Ten Years into One Hour

One evening last week a party of Navy folk gathered at an obscure Chinese restaurant in Honolulu's Waikiki section where good chop suey is to be had. Full of good spirits, they sat around eating, laughing, talking, making merry. Centre of the group was Lieut. Thomas Hedges Massie, with his mother-in-law, Mrs. Granville Roland Fortescue. Thalia Fortescue Massie, his wife, was also there. About them they had assembled Navy friends for a celebration because for the first time in four months Lieut. Massie and Mrs. Fortescue, with Seamen Jones and Lord, were once again legally free. Their sentences for the killing of Joseph Kahahawai Jr. had been duly served.

At 10 o'clock that morning the four defendants, whom a polyglot jury had convicted of manslaughter instead of second-degree murder, were led into the Honolulu courtroom where they had sat through their three-week trial. Mounting the bench Judge Charles S. Davis pronounced his sentence: "Ten years imprisonment at hard labor."* A smile flickered across Lieut. Massie's face. Mrs. Fortescue almost pranced she was so happy. The two enlisted men were as jaunty as ever. They all knew what was coming.

After the judge's departure everyone stood around in the courtroom chatting easily while High Sheriff Gordon Ross guarded his prisoners. Soon the four "convicts" were herded across the sunny street to Iolani Palace, once the home of Hawaiian Kings, now the office of the territorial governor. There they sat waiting in a high-ceiled, red-carpeted inner room for a few minutes more.

"This is a swell jail!" remarked Seaman Jones. "A lot better than Al Capone's."

At, exactly 11 a.m. all four prisoners were ushered down a hall and into the office of Governor Lawrence McCully Judd. To each he handed a paper commuting their sentences to the time already served. By telescoping ten years into one hour the Kahahawai case was thus closed with one final dramatic fillip.

"I wish I could be in Kentucky right now to see the smile on my mother's face when she learns I'm free!" exclaimed Lieut. Massie after hugging his wife and kissing his mother-in-law. Mrs. Massie was "thrilled" at the outcome. Mrs. Fortescue, almost weeping with delight, rushed off a message to her husband while Seaman Jones cabled his mother in New Bedford, Mass.: "Will be home soon. Keep the coffee hot." Clarence Darrow, defense counsel, beamed satisfaction, shook hands all around.

The commutations from Governor Judd, island-born son of an island-born son of a Yankee missionary, did not come spontaneously. Defense counsel had formally petitioned him for executive clemency but more potent was the pressure of mainland sentiment. In Washington Congress had seethed with legislative proposals to set the convictions aside. No less than 104 Congressmen had signed a cabled plea to Governor Judd to pardon the four prisoners. Victor Steuart Kaleoaloha Houston, Hawaiian delegate in Congress, aware of the rising political tide against his territory, likewise begged the Governor.

There was even a report that Secretary of the Interior Wilbur had radiotelephoned. In Honolulu a Navy boycott against concerns employing Kahahawai jurors was threatening serious economic damage to the business community. One juror had been threatened with "a ride." Governor Judd's nerves were raw with worry. He was friendly with the brown islanders but, after all, he was a white man.

When a newsman asked if the commutations were part of a secret deal whereby the surviving assailants of Mrs. Massie would not be brought to trial a second time, Governor Judd lashed out angrily: "Anything of the kind is a lie!"

Because commutations of sentence do not restore civil rights, a belated drive was started by Lawyer Darrow to get his clients full and unconditional pardons from Governor Judd. In Washington, Congressional sentiment was overwhelmingly for pardons. Legislation was offered authorizing the President to act over the head of the territorial governor in such cases as this.

Loyal to Lieut. Massie was the Navy. Secretary Adams announced that neither he nor the two enlisted men would be disciplined as a result of their conviction. Orders were issued transferring Lieut. Massie from Honolulu to the naval district at San Francisco.

Happy for the first time since his wife's ravishment last September, he declared: "If I had a hundred million dollars I'd still rather be in the Navy."

Still to be retried were the four brown bucks charged with assaulting Mrs. Massie. Without her as its chief witness, the prosecution's case would collapse. Mrs. Massie, having told the story of her ravishment twice in court, did not want to do so again. Prosecutor Kelley heard she was sailing for the mainland with her husband and mother aboard S. S. Malolo. He got a subpena to detain her. Policeman Dewey Mookini went to the Pearl Harbor Naval Base to serve it. She was nowhere to be found. The Press was told she had had a "nervous breakdown."

Next day Mookini was aboard the Malolo before sailing time. Suddenly a little naval tender darted up offside the liner. Through a cargo port jumped Mrs. Fortescue, Lieut. Massie and his wife. Mrs. Massie scampered around a potato bin, through a pantry--and there in a hot corridor stood Mookini with his summons. Before the Hawaiian could read it, he was shouldered put of the way by Capt. Ward Wortman, naval guardian for the defendants during the Kahahawai trial. Mrs. Massie slipped past, fled to her stateroom, slammed the door. Capt. Wortman and process server wrangled bitterly outside. On deck blew the ail-ashore bugle. Mookini got off; Mrs Massie stayed on.

With whistle tooting and the band playing "Aloha Oe," the Malolo glided from her pier, set her nose for Diamond Head. Into the harbor gay passengers tossed their leis (flower garlands), symbol of speedy return to Hawaii. But no leis were cast back by Lieut. Massie, his wife or mother-in-law.

* Though the jury recommended leniency, the judge was, under the law, compelled to impose the maximum sentence, leaving the minimum to be fixed by the Territorial Prison Board.

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