three or four murder trials, I had tried approximately two dozen felony jury trials and an even greater number of misdemeanor jury trials, and I was beginning to learn my way around the courtroom. Finally, Judge Agner ruled. He granted us a new trial! I believe he was less convinced by my legal arguments than he was concerned by my lack of experience.

The biggest problem with the second trial was Bunyan’s desire to testify. I tried to explain to him that it was his testimony which had doomed him the first time, and that it would likely do so again. I told him we had a good chance of getting a lesser verdict if he would just keep his mouth shut. I could not get him to listen to reason. I was, however, a little bit better equipped to deal with his obstinacy.

The law says that you cannot offer perjured testimony. It also says that a defendant has an absolute right to testify in his own defense. I had offered Bunyan’s testimony in the previous trial by playing mental gymnastics and reasoning that it was remotely possible that he was telling the truth and everyone else was lying. I was not prepared to do that again, and I certainly wasn’t ready to stand before a jury and solemnly assure them that they could trust his story. In 1973, Florida law had recognized the dilemma of not offering perjured testimony but honoring a lying client’s desire to testify, but as yet it had not devised a solution. I decided that I would put him on the stand, let him make a narrative statement about the incident, and argue the case to the jury as though he had never testified. There was some out-of-state authority that said a lawyer could properly do that, and I decided to rely on it. I firmly believe that my decision to handle Bunyan’s testimony in this manner was what got a lesser verdict of Second Degree Murder.

I had made the prosecutor angry in the first trial, but that was nothing compared to his rage at my tactics in the second. The prosecutor had a habit of holding back at least one good argument and not making it in his opening final argument. He would save it for his closing final argument when the defense would be unable to respond. It was a fairly common tactic, but it had backfire potential. The argument he decided to hold back in his opening was his attack on the credibility of my client. He said nothing about the cock-and-bull story Bunyan gave from the witness stand, secure in the belief that I would have to argue it in my final argument and he could crush me with the argument in his closing. But I didn’t even mention that my client had testified.

After I finished making my argument, the prosecutor got up and began to lambaste Bunyan’s credibility. I objected. Closing final argument is limited to answering things said in opposing counsel’s argument. If a fact isn’t argued, you can’t answer it in closing final argument. I explained to the judge that I had been very careful not to even mention the fact that my client had testified, and that the prosecutor was therefore foreclosed from making any argument about Bunyan’s credibility. The judge ruled with me, and the prosecutor almost had a conniption. He tried several times to attack Bunyan’s credibility, but each time I objected, and each time the judge sustained my objection. You could have fried an egg on the prosecutor’s forehead.  Bunyan was convicted of Second Degree Murder and got life again, but there was no mandatory 25 year minimum, and he would be eligible for parole in a few years. In those days, if you behaved yourself in prison, you did about seven years on a life sentence for murder. My client was going to spend a few years in prison, but what else should he expect when he committed premeditated murder in front of a deputy sheriff and a parking lot full of onlookers?

I was quite proud of myself, thinking I had done a great job of arguing the case to the jury. In the light of 20/20 hindsight, I came to revise that opinion. Over thirty years after the trial, I went back to the clerk’s office and read the trial transcript. I could be wrong, but I believe I did this because I was looking for transcripts to copy and use in my law school class. I was flabbergasted by the final argument I gave. It sounded nothing like a defense final argument in a Capital Murder case. It sounded like a prosecution opening statement in a Second Degree Murder case! Needless to say, I didn’t copy that particular transcript for my students.


It sometimes seems that Western culture is portrayed as an endless succession of sins against others. I am painfully aware that "all have sinned," including our predecessors who built Western culture, but I don't think their sins were any more grievous than those perpetrated by other cultures. Victor Davis Hanson put it well when he wrote: "We must judge Western failings not through the lenses of [modern] utopian perfectionism, but in the context of the global landscape of the times. Western values are absolute, but the methods of their implementation are also evolutionary, being perfect neither at their birth nor in their adolescence." --"Why the West Has Won," The Spectator, Nov/Dec, 2001.

Sunday, November 25, 2012


Years ago, when I was a public defender, I made an egregious blunder that should have cost my client his freedom. For some reason the jury acquitted, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I sometimes wrote poems about my trials, and I wrote one about this trial. Given the types of cases I handled, most of my poems were either R or NC-17. This one, however is a PG. The poem was just posted on a blog to which I contribute. Here's a link to the poem.   

Cross-Examination Blog: THE BALLAD OF THE BLIND VICTIM: A Poem by George R. (Bob) Dekle, Sr. The victim came and took the stand And then he lifted up his hand And swore the truth he would reco...

Friday, November 16, 2012


I am researching and writing a book about Abraham Lincoln’s most famous trial, the Almanac Trial, in which a young man by the name of William “Duff” Armstrong was accused of the murder of Pres Metzker. As the story goes, Lincoln broke down the testimony of the chief witness against Armstrong with a brilliant cross-examination. The witness claimed to have seen the killing by the light of a brightly shining moon which was high overhead. Lincoln confronted the perjurer with an almanac which showed the moon was on the horizon, making it impossible for the witness to see through the thick growth of beech trees. By some accounts, Lincoln broke the witness’s spirit so completely that he staggered from the courtroom. We would probably not even remember the trial if it had not become an issue during Lincoln’s campaign for president. Lincoln’s supporters touted the trial as demonstrating his remarkable abilities. His detractors argued that Lincoln perpetrated a fraud upon the court by using a faked almanac. Controversy has surrounded the trial ever since, with some saying that Lincoln performed as a paragon of both virtue and skill to exonerate an innocent young man, while others claim that he repeatedly engaged in underhanded tactics to trick the jury into acquitting a murderer.  I don’t want to talk about the trial itself in this blog. It should take a book-length treatment to sort out all the conflicts in evidence. Instead I want to talk about a wrestling match that Lincoln contested as a youth and how that wrestling match led the mature Lincoln to become involved in the trial. 

As a young man Lincoln moved to Sangamon County, Illinois, where he took a job as a store clerk. It was the first job he ever held which did not call for back-breaking manual labor. At the time, Lincoln was 6’4” tall and weighed 214 pounds. Interestingly, when he was president, he weighed in at around 185 pounds. As men become older and less active, they tend to gain weight rather than lose it. What caused the sedentary, middle aged Lincoln to weigh 30 pounds less than the young, physically active Lincoln? I believe that extra 30 pounds was muscle. Lincoln the lawyer didn’t need to carry as much muscle as Lincoln the log splitter.  

Indeed, one of the things that so impressed the citizens of Sangamon County was his strength, and apparently Lincoln didn’t mind flexing his muscles for his admirers. Two of his exploits border on the unbelievable. Lincoln helped a friend escape a gambling debt by offering the creditor double or nothing on a wager that he could lift a barrel of whiskey and drink from the bung hole. An empty whiskey barrel weighs around 110 pounds. A full barrel contains 40 gallons. Assuming whiskey weighs about the same as water (8 pounds to the gallon), that means Lincoln would be lifting and drinking from a tankard which could weigh no less than 110 pounds and no more than 430 pounds. Of course, he didn’t lift and drink the whiskey as you would lift and drink from a pitcher. He squatted, bear hugged the barrel, and hoisted it onto his knees, much as a World’s Strongest Man competitor begins to lift an Atlas Stone. From that position, Lincoln was able to hoist the barrel into a tilting position so that whiskey could pour out of the bung hole and into his mouth. The part of this story that I find hardest to believe is the claim that after he filled his mouth with whiskey, he spit it out. You may wonder what all this has to do with a wrestling match. Be patient, I’m getting to the point.

Lincoln’s second feat is just as impressive. It is a well-attested fact that he lifted a box of rocks weighing in at a little over a thousand pounds. Zydrunas Zavickas, who has won multiple World’s Strongest Man titles, set the strongman competition world record for the deadlift at the Arnold Classic just this year—1117 pounds. Probably fewer than 1/10 of one percent of the humans on planet Earth can lift such a weight. Lincoln didn’t do a deadlift, he did a somewhat “easier” lift called a harness lift. He mounted a platform over the weight,  squatted over the weight wearing a harness, the harness was attached to the box, and all he had to do was simply stand up and make the weight come clear of the ground.

Newcomers to small towns can expect to be tested, and if the newcomer is a man, the testing is sometimes done in hand-to-hand combat. Jack Armstrong, the leader of a gang of roughnecks known as the Clary’s Grove Boys, had enjoyed the reputation of being the strongest man in Sangamon County before Lincoln arrived. Lincoln threatened Armstrong’s reputation in another area as well. Armstrong was considered the best wrestler in the county, but Lincoln had recently defeated a famous wrestler by the name of Daniel Needham. It was only a matter of time before Lincoln would be called upon to prove himself. Lincoln’s employer, Denton Offutt, made a tense situation worse by loudly proclaiming that his young clerk could outlift, outrun, and outwrestle any man in Sangamon County. Offutt was finally given an ultimatum to put up or shut up, and he wagered ten dollars that Lincoln could throw Jack Armstrong. Having been pushed into the match by his employer, Lincoln resolved to do his best. 

There are, of course, a number of different styles of wrestling—sumo, freestyle, folkstyle, Greco-Roman, and many more. It appear that the style of wrestling common in Illinois at the time of the match was a form known as “collar and elbow” wrestling, a style invented in Ireland. There was no ground fighting in the pure Irish style, but once it had migrated to America, it evolved to include ground fighting. Apparently at the time Lincoln and Armstrong wrestled, the sport didn’t have a ground fighting element. The object was simply to throw your opponent to the ground. Armstrong was undoubtedly a strong man, but he was a normal size for that day and age. At probably no more than 5’9”, he ceded at least a seven inch height advantage to Lincoln, and his arm span could not possibly have equaled Lincoln’s. As the saying goes, a good big man will defeat a good little man, and that is apparently what happened. We cannot be certain of the outcome, because the eyewitnesses to the match give conflicting stories. Some have Lincoln winning, some have the men agreeing to a draw, and some have Armstrong throwing Lincoln by cheating. No witness reports that Armstrong defeated Lincoln by fair means. 

Whatever happened, the match culminated in Armstrong and Lincoln becoming fast friends. Lincoln was a frequent guest in Armstrong’s home and came to be treated almost as family. He ate at the Armstrong’s table, Armstrong’s wife Hannah patched Lincoln’s clothes, and Lincoln rocked their infant son William to sleep at night. When William grew up, he developed into every bit the ruffian that his father had been, and then one fateful night outside a camp meeting in Menard County, Illinois, he fought Press Metzker. At least one witness swore that young Armstrong struck Metzker in the face with an improvised weapon known as a slungshot--a heavy weight on the end of a rope or some other flexible handle. Metzker died from his wounds, and William was arrested for his murder. Jack Armstrong died while the case was pending, and Lincoln volunteered to defend William. 

When the case was won, Lincoln refused to accept any payment, telling Hannah Armstrong that he would do anything he could to help her in any situation. It was not long before she had occasion to ask for Lincoln’s help. When the Civil War began, all her sons were inducted into the Union Army. Hannah wanted and needed her son William back home to take care of things. She wrote Lincoln a letter asking for her son back, and Lincoln immediately sent orders to muster William Armstrong out of the army so that he could return home.

Wednesday, October 31, 2012


Last night, while sorting through old papers deciding what to keep and what to throw away, I came upon a treasure trove of very bad poetry that I'm sure I wrote over 30 years ago. Some of it I can remember writing while in college, some of it when I was a public defender, and then there is some that I haven't a clue when I wrote. I decided not to throw it away. Perhaps someday my grandchildren can have a laugh about what an abominable poet their granddad was.
I did write at least one poem that I’m not embarrassed to share. It’s a poem about a football game between the Nebraska Cornhuskers and the Florida State University Seminoles. Perhaps someone can enlighten me as to when the poem was written and who the FSU coach was at the time of the game. I think I know the identity of the coach, but I could be wrong. Anyway, here’s the poem:

The Noles went to Nebraska, And they really went to play.
They fought them to a standstill on that chilly autumn day.

The Huskers were the first to strike, they rolled up fourteen points.
The Noles weren’t beat ‘cause they were just unlimbering their joints.

The Noles came back and scored fifteen. They did just what they oughter.
The Huskers found themselves behind beginning the fourth quarter.

The Noles got three, they did so well, the score was now eighteen.
Nebraska took the ball and ran it down the field so green.

They started on their twenty, and they drove down to the three.
They pushed and fought and scrapped and tried to win the victory.

The Seminoles they bowed their backs and shut the Huskers down,
And they were winners tall and proud when they left Husker town.

The poem makes it painfully obvious that I am no Grantland Rice, but I enjoyed re-reading this piece of doggerel that I penned so long ago. I thought maybe a Seminole fan might get some enjoyment from it, too. Somebody please let me know when this game was played and who coached the FSU team to victory.