Arthur Cheney Train

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CHAPTER VII THE CAMORRA IN ITALY

In Italy, when it rains, the man on the street mutters: “Piove! Governo ladro!” (“It rains! Thief of a government!”) Oddly enough, this expression, originally coined by the Fanfulla, an influential journal, to ridicule the opponents of the government, really epitomizes the attitude of the average Italian toward the central authority. It is the vital word spoken in jest. The Italian—and particularly the Italian of the southern peninsula—is against government—any government, all government—on general principles. He and his forefathers went through a grim school, and they have not forgotten.

The Italian, however republican in form his institutions may be, is still the subject of a monarchy, and he has never fully grasped the Anglo-Saxon idea that even a king is subject to the law. In Italy no one thinks of questioning the legality of an arrest. With us, to do so is the first thought that comes. On the Continent, the fact that an act is done by an official, by a man in striped trousers, places it above criticism. No matter how obvious an error may have been committed, one is inevitably met by the placid assertion: “The government makes no mistakes.” Neither has the idea of the sanctity of personal liberty ever been properly developed. There is nohabeas corpus in Italy. Release on bail is legally possible, but difficult of achievement and little availed of. A man’s house is not “his castle.” The law itself is usually complicated and slow in remedial and criminal matters, and justice is apt to be blind unless the right sort of eye doctor—a deputy or a senator—is called in. Bureaucracy has perpetuated the Italian’s inherited distrust of government and distaste for legal process, and drives him still to seek his ends in many cases by influence, bribery, or—the Camorra.

Rarely can we point to a social phenomenon in this country and say: “This is so because of something a hundred years ago.” With us some one has an idea, and presto! we are recalling judges, pulling down idols, “elevating” women to be sheriffs, and playing golf on Sundays. Where are the gods of yesterday? The pulse of the nation leaps at a single click of the Morse code. An injustice in Oklahoma brings a mass meeting together in Carnegie Hall. But the continuance of the Camorra in Italy to-day is directly due to the succession of tyrants who about a century ago allowed the patriots of Naples and Sicily to rot in prison or hung them up on scaffolds in the public squares.

The Bourbon rule in the “Kingdom of the Two Sicilies”[5] was one of the most despicable in history. In eleven days in 1793 one hundred and twenty professors, physicians, and priests were executed by the public hangman in Naples. This was a mere foretaste of what was coming. When Napoleon dethroned the Bourbons in 1805 and made his brother Joseph “King of Naples,” there dawned an era of enlightenment and reform which continued when Joseph was succeeded by Joachim Murat in 1808; but the Congress of Vienna in 1815 reinstated the old dynasty and recalled Ferdinand I, who had been lurking in Sardinia, to the throne. Then the horrors began again. A period of retrogression, of wholesale persecutions and executions, followed. Never was there anything like the nightmare of bloody politics which lasted through the reigns of Ferdinand I (1825), of Francis I (1830), of Ferdinand II (1859), and of Francis II, until the entry of Garibaldi into Naples in 1860.

The oppressions of the Bourbons and the struggle of the patriots of Italy for freedom and the Risorgimento stimulated secret organization. No other means to combat tyranny was, in fact, possible. To be known to have liberal ideas meant instant arrest, if not death. Under Ferdinand II there had been over twenty thousand political prisoners actually in prison at one time and thirty thousand moreattendibili, confined in their houses.[6] The governor of Genoa complained to Mazzini’s father because the youth “walked by himself at night, absorbed in thought.” Said he: “We don’t like young people thinking without knowing the subject of their thoughts.” The great society of the Carbonari had provoked the counter-organization of the Calderoni, and had in turn given way to the “New Italy” of Mazzini. It is said on excellent authority that in 1820 there were seventy thousand persons in the city of Naples alone who belonged to secret societies. In this year we first hear of the Camorra by name, and for the next forty years it spread and flourished until it became so powerful that the government of the “Two Sicilies” had perforce to enter into treaty with it and finally (in 1860) to turn over to it the policing of the city of Naples. Indeed, it may be that some such extra-legal organization was a practical necessity if existence were to be tolerable at all.

Lombroso, in the “Growth of Crime,” writes: “When the royal postal officials were in the habit of tampering with correspondence, when the police were bent on arresting the honest patriots and making use of thieves as agents provocateurs, the necessity of things enhanced the value of the Camorra, which could always have a letter or a packet safely conveyed, save you from a dagger thrust in prison, redeem you a stolen article for a fair sum, or, when quarrels and disputes arose, could get these settled on much more equitable terms and less costly than any one else or indeed the ordinary process of the law.”

This was the heyday of the Camorra as an organization of criminals. Later it developed into something more—a political ring under whose leash the back of southern Italy still quivers.

The Neapolitan Camorra had its origin in Spain. The great Cervantes, in “Rinconeto y Contadillo,” has drawn a marvellous picture of a brotherhood of thieves and malefactors who divided their evil profits with the police and clergy. This was “La Garduna”—the mother of the Camorra. As early as 1417 it had rules, customs, and officers identical with those of the Camorra of the nineteenth century, and, like it, flourished in the jails, which were practically under its control. Undoubtedly this organization found its way into Sicily and Naples in the wake of the Spanish occupation of the thirteenth century, and germinated in the loathsome prisons of the period until it was ready to burst forth into open activity under the Bourbons.

The word camorra comes from the Spanish chamarra (in Italian gamurra, hence tabarra, tabarro), meaning a “cloak” usually affected by thieves and bullies. From this is derived the Spanish word camorra, “a quarrel with fists,” and the phrase hacer camorra, fairly translatable as “to look for trouble.” It would be difficult to find any closer definition than this last of the business of the Neapolitan Camorra.

Giuseppi Alongi, a pupil and follower of Lombroso, and one of the principal Italian authorities upon the subject, says concerning the rise of the Neapolitan organization:

“The Camorra certainly had its birth in the prisons of Naples. Old offenders regarded themselves as aristocrats of crime, and behaved as masters in their own households, forming a sort of privileged class within the prison. The idea of levying taxes on newcomers came as natural to them as that among soldiers of calling upon the recruit to ‘pay his footing.’ That the Neapolitan Camorra is so mixed up with religion is due to the fact that the local criminal unites ferocity with religious superstition, while the amazing devotion of the population to ‘Our Lady of Mount Carmel,’ who is venerated as the symbol of maternal love, offers an easy means of exploiting their credulity. It became the custom, therefore, to exact tolls from the people, under the pretence that they were intended for religious purposes. The Camorrists have four hundred feasts every year, and the Church of Mount Carmel in Naples is still their religious centre.”

In the days from 1820 to 1860, to be a Camorrist was a matter of pride and a rare distinction among the baser sort. So far from concealing his membership in it, the Camorrista vaunted it abroad, even affecting a peculiar costume which rendered him unmistakable. A red necktie, the loose ends of which floated over either shoulder, a parti-colored sash, and a cane heavily loaded with brass rings, marked him as a “bad man” during this romantic period. But, however picturesque it may have been, the Camorra soon became the most dreaded and loathsome secret society in the world.

Only those could become members who had shown their preference for the mala vita and given tangible evidence of their criminality. Candidates who had qualified for the novitiate proved their suitability for the next grade by performing some brutal act, such as slitting an old man’s throat from ear to ear.

The business of the Camorra was organized extortion, assisted by murder and violence. The Camorrist was a bully—one who could use the knife. In this he was instructed until he became a master in artistic stabbing with a fair knowledge of anatomy. Various styles of knives were used for different purposes: the settesoldi, for scarring and unimportant duelling among members; the ’o zumpafuosso, or deadly official knife, for the “jumping duel”; the triangolo for murders, etc. The actual slashing was usually done not by the Camorrist himself, but by some aspirant to membership in the society who desired to give proof of his virtue, and who, rather as a favor, was permitted to take all the chances. Accordingly the “honored” youth selected the right knife and lay in wait for his victim, assisted by a palo, or “stall,” who gave warning of danger and perhaps arranged for the victim to stumble just as the blow was to be struck. Secret signals facilitated matters. Even to-day, the American in Naples who is not “afraid to go home in the dark” had best hasten his steps if he hears near by the bark of a dog, the mew of a cat, the crow of a cock, or a sneeze, any one of which does not carry conviction as to its genuine character. These are all common Camorrist signals of attack; while popular tunes such as “Oi ne’, traseteve, ca chiora!” (“Go in, for it rains!”) are warnings of the approach of danger.

The Camorra levied blackmail upon all gambling enterprises, brothels, drivers of public vehicles, boatmen, beggars, prostitutes, thieves, waiters, porters, marketmen, fruit-sellers, small tradesmen, lottery winners, and pawnbrokers, controlled all the smuggling and coined bogus money; and the funds thus secured were divided among (1) the police, (2) the members in jail, (3) the aged, (4) widows and orphans of those who had died in the cause of crime, (5) the higher officers, (6) whatever saint or shrine it was desired to propitiate, and (7) the “screenings” went to the men who did the dirty work.

The Camorrists made use of picture signs for names, and a secret symbolism to express their meanings, written or spoken. They also had an argot, or dialect, which has impressed itself upon the language of the entire lower class of Naples. All criminals have a jargon of their own, often picturesque, frequently humorous, and the slang of the Camorrist differed little from that of other associations of crooks here and elsewhere, save in its greater volume. Much of the Camorrist vocabulary has passed into common use, and it is difficult to determine now what words are of strictly Camorristic origin, although the following are supposed to be so:

Freddare, “to turn a man cold” (to kill).

Agnello, “lamb” (victim).

Il morto, “the dead one” (one robbed).

La Misericordia, “Compassion” (combination knife and dagger).

Bocca, “mouth” (pistol).

Tric-trac (revolver).

Sorci neri, “black rats” (night patrol).

Asparago,[7] “asparagus” (a gendarme who has been tricked—“a stiff”).

Si accolla, “he sticks to it” (he shoulders the others’ crime).

In all there are said to be about five thousand words in the Camorrist vocabulary; but a large number of these are simply Neapolitan slang, for inventing which every Neapolitan has a gift.

No more interesting example of this slang has ever come to light than in the secret diary of Tobia Basile (nicknamed “Scarpia Leggia”) who, after serving thirty years in prison, returned to the haunts of men to teach the picciotti the forms and ceremonies of the society and to instruct them in its secret language. This strange old man, more literate than most Camorrists, kept a diary in the ancient symbolism of the brotherhood. Having become bored by his wife he murdered her, walled her body up in the kitchen, and recorded what he had done, thus:

May 1, “The violets are out.”

May 7, “Water to the beans.”

June 11, “I have pruned my garden.”

Aug. 10, “How beautiful is the sun.”

Sept. 12, “So many fine sheep are passing.”

Time passed, and a contractor, rebuilding the wall, came upon the corpse. Tobia denied his guilt, but his diary was found, as well as a Camorrist translator. “Water to the beans.” That beautiful metaphor was shown to mean naught else but “I have killed and buried her!” And in the face of his own diary Tobia admitted the accuracy of his record. “Water to the beans!”

The first grade of aspirants to the Camorra was that of the garzone di mala vita, or “apprentice,” who was practically a servant, errand-boy, or valet for his masters or sponsors, and was known as a giovine onorato, or honored youth. The second grade was that of the picciotti sgarro, or novice, originally difficult of attainment and often requiring from six to ten years of service. The third or final stage was that of the capo paranza, head of a local gang, or “district leader.”

The society was divided into twelve centres, corresponding to the twelve quarters of the city of Naples, each centre being, in turn, subdivided into paranze and having a separate or individual purse. The chief of each paranza was elected, and was the strongest or boldest man in the gang. In earlier days he combined the office of president, which carried with it only the limited authority to call meetings, with that of cashier, which involved the advantage of being able to divide the camorra, or proceeds of crime. The leader was entitled himself to the sbruffo, a percentage due by “right of camorra”; and this percentage belongs to-day in every case to the Camorrist who has planned or directed the particular crime involved. The leaders of the twelve divisions met, just as they occasionally do now, to discuss affairs of vital importance, but in most matters the individual sections were autonomous.

According to the confession of an old Camorrist, the lowest grade of the society was attained by the following rite:

A general meeting of the district was called, at which the sponsor formally introduced the candidate to the gathering. The leader stood in the midst of his fellow Camorrists, all of whom were drawn up in a circle according to seniority. If the treasurer was present the president had three votes, and the assembly was known in Camorrist slang as being cap’ in trino—three in one: if absent, the society was known as cap’ in testa, which means “the supreme triad.” All stood perfectly motionless, with arms folded across their breasts and with bowed heads. The president, addressing the neophyte, said:

“Knowest thou the conditions and what thou must do to become an honored youth? Thou wilt endure misfortune upon misfortune, thou wilt be obliged to obey all the orders of the novices and the solemnly professed, and bring them useful gains to furnish them with useful service.”

To this the neophyte replies:

“Did I not wish to suffer adversities and hardships, I should not have troubled the society.”

After a favorable vote on the admission of the candidate, he was led forward and permitted to kiss each member once upon the mouth. The president he kissed twice. Certain favors were then asked of the assembly by the neophyte, and the president made reply:

“The favors asked shall be accorded according to our rules. Our terms of membership are these:

“First: That thou go not singing or rowing or brawling in the public streets.

“Secondly: That thou respect the novices and whatsoever instructions they may give thee.

“Thirdly: That thou obey whole-heartedly our professed members and carry out their commissions.”

After a few tests of the candidate he was handed over to the “novice master,” a full-fledged member under whom he was to serve his term of probation. The period of his apprenticeship depended upon the zeal, ability, and ready obedience which he displayed in the course of it. He was absolutely at the mercy of his master, and if so commanded he must substitute himself for another and take the latter’s crimes upon his own shoulders; but one who thus made of himself a “martyr” was promoted to a higher grade in the society.

Promotion to such higher grades involved stricter examination and the Camorrist admonition:

“Shouldst thou see even thine own father stab a companion or one of the brethren, thou art bound to defend thy comrade at the cost of stabbing or wounding thy father; and God help thee shouldst thou traffic with traitors and spies!”

Standing with one foot in the galleys and the other in the grave (symbolically), he swore to kill anybody, even himself, should that be the wish of the society. The kissing ceremony was then renewed, and the candidate was initiated fully into the secrets of the organization. The number of weapons in the possession of the Camorra was revealed to him, the names of brethren under the ban of suspicion, the names of all novices and postulants, as well as the society password and the code of recognition signs.

These points of ritual passed, the candidate was then ready for the blood ceremony, which consisted in tasting the blood of each member of the assembly, drawn from a small knife-wound made for the purpose, and finally the combat. For this necessary part of the ceremony of initiation, the candidate was required to select an opponent from the assembly. The champions then chose their daggers, picked their seconds, unshirted themselves—and the fight was on. It was a rule that they must aim only at the muscles of the arm, and the president, acting as capo di tiranta (master of combat) was there to see that the rule was obeyed. At the first drawing of blood the combat was over, and the victor was brought forward to suck the blood of the wound and embrace his adversary. If the newly promoted member happened to be the loser, he had to resume the fight later on with another champion; and not until he had won in a test was he definitely “passed” and “raised.”

Many other bloody tests have been attributed to this ceremony of the Camorra; but these, as well as the foregoing in its strict form, have been largely done away with, except in the prisons, where the society still retains its formality. There remained, as a final step in the ritual of initiation, the tattooing of two hearts joined together with two keys. “Men of honor ought to have heart enough for two people, that is to say, have a large heart; men bound only to their colleagues and whose heart is closed as it were with a double key to all others.” Sometimes a spider took the place of the hearts, symbolizing the industry of the Camorrist and the silence with which he weaves the web around his victim. This tattooing is still customary among Camorrists.

The usual Camorrist tribunal consisted of a committee of three members belonging to the district organization, presided over by the Camorrist of highest rank among them, and settled ordinary disputes and punishments. From this there was an appeal in more important matters to the central committee of twelve. This latter body elected a supreme head for the entire society, and passed on matters of general policy. It also sat as a court of original and final jurisdiction in cases of treachery to the society, such as betraying its secrets or embezzling its funds, imposed the death penalty, and appointed the executioners. Its decrees were carried out with blind obedience, although not infrequently the death sentence was commuted to that of disfiguration.

Such, then, was the society which in 1820 already controlled the prisons, dealt in assassination and robbery, levied blackmail upon all classes, trafficked in every sort of depravity, and had a rank and file upon which its leaders could absolutely rely. It had no political creed, nor did it interest itself in anything except crime. It had greater solidarity than the police, which was almost equally corrupt. Dreaded by all, it was utilized by all, for it could do that which the police could not do.

The city officials of Naples had a very tender regard for the feelings of “the brethren of the dagger.” In 1829 certain reformers proposed building a wall around a notoriously evil street, so that at night, under lock and key, the inhabitants could be properly “segregated.” But the Camorra did not take kindly to the suggestion, and a letter was left with the functionary in charge of the matter:[8]

Naples, September, 1829.

Sir:

Are you not aware that in confining these poor girls in walls you act as if they were condemned to the lowest depths of hell? The prefect of police and the intendant who ordered this brutal act have no heart.... We are here who have much heart and are always ready to shed our own blood for them, and to cut the throats of those who shall do anything toward walling up that street. With all humility we kiss your hands.

N. N.

The street was not walled up, the prefect of the police discovering that he had too much heart.

Having no politics, the Camorrists became, as it were, Hessians in politico-criminal activity. They were loyal only to themselves, their favorite song being:

It is not unnatural that a young, enthusiastic, and self-confident people should regard with condescension, if not contempt, the institutions of foreign, if older, societies. Americans very generally suffer from the illusion that liberty was not discovered prior to 1776, and that their country enjoys a monopoly of it. Even experienced and conservative editorial writers sometimes unconsciously fall victims to the provincial trait of decrying methods, procedures, and systems simply because they are not our own. Without, the writer believes, a single exception, the newspapers of the United States have indulged in torrents of bitter criticism at the manner in which the trial of the Camorra prisoners at Viterbo is being conducted, and have commonly compared the court itself to a “bear garden,” a “circus,” or a “cage of monkeys.” Wherever the matter has been the subject of discussion or comment, the tone has been always the same, with the implied, if unexpressed, suggestion that if the prosecution were being conducted here the world would see how quickly and effectively we would dispose of the case—and this with the memory of the Thaw and Patterson trials fresh in our minds. The following editorial from the New York Times, printed in March of this year, is by no means extreme as compared with the views expressed in other newspapers, and seems to indicate the popular impression of the manner in which this trial is being carried on:

Our own methods of criminal procedure have long been the object of severe and just criticism, and in our exaggerated and insincere fear of convicting the innocent we have made the conviction of the guilty always difficult and often impossible. Quite unknown in our criminal courts, however, and fortunately, are such strange scenes as are presented daily at the trial of the Camorrists now going on in Italy.

There the law is so little confident of its own powers that the accused are herded together in one steel cage, apparently with the idea of preventing attempts at rescue by a public largely sympathetic with organized robbery and assassination, while the witness for the prosecution is secluded in another cage, lest he be torn to pieces by the prisoners or their friends. The pleadings on each side seem to consist largely of denunciations and threats aimed at the other, tears of rage alternate with shrieks of the same origin, and order is only occasionally restored, when the din rises too high, by the curiously gentle expedient of suspending the session of the court.

How justice is to be the outcome of proceedings such as these, and thus conducted, may be comprehensible to what is called—with little reason—the Latin mind, but others are lost in amazement. It is all highly interesting, no doubt, but one is no more likely to regret that we do not carry on our trials in this way than he is to be sorry that our criminals are not such important and powerful persons as the members of the Camorra seem to be.

Only one fact stands out clearly at Viterbo—the fact that the attack on the banded brigands has been so long delayed that the authority of the law can not now be vindicated without producing a sort of civil war. Which ought to be humiliating for somebody.

Only one conclusion could have been reached by the half million readers of this particular editorial, and that—the immense superiority of our own legal procedure and method of handling criminal business over those of Italy.

Yet (to examine the statements in this editorial seriatim) it is not true that scenes similar to those enacted at Viterbo are unknown in our criminal courts; that the lack of confidence of the authorities in their own power is the cause of the prisoners being confined in court in a steel cage; that the public is “largely sympathetic with organized robbery and assassination”; and that tears and shrieks of rage alternate to create a pandemonium which can be stilled only by adjourning court; and, while there is enough justification in fact to give color to such an editorial, the only extenuation for its exaggeration and the false impression it creates lies in the charitable view that the writer had an equally blind confidence in the sincerity of his resident Italian correspondent and in the latter’s cabled accounts of what was going on.

Unfortunately, the reporters at Viterbo have sent in only the most sensational accounts of the proceedings, since, unless their “stuff” is good copy, the expense of collecting and cabling European news deprives it of a market. The press men at Viterbo have given the American editors just what they wanted. Such opportunities occur only once or twice in a lifetime, and they have fully availed themselves of it.

Then, to the false and exaggerated cable of the correspondent the “write-up man” lends his imagination; significant and important facts are omitted altogether, and the public is led to believe that an Italian criminal trial consists of a yelling bandit in a straitjacket, with a hysterical judge and frenzied lawyer abusing each other’s character and ancestry.

Let the writer state, at the outset, that he has never in his legal experience seen a judge presiding with greater courtesy, patience, fairness, or ability, or keeping, as a general rule, under all the circumstances, so perfect a control over his court, as the president of the assize in which the prosecution of the Camorra is being conducted; nor is he familiar with any legal procedure better fitted to ascertain the truth of the charges being tried.

In studying the Camorra trial at Viterbo, or any other Italian or French criminal proceeding, the reader must bear in mind that there is a fundamental distinction between them and our own, and that there are two great and theoretically entirely different systems of criminal procedure, one of which is the offspring of the Imperial Roman law and the other entirely Anglo-Saxon. One is the Roman or inquisitorial system, and the other the English or controversial. Under the former the officers of the state are charged with the duty of ferreting out and punishing crime wherever found, and the means placed at their disposal are those likely to be most effective for the purpose. The theory of the latter is that, to some extent at least, a criminal trial is the result of a dispute between two persons, one the accuser and the other the accused, and that the proceeding savors of a private law-suit. Now, it is obvious that, in principle at least, the two systems differ materially. In the one, the only thing originally considered was the best way to find out whether a criminal were guilty and to lock him up, irrespective of whether or not any private individual had brought an accusation against him. In the other, somebody had to make a complaint and “get his law” by going after it himself to a very considerable extent.

The history of the development of these diverse theories of criminal procedure is too involved to be discussed here at any length, but inasmuch as the most natural way of ascertaining whether or not a person has been guilty of a crime is to question him about it, the leading feature of the Continental system is the “question,” or inquisitorial nature of the proceedings, whereby the police authorities, who are burdened with the discovery and prosecution of crime, initiate the whole matter and bring the defendant and their witnesses before an examining magistrate in the first instance. The procureur (district attorney) in France and the procuratore del re in Italy represent the government and are part of the magistracy. They are actually quasi-judicial in their character, and their powers are infinitely greater than those of our own prosecutors, who occupy a rather anomalous position, akin in some ways to that of a procureur, and at the same time, under our controversial practice, acting as partisan attorneys for the people or the complainant.

The fundamental proposition under the inquisitorial system is that the proceeding is the government’s business, to be conducted by its officers by means of such investigations and interrogations as will most likely get at the truth. Obviously, the quickest and surest means of determining the guilt of a defendant is to put him through an exhaustive examination as soon as possible after the crime, under such surroundings that, while his rights will be safeguarded, the information at his disposal will be elicited for the benefit of the public. The fact that in the past the Spanish Inquisition made use of the rack and wheel, or that to-day the “third degree” is freely availed of by the American police, argues nothing against the desirability of a public oral examination of a defendant in a criminal case. If he be given, under our law, the right to testify, why should he be privileged to remain silent?

The Anglo-Saxon procedure, growing up at a time when death was the punishment for almost every sort of offence, and when torture was freely used to extort confessions of guilt, developed an extraordinary tenderness for accused persons, which has to-day been so refined and extended by legislation in America that there is a strong feeling among lawyers (including President Taft) that there is much in our practice which has outlived its usefulness, and that some elements of Latin procedure, including the compulsory interrogation of defendants in criminal cases, have a good deal to recommend them.

A French or Italian criminal trial, therefore, must be approached with the full understanding that it is a governmental investigation, free from many of the rules of evidence which Bentham said made the English procedure “admirably adapted to the exclusion of the truth.” The judge is charged with the duty of conducting the case. He does all the questioning. There is no such thing as cross-examination at all in our sense, that is to say, a partisan examination to show that the witness is a liar. The judge is there for the purpose of determining that question so far as he can, and the jury are not compelled to listen to days of monotonous interrogation during which the witness is obliged to repeat the same evidence over and over again, and testify as to the most minute details, under the dawdling of lawyers paid by the day, who not only “take time, but trespass upon eternity.”

Such a trial is conducted very much as if the judge were a private individual who had discovered that one of his employees had been guilty of a theft and was trying to ascertain the identity of the guilty party. Practically anything tending to shed light upon the matter is acceptable as evidence, and the suspected person is regarded as the most important witness that can be procured. Finally, and in natural course, comes the confronting of accuser and accused.

Then fellow-servant on the one hand, or formal accuser upon the other, steps forward, and they go at it “hammer and tongs,” revealing to their master, the public, or the jury, the very bottom of their souls; for no man, least of all an Italian, can engage an antagonist in debate over the question of his own guilt without disclosing exactly what manner of man he is.

With these preliminary considerations upon the fundamental distinction between the Latin and the Anglo-Saxon criminal procedure, and without discussing which theory, on general principles, is best calculated to arrive at a definite and effective conclusion as to the guilt of an accused, let us enter the ancient Church of San Francesco at Viterbo, and listen for a moment to the trial of the thirty-six members of the Neapolitan Camorra.

It is a cool spring morning, and the small crowd which daily gathers to watch the arrival of the prisoners in their black-covered wagons has dispersed; the guard of infantry has marched back to the Rocca, once the castle of the popes and now a barracks; and only a couple of carabinieri stand before the door, their white-gloved hands clasped before their belts. Inside, in the extreme rear of the church, you find yourself in a small inclosure seating a couple of hundred people, and a foot or so lower than the level of the rest of the building. This is full of visitors from Rome, wives of lawyers, townspeople, and a scattering of English and American motorists. A rail separates this—the only provision for spectators—from the real court. (At the Thaw and Patterson trials the guests of the participants and officials swarmed all over the court-room, around and beside the jury-box, inside the rail at which the prisoners were seated, and occasionally even shared the dais with the judge.)

We will assume that the proceedings have not yet begun, and that the advocates in their black gowns are chatting among themselves or conferring with their clients through the bars of the cage, which is built into the right-hand side of the church and completely fills it. This cage, by the way, is an absolute necessity where large numbers of prisoners are tried together. The custom of isolating the defendant in some such fashion is not peculiar to Italy, but is in use in our own country as well; and if one attends a criminal trial in the city of Boston he will see the accused elevated in a kind of temporary cell in the middle of the court-room, and looking as if he were suspended in a sort of human bird-cage. Where, as in most jurisdictions of the United States, every defendant can demand a separate trial as of right (which he almost inevitably does demand), no inconvenience is to be anticipated from allowing him his temporary freedom while in the court-room in the custody of an officer. But there are many cases, where three or more defendants are tried together, when, even in New York City, there is considerable danger that the prisoners may seek the opportunity to carry out a vendetta against the witnesses or to revenge themselves upon judge or prosecutor. There is much to be said in favor of isolating defendants in some such way, particularly where they are on trial for atrocious crimes or are likely to prove insane. The Camorrists at Viterbo have already been incarcerated for over four years—one of them died in prison—and were they accessible in the court-room to their relatives or criminal associates and could thus procure fire-arms or knives, there is no prophesying what the result might be to themselves or others. Certain it is that the chief witness, the informer Abbatemaggio, would have met a speedy death before any of his testimony had been given.

On the opposite or left side of the church, in an elevated box, sit the jury, who keep their hats on throughout the proceedings. They are respectable-looking citizens, rather more prepossessing than one of our own petit juries and slightly less so than twelve men drawn from one of the New York City special panels. At the end or apex of the church is a curved bench or dais with five seats. In the middle, under the dome, are four rows of desks, with chairs, at which sit the advocates, one or more for each prisoner. The only gallery, which is above and behind the jury-box, is given over to the press. At all the doors and the ends of the aisles, at each side of the judges’ dais, and in front of the prisoners’ cage stand carabinieri, in their picturesque uniforms and cocked hats with red and blue cockades, and a captain of carabinieri stands beside each witness as he gives his testimony. Thus the court, which is in the form of a cross, is naturally divided into four parts and a centre: in front the spectators, on the right the prisoners, on the left the jury, between them the lawyers, and at the end the judges and officers of the assize. A mellow light filters down from above, rather trying to the eyes.

The Camorrists, heavily shackled, are brought in from a side entrance, each in custody of two carabinieri, their chains are removed, the prisoners are thrust behind the bars, and the guards step to one side and remain crowded around and behind the cage during the session. In a separate steel cage sits Abbatemaggio, the informer, at an oblique distance of about five feet from the other prisoners. A guard stands between the two cages. If one meets a file of these prisoners in one of the corridors, he will be surprised, and perhaps embarrassed, to find that each, as he approaches, will raise his shackled hands to his head, remove his hat, and bow courteously, with a “Buon giorno” or “Buona sera.” While this may be one of the universal customs of a polite country, one cannot help feeling that it is partly due to an instinctive desire of the accused for recognition as human beings. All are scrupulously clean and dressed in the heights of Italian fashion. In fact, the Camorrists are much the best-dressed persons in the court-room, and the judicial officials, when off duty and in fustian, look a shade shabby by contrast. The funds of the Camorrists seem adequate both for obtaining witnesses and retaining lawyers; and the difference between one’s mental pictures of a lot of Neapolitan thieves and cutthroats and the apotheosized defendants on trial is at first somewhat startling. Looking at them across the court-room, they give the impression of being exceptionally intelligent and smartly dressed men—not unlike a section of the grandstand taken haphazard at a National League game. Closer scrutiny reveals the merciless lines in most of the faces, and the catlike shiftiness of the eyes.

As for the lawyers,—the avvocati,—they seem very much like any group of American civil lawyers and distinctly superior to the practitioners in our criminal courts. Many are young and hope to win their spurs in this celebrated case. Others are old warhorses whose fortunes are tied up with those of the Camorra. At least one such, Avvocato Lioy, is of necessity giving his services for nothing. But it is when the avvocato rises to address the court that the distinction between him and his American brother becomes obvious; for he is an expert speaker, trained in diction, enunciation, and delivery, and rarely in our own country (save on the stage or in the pulpit) will one hear such uniform fluency and eloquence. Nor is the speech of the advocate less convincing for its excellence, for these young men put a fire and zeal into what they say that compel attention.

Now, if the prisoners are all seated, the captain of carabinieri raps upon the floor with his scabbard, and the occupants of the room, prisoners, advocates, jury, and spectators, rise as the president, vice-president, prosecutor, vice-prosecutor, and cancelliere enter in their robes. The president makes a bow, the others bow a little, the lawyers bow, and everybody sits down—that is to say, everybody who has arisen; for Don Ciro Vitozzi and “Professor” Rapi, who sit outside and in front of the cage (the “professor” has already been confined longer than any term to which he could be sentenced, and both have pleaded sickness as an excuse for leniency), make a point of showing their superiority to the vulgar herd by waiting until the last moment and then giving a partial but ineffectual motion as if to stand.

The five men upon the dais are, however, worthy of considerable attention. The president, who occupies the centre seat, is a stout, heavily built, “stocky” man with a brownish-gray beard. In his robes he is an imposing and dignified figure, in spite of his lack of height. All wear gowns with red and gold braid and tassels, and little round caps with red “topknots” and gold bands. This last ornament is omitted from the uniform of the cancelliere, who is the official scribe or recorder of the court. And just here is noticeable a feature which tends to accelerate the proceedings, for there are no shorthand minutes of the testimony, and only a rough digest of what goes on is made. This is, for the most part, dictated by the president, under the correction of the advocates and the officers of the court, who courteously interrupt if the record appears to them inaccurate. If they raise no objection the record stands as given. Thus thousands of pages of generally useless matter are done away with, and the record remains more like the “notes” of a careful and painstaking English judge. Any particular bit of testimony or the gist of it can usually be found very quickly, without (as in our own courts of law) the stenographer having to wade through hundreds of pages of questions and answers before the matter wanted can be unearthed, buried, like as not, under an avalanche of objections, exceptions, wrangles of counsel, and irrelevant or “stricken out” testimony.

At the left of the semicircle sits the acting procuratore del re—another small man who, on the bench, makes a wonderfully dignified impression. He plays almost as important a part in the proceedings as the president himself, and is treated with almost equal consideration. This is Cavaliere Santaro, one of the most learned and eloquent lawyers in Italy. To hear him argue a point in his crisp, clean-cut, melodious voice is to realize how far superior Italian public speaking is to the kind of oratory prevalent in our courts, and national legislature, and on most public occasions throughout the United States. Beside both the president and the procuratore del re sits a “vice,” or assistant, to each, to take his place when absent and to act as associate at other times. The cancelliere occupies the seat upon the right nearest the prisoners’ cage.

The president having taken his place, the first order of the day is the reading or revision of all or part of the record of the preceding session. This is done by the cancelliere who, from time to time, is interrupted by the lawyers, Abbatemaggio, or the prisoners. These interruptions are usually to the point, and are quickly disposed of by the judge, although he may allow an argument thereon at some length from one of the advocates. The court then proceeds with the introduction of evidence, documentary or otherwise, the examination of the witnesses, or the confronting of the prisoners with their accusers. Now is immediately observable for the first time the characteristic of Italian criminal procedure which has been so much misrepresented and has been the cause of such adverse criticism in the United States and England—namely, the constant interruption of the proceedings by argument or comment from the lawyers, and by remarks and contradictions from the prisoners and witnesses. These occasionally degenerate into altercations of a more or less personal nature; but they are generally stilled at a single word of caution from the judge, and serve to bring out and accentuate the different points at issue and to make clear the position of the different parties. When such interruptions occur, the proceedings ordinarily resemble a joint discussion going on among a fairly large gathering of people presided over by a skilful moderator.

A witness is testifying. In the middle of it (and “it” consists of not only what the witness has seen, but what he has been told and believes) one of the prisoners rises and cries out:

“That is not so! He is a liar! Abbatemaggio swore thus and so.”

“Nothing of the kind!” retorts the witness impatiently.

“Yes! Yes!” or “No! No!” chime in the advocates.

“Excellency! Excellency!” exclaims Abbatemaggio himself, jumping to his feet in his cage. “I said in my testimony that Cuocolo did accuse Erricone,” etc. And he goes on for two or three minutes, explaining just what he did or did not say or mean, while the president listens until he has had sufficient enlightenment, and stops him with a sharp “Basta!” (“Enough!”).

The incident (whatever its nature) usually tends to elucidate the matter, and while to an outsider, especially one not familiar with Italian dialects, the effect may be one of temporary confusion, it is nevertheless not as disorderly as it seems, and the president rarely (so far as the writer could see during many days of observation) loses complete command of his court, or permits any one to go on talking unless for a clear and useful purpose. At times, when everybody seemed to be talking at once, and several lawyers, Abbatemaggio, and one or two prisoners were on their feet together, his handling of the situation was little short of marvellous, for he would almost simultaneously silence one with a sharp “S-s-s!” shake his head at another, direct a third to sit down, and listen to a fourth until he stilled him with a well-directed “Basta!” When the shouting is over, one usually finds that who is the liar has been pretty clearly demonstrated.

In this connection, however, it should be said that the writer was perhaps fortunate (or unfortunate, as the reader may prefer) in not being present on those days when the scenes of greatest excitement and confusion occurred. Several times, it is true, President Bianchi has preferred to adjourn court entirely on account of the uproar, rather than take extreme measures against individual defendants or witnesses. Thus, during the entire conduct of the case and in spite of the grossest provocation, he has ordered the forcible removal of only three defendants—that of Morro on June 21, 1911, and of Alfano and Abbatemaggio on July 21, 1911. On several other occasions he has adopted the more gentle expedient of adjourning the proceedings and clearing the court, and this has resulted in a certain amount of criticism from the Italian bar, which otherwise regards his presiding as a model of efficiency. The only adverse comment that the writer has heard in Italy, either of the president or the procuratore del re, is that both are somewhat lenient toward the conduct of the prisoners and their advocates, and lack strength in dealing with exigencies of the character just described. In the long run, however, if such criticism be just, such an attitude is bound to be in favor of justice, and will irresistibly convince the public and the world at large that this is no attempt on the part of the government to “railroad” a lot of suspected undesirables at any cost, whatever the evidence may be.

Before commenting too harshly upon this mote in the eye of Italian procedure, it may not be unwise to consider whether any similar beam exists in our own. Certainly there is a deal of interruption, contradiction, and disputation in our own criminal courts which sometimes is not only undignified, but frequently ends in an unseemly dispute between judge and lawyers. Contempt of court is very general in the United States, and we have practically no means for punishing it. Moreover, these scenes in our own courts do not usually assist in getting at the truth. With us, once a witness has spoken and his testimony has become a matter of record, whether he has said what he meant to say or not (under the complicated questions put in examination and cross-examination), or whether or not he has succeeded in giving an accurate impression of what he saw or knows, he is hustled out of the way and made to keep silence. He has little, if any, chance to explain or annotate his testimony. A defendant may go to jail or be turned loose on the community because the witness really didn’t get a chance to tell his own story in his own way. Now, the witness’s own story in precisely his own way is just what they are looking for under the inquisitorial procedure, and if he is misinterpreted they want to know it. The process may take longer, but it makes for getting at the truth, and the Italians regard a criminal trial as of even more importance than do some of our judges, who often seem more anxious to get through a record-breaking calendar and “dispose of” a huge batch of cases than to get at the exact facts in any particular one. There is nothing “hit or miss” about the Continental method. Whatever its shortcomings, whatever its limitations to the cold Anglo-Saxon mind, it brings out all the details and the witness’s reasons. At an Italian trial a witness might testify (and his evidence be considered as important) that he heard sounds of a scuffle and a man’s voice exclaim, “You have stabbed me, Adolfo!” that somebody darted across the street and into an alley, that an old woman whom he identifies in court as the deceased’s mother, and who was standing beside him, cried out, “That is my son’s voice!” and that three or four persons came running up from several different locations, each of whom described, circumstantially and independently, a murder which he had seen perpetrated, identifying the assassin by name.

In America it is doubtful whether in most jurisdictions the witness would be permitted to testify to anything except that he heard a scuffle, saw a man run away, and that an old woman and several other people thereupon said something.

It must not be supposed that the trial of the Camorra is being conducted with the calm of a New England Sabbath service; but the writer wishes to emphasize the fact that the confusion, such as it is, serves a certain purpose, and that the yellings and heartrending outcries described by the newspaper correspondents are only occasional and much exaggerated—except in so far as they might occur at an Italian trial in America. Any one who has been present at many murder trials in New York knows that outbreaks on the part of Italian prisoners are to be anticipated and are frequent if not customary. The writer recalls more than one case where the defendant shrieked and rolled on the floor, clutching at the legs of tables, chairs, and officers, until dragged by main force from the court-room. And at Viterbo they are trying thirty-six Italians at the same time; and every person participating in or connected with the affair is an Italian, sharing in the excitability and emotional temperament of his fellows.

A noteworthy feature of this particular prosecution is that (due doubtless to the strength and ability of the presiding judge), in spite of all interruptions and the freedom of discussion, the taking of evidence proceeds with a rapidity greater than in America, for the reason that there are no objections or exceptions, or attendant argument, and, above all, no cross-examination, except such questions as are put by the judge himself at the request of the advocates.

Finally, the system of the confronto, or confronting of the accused by his accuser, deserves a word of commendation, for no method could possibly be devised whereby the real character and comparative truthfulness of each would be so readily disclosed. The defendant is given on this occasion free scope to cross-examine the witness and deny or refute what he says, and it takes ordinarily but a few minutes before the mask is torn aside and each pictures himself in his true colors. Our procedure tends to deprive the witnesses of personality and to reduce them all to a row of preternaturally solemn and formal puppets. It is probably true that in most criminal cases in America the defendant is convicted or acquitted without the jury having any very clear idea of what sort of person he really is. On the day of his trial the prisoner makes a careful toilet, is cleanly shaved, and dons a new suit of clothes and fresh linen. The chances are that, as he sits at the bar of justice, he will make at least as good and very possibly a more favorable impression upon the jury than the witnesses against him, who have far less at stake than he. Each takes the stand and is sworn to tell the truth, so far as they will be permitted to do so under our rules of evidence. Then the district attorney proceeds to try to extract their story of the crime under a storm of objections, exceptions, and hasty rulings from the judge. Then the prisoner’s lawyer (who can take all the liberties he wants, as the State has no appeal in case of an acquittal) proceeds to mix things up generally by an unfair and confusing cross-examination. At last the defendant is called, and marches to the stand, looking like an early Christian martyr. He is carefully interrogated by his lawyer, who permits him (if he be wise) to do nothing but deny the salient facts against him. The district attorney, to be sure, has the right of cross-examination, but a skilful criminal lawyer has plenty of opportunities to “nurse” his client along and guide him over pitfalls; and when all is over the jury have formed no valuable or accurate impression of the defendant’s real character and personality—whether or not, in other words, he is the kind of man who would have done such a thing.

In Italy (to use vulgar English) they “sic” them at each other and let them fight it out, and while the language of the participants is often not parliamentary, the knowledge that they are being watched by the judge and jury has a restraining effect, and the presence of the carabinieri makes violence no more likely than in our own courts. Occasionally, in America, where a prisoner insists on conducting his own defence, a similar scene may be witnessed—always, it may be affirmed, to the enlightenment of the jury. On the other hand, most confrontations are attended with few sensational incidents or emotional outbreaks.

The writer was fortunate enough to be present when “Professor” Rapi was confronted by Gennaro Abbatemaggio, and, to his surprise, found that the proceeding, instead of being interspersed with yells of rage and vehement invocations to Heaven, closely resembled a somewhat personal argument between two highly intelligent and deeply interested men of affairs. Whatever may be Rapi’s real character (and he is said to supply a large part of the brains of the Camorra, as well as handling all its funds), he is, as he stands up in court, a fine-looking, elegantly dressed man, of polished manners and speech. If the evidence against him is to be believed, however, his mask of gentility covers a heart of mediÆval cruelty and cunning, for he is alleged to have made the plans and given the final directions to Sortino for the murder of the Cuocolos. Rapi is a celebrated gambler, and as such may have had the acquaintance of some decadent members of the Italian aristocracy, who not only knew him in the betting ring at the races, but frequented his establishment in Naples, which he called the “Southern Italy Club.” In 1875, at the age of eighteen, he won against four hundred candidates the position of instructor in classical languages in the municipality of Naples. Some ten years later, in 1884, he moved with his parents to France. At this time he was suspected of having something to do with the murder of a Camorrist youth, named Giacomo Pasquino, who, in fact, was killed in a duel with a fellow member of the society.

From that time on Rapi became a professional gambler, and as such was expelled from France in 1902. Later he returned to Naples and opened a sort of “Canfield’s” there. At any rate, he boasts that it was the centre of attraction for dukes and princes. That he had any sort of acquaintance with or admission to aristocratic circles is entirely untrue; but he certainly was a figure in the fast life of the town, and used what position he had to further the ends of the Camorra. It is alleged that he was the actual treasurer of the Camorra, and disbursed the funds of its central organization, apportioning the proceeds of robberies and burglaries among the participants, and acting as head receiver for all stolen goods. Certainly he was a friend of “Erricone” and an associate of well-known Camorrists, and he was one of the five arrested immediately after the Cuocolo murders on suspicion of complicity, because of his known presence on the night of the crime at Torre del Greco, not far from the place where the murder of Gennaro Cuocolo was perpetrated. For fifty-two days he remained in prison, and was then set at liberty through the efforts of Father Ciro Vitozzi. He continued to reside in Naples until April, 1908, when the French decree against him was cancelled and he returned to Paris, after holding a sort of informal levee at the Naples railroad station, where many persons of local distinction, journalists, and others came to see him off. It was in the following June that he says he read in a Paris paper that his departure from Naples was regarded as a flight. He wired to the procuratore del re at Naples, offering to place himself absolutely at the disposition of the authorities; but, receiving no response, he returned by train to Naples to present himself before the magistrates. He was promptly arrested en route, and for four years has been in jail, being questioned by the authorities on only three occasions during that period. He claims that at the time of the murder he was living in England, and his elaborate alibi is supported by a number of witnesses whose testimony is more or less relevant.

Without dilating on the individual history of this sleek gentleman, be he merely gambler or full-fledged accomplice in many murders, it is enough to say that when confronted by Abbatemaggio he conducted himself with the most suave and courteous moderation. Alternately he would politely engage the informer in argument or ask him a question or two, and then in polished sentences would address the jury and spectators.

He is the antithesis of Abbatemaggio, who has an insolent confidence and braggadocio about him that carry with them a certain first-hand impression of sincerity. In fact, the fiery little black-haired coachman has proved so convincing to the public that the Camorrists have been driven to allege that he is mad. He gives no indication of madness, however, although the government, to refute any such contention, has an alienist, Professor Otto Lenghi, in court to keep him under constant surveillance. His memory is astonishing and uncannily accurate. His mind works with marvellous rapidity, and had he been born in a different environment he would have made his mark in almost any line that he might have chosen. He has all the instincts and tricks of the actor, is a master of repartee, extremely witty, with a tongue like a razor, and delights the spectators with his sallies and impertinences. Altogether Abbatemaggio is the centre of attraction at Viterbo—and knows it. He makes the court wait on his health and convenience, and has evidently made up his mind that, if his life is to be short, he will at least make it as merry as possible. Naturally he is a sort of popular idol, and a confronto in which he is one of the participants draws a crowd of the townspeople, who applaud his gibes and epigrams and jeer at his Camorrist opponent.

On the afternoon of the Rapi-Abbatemaggio confronto the “Professor” arose with great dignity, bowed low to the court and jury, folded his hands over his stomach, and faced the audience with an air of patient resignation. Then the captain of carabinieri unlocked Abbatemaggio’s cage, and the little coachman sprang to his feet, gave a twirl to his moustache and a contemptuous glance at Rapi as if to say, “Look at the old faker! See how I shall show him up!”

With an attitude respectful toward the court and scornful toward Rapi, he takes his stand by the procuratore del re and awaits his antagonist’s attack. The “Professor” accosts him gently, almost pathetically. Abbatemaggio answers in cold, unsympathetic tones that tell the spectators that they must not be deceived by the oily address of this arch-conspirator. But Rapi, with his magnificent voice, is a foe to be reckoned with, and presently he enters upon a denunciation of the informer that is distinctly eloquent and full of vehement sarcasm. Abbatemaggio flushes and interrupts him, the “Professor” attempts to proceed, but the little coachman sweeps him out of the way and pours forth a rapid-fire volley of Neapolitan dialect in which he accuses Rapi of being a hypocrite and a liar and a man who lives on the criminality of others, referring specifically to various enterprises in which they have both been engaged as partners. He pauses for breath, and Rapi plunges in, contradicting, denouncing, and accusing in turn. The prisoners by interjectory exclamations show their approval.

“Sh-sh-sh!” remarks il presidente, raising a finger.

“Excellency! Excellency!” exclaims Abbatemaggio deprecatingly, as if pained that the judge should be compelled to listen to such an outburst.

Presently he can restrain himself no longer, and both he and Rapi begin simultaneously to harangue the court, until the president orders Abbatemaggio to stop and the captain of carabinieri touches Rapi on the shoulder. The latter is now reduced to tears and wrings his hands as he calls his aged mother to witness that he is an innocent man! Soon order is restored, and the confronto concludes with a sort of summing up of his defence on the part of the “Professor.” It is a model of rhetoric, rather too carefully calculated to appear as sincere as his previous outbursts. He calls down the curses of God upon Abbatemaggio, who listens contemptuously; he protests the purity of his life and motives; he weeps at the irony of fate that keeps him—the merest object of suspicion—confined in a loathsome prison. Then he bows and resumes his seat by the side of Father Ciro Vitozzi, to whom, amid the laughter of the spectators, he has referred as “that holy man there.” And, apart from the argument between him and Abbatemaggio, there has really been no more denunciation, no more emotion, no more tears, than if an ordinary criminal attorney in a New York City court were summing up an important case.

Court adjourns. No sooner has the judge departed than an outcry is heard from the cage.

“I am tired—tired—tired!” exclaims an agonized voice. “I have been in prison for five years! Everybody else talks and I have to listen. I am not allowed to speak, and nothing ever happens! It is interminable! I cannot stand it!”

It is “Erricone” having one of his periodical moments of relief. After all, one is not inclined to blame him very much, for there is a good deal of truth in what he says—owing to the way the case was bungled in its earlier stages. The carabinieri rush up, “Erricone” is pacified by his fellow Camorrists, and quiet is restored. One inquires if there is generally any more excitement than has just occurred, and is told that it has been quite a sensational day, but then—that “Erricone” is always “yelling.” A good many defendants make a noise and carry on—and so do their relatives—after court has adjourned, in America.

One is in doubt whether to believe Abbatemaggio on the one hand or Rapi on the other, and ends by concluding that it would be utterly impossible to believe either. Both were acting, both playing to the gallery. You know Rapi is a crook, and—well you wouldn’t trust Abbatemaggio, either, around the corner. And, after all, it is the word of the one against that of the other so far as any particular defendant is concerned. But one fixed impression remains—that of the aplomb, intelligence, and cleverness of these men, and the danger to a society in which they and their associates follow crime as a profession. Once more you study the faces of the well-dressed prisoners in the cage, of the four alleged assassins of Cuocolo—Morra, Sortino, de Gennaro, and Cerrato; of Giuseppe Salvi, the murderer of Maria Cutinelli; of Luigi Fucci, the dummy head of the Camorra; of “Erricone” Alfano, the wolfish supreme chief and dictator of the society; of Luigi Arena, the captain of the Neapolitan burglars; of that mediÆval rascal, “Father” Ciro Vitozzi, the most picturesque figure of the lot; of Desiderio, head of petty blackmailing and tribute-levying industry; of Maria Stendardo, whose house was a Camorrist hell; and of Rapi, the gambling “professor” and “Moriarty” of Naples—and you know instinctively that, whether as an abstract proposition Abbatemaggio conveys an impression of absolute honesty or not, what he has said is true and that this is the Camorra—the real Camorra, vile, heartless, treacherous!

Then, if you were asked to give your impressions of the way the trial was being carried on, you would probably say that, considering the magnitude of the task involved, the mass of evidence (there are forty volumes of the preliminary examinations), the great number of prisoners and the multitude of witnesses, and the latitude allowed under the Italian law in the matter of taking testimony, the trial was being conducted considerably faster than would be probable in America under like conditions; that the methods followed are admirably calculated to ascertain the truth or falsity of the charges; that the judge presides with extreme fairness, courtesy, and ability; that, all things considered, there is, as a rule, less confusion or disorder than would be naturally expected—that, in a word, the Italian government is making a good job of it, and deserves to be congratulated.

Indeed, so far as the procedure is concerned, it is not so very different from our own, and, were it not for the presence of the uniforms of the carabinieri and the officers of infantry in the court-room, and the huge cage in which the prisoners are confined, one could easily imagine one’s self in a court in America. The conduct of the trial is far more free, far less formal, than with us—a fact which, the writer believes, makes in the end for effectiveness, although the excitability of the Italian temperament occasionally creates something of an uproar, which calls for a suspension of proceedings. Doubtless the prisoners give vent to cries of rage and humiliation; perhaps one or two of them in the course of the trial may faint or have fits (such things happen with us); the judge and lawyers may squabble, and accuser and accused roundly curse each other. Such things could hardly help occurring in a trial lasting, perhaps, a year. In fact, deaths and births have occurred among them during this period, for Ciro Alfano has passed away and Maria Stendardo has given birth to a child; but, on the whole, there is probably no more excitement, no more confusion, no more bombast, and vastly less sensationalism than if thirty-six members of the Black Hand were being tried en masse in one of our own criminal courts for a double murder, involving the existence of a criminal society whose ramifications extended into the national legislature and whose affiliations embraced the leaders of a local political organization and many officials and members of the New York police.

CHAPTER IX
THE MALA VITA IN AMERICA