Clarence Darrow: Attorney for the Damned - By John A. Farrell Page 0,173

given us many perplexities and sleepless nights,” he said, speaking softly. “We want to state frankly here that no one in this case believes that these defendants should be released. We believe they should be permanently isolated from society, and if we as lawyers thought differently, their families would not permit us to do otherwise.”

The reporters leaned forward to catch every word. What was he up to? Darrow reached under his jacket and tucked his thumbs in his suspenders. He tossed his shoulders back. “After long reflection and thorough discussion we have determined to make a motion in this court … to withdraw our plea of not guilty and enter a plea of guilty,” Darrow said.

Reporters dashed for telephones. A bailiff called for order as the spectators voiced their shock. Loeb and Leopold seemed indifferent—Darrow had broken the news that morning—but Jacob Loeb, head bowed, was weeping. Nathan Leopold Sr. sat stiffly, lost in pain.

“Your honor,” Darrow told Caverly, “we dislike to throw this burden upon this court, or any court. We know its seriousness and its gravity, but a court can no more shirk responsibilities than attorneys. And, while we wish it could be otherwise, we feel that it must be as we have chosen.…

“The statute provides that evidence may be offered in mitigation of the punishment, and we shall ask at such time as the court may direct that we may be permitted to offer evidence as to the mental condition of these young men, to show the degree of responsibility they had and also to offer evidence as to the youth of these defendants and the fact of a plea of guilty as further mitigation,” said Darrow. “With that we throw ourselves upon the mercy of this court and this court alone.”

It was, said the Daily News, “a sensational turnabout.”

“If these boys were poor, I am confident I could get a verdict of acquittal,” Darrow said, working the reporters who gathered around him after court was adjourned. “Their wealth is a tremendous handicap.” He saw the need to relieve the pressure on Caverly, and so Darrow had the Loeb and Leopold families issue a public statement. They would not use their money “to stage an unsightly legal battle … in an attempt to defeat justice,” they promised. “There will be no large sums of money spent, either for legal or medical talent.”7

“You have no doubt been surprised at the turn we have taken in the Loeb-Leopold case,” Darrow wrote Paul. “We have concluded it is the most hopeful way of saving the boys’ lives.” But his expectations were low. “It is doubtful if any way will accomplish it,” Darrow told his son. “The papers have been so rotten that the feeling runs high.”8

IN THE MIDST of that chaotic summer, Mary Field Parton arrived. Her husband, Lem, had called upon his friends in journalism to get her what both hoped would be a career-boosting assignment.

“Left for Chicago on 20th Century. Full of hope!” she wrote in her diary on the train from New York. “Get a story from Darrow on this strange murder … Loeb and Leopold, rich boys, precocious, everything to live for—kill a little boy of 14, ‘for the thrill’ they say. Whole country, foreign countries, avid for news—for explanation … Darling Lem put this one for me.”

Mary arrived in Chicago on June 17 with her nine-year-old daughter, Margaret, in tow and was welcomed by the “same old Darrow … chuckling at the human race whose elephant feet and ostrich head he so loathes—and pities.” But her dreams of a big exclusive were misplaced. “Terribly disappointed,” she wrote in her diary on June 20. “Darrow will not give me anything. Nor will he see my position. I too am employed … Oh hell—he is like all business men! Business first.”

A few days later, Mary dined with Darrow, University of Chicago sociologist Ellsworth Faris, and “some dame friend of Darrow’s.” It was “a stupid, tiresome Babbitty affair,” she told her diary. “Cheap, stale jokes! Soggy wit! Dull puns. Invited to a banquet and taken to a one-arm lunch counter!” She blamed the presence of Darrow’s other dame. He was “at his worst when he is with two women,” she wrote. “With one, his wisdom, his philosophy, his companionship is possible,” but otherwise he “treats women as playmates rather than workmates.”

Lem, in a letter, tried to cheer her up. “Don’t be unhappy, Mary, about not turning up the big yarn. It was clearly understood that this was a