Faces of McNeil Island

Faces of McNeil Island

Located on McNeil Island in Puget Sound, the Washington Territorial Penitentiary opened on May 28, 1875. It had a stone cell house with 48 small double cells but no kitchen, bathrooms, offices, or guard accommodations. There was no heat or running water. A wooden guardhouse was added that enclosed the only exterior door of the cell house. In 1898 the wooden structure was replaced with a brick guardhouse.

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McNeil Island Penitentiary main building, 1909. University of Washington Libraries, Asahel Curtis, photographer.

The admission procedure was for the guard on duty to write the names of new prisoners in a daily journal. Each prisoner was handed his black and white prison “stripes” and immediately put to work doing chores. Prisoners supplemented their prison rations by growing their own food.

Life at the prison was grim — inmates worked all day, every day except Sunday and had to earn money for “extras” like soap and tobacco by making cedar shingles. Life was almost as bad for the guards, who lived at the penitentiary and were on duty 24 hours a day, seven days a week with two and a half days off duty each month to visit family on the mainland.

Transportation to and from the prison was accomplished by rowboat for many years. Sewage was dumped into the shoreline and water had to be hand pumped by prisoners into a reservoir on top of the cell block. When water supplies ran low prisoners bathed in the cold, salty water of Puget Sound.

The name changed to McNeil Island Federal Penitentiary in 1891 when it became one of the first three federal prisons in the United States. Of the three, McNeil Island was the most distant from Washington D.C. and it was neglected. A prison hospital wasn’t built until 1906 and an additional cell house and electrical power plant were not added until 1911. A telephone didn’t arrive until 1923.

After it became a federal prison, McNeil Island housed prisoners who had either broken federal laws or committed a crime on federal lands. Common reasons for being imprisoned at USP McNeil Island in the early days included selling liquor to Indians, robbing a post office and, after 1910, breach of White-Slave Traffic Act, (Mann Act) that made it illegal to take a woman across state lines for “immoral purposes.”

Sometime around 1900 (no date was kept), officials at the prison photographed all the inmates of the penitentiary. Most were photographed in groups rather than individually. Initially the prisoners were told to come outside and line up along a brick wall where there was enough light to expose the glass plate negatives they used. Later a sheet was tacked up to hide the bricks. The photographer was unsure of how to operate the camera, leading to many plates being out of focus and underexposed. In one odd case a mugshot was pinned to the wall and photographed rather than the man himself being photographed. The notes shown to the right of each photo are all that was written about who is pictured. One man, identified only as “Kishtoo” was photographed twice.

The result of the photographic confusion is that the first set of prisoner photos taken at McNeil Island is extraordinary. In some of the photos, the prisoners, many of whom were Alaska Natives or Chinese, stood together in groups that were apparently of their own choosing and posed however they felt like posing. Some had probably never seen a camera before and look suspicious. Others appear angry, perhaps at being interrupted in their work. The looks on the men’s faces range from defiant to ashamed and from bored to perplexed.

On April 1, 2011, the penitentiary closed its doors permanently.

The faces of McNeil Island Penitentiary offer testimony to a distant time and a vanished place.

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All photos from the collection of the National Archives, McNeil Island Penitentiary Identification Photos of Prisoners.

 

An Experienced Woman

An Experienced Woman

When Judge Smith sentenced Aimee Meloling to serve three years in San Quentin Prison for burglary, she commented, “May your honor’s heart soon be as soft as your head.” Aimee might have rejoiced at getting a lighter sentence than her husband, Albert Webb Meloling, known as “A.W.” He was ordered to serve five years in Folsom Prison for the same crime. However Aimee was under the impression she was going to get off with a slap on the wrist, not hard time in San Quentin.

The Melolings, a young, middle class couple from New York, had broken into the room of a fellow guest at the upscale Granada Hotel, a residential hotel in Los Angeles, in 1905. They stole what was described as a set of “handsome hand-painted chinaware” along with some “valuable steins” (beer anyone?). The crime was burglary, so planning was involved.

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The Granada Hotel in Los Angeles, circa 1900.

Was the theft just a moment of weakness for the Melolings or was it an ongoing practice? Did they have an irresistible eye for attractive china they couldn’t afford or were they temporarily short on cash and in need of something to pawn? Both got long sentences for a crime that seems relatively minor, so possibly the police suspected they had dabbled with burglary before. Or maybe the judge just didn’t care for Aimee’s attitude.

The prison sentences came as a shock—the couple was under the impression they were going to get probation. At a court hearing a month earlier they met a man who had just been sentenced to five years in San Quentin. After being introduced by the deputy sheriff, they had a nice chat with the soon-to-be prisoner. The deputy apparently suspected what the Melolings didn’t yet realize—they would soon be headed to prison themselves and would need all the friends they could find there.

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San Quentin Prison mugshots of Aimee Meloling. Collection of the California State Archives.

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Folsom Prison mugshots of Albert W. Meloling. Collection of the California State Archives.

Aimee served two years and four months in San Quentin. Before she was released, in October 1907, an appeal was made to the governor of California to commute A.W.’s sentence so his wife didn’t have to “survive on her own.” The governor agreed and commuted the sentence but for unknown reasons it was later restored. A.W. wasn’t released until January 1909, after serving three and a half years.

Out of prison, the couple reunited and lived in a variety of locations in California. A.W. tried his hand at an array of careers, ranging from hotel proprietor in San Francisco (lock your room!) to running an auto livery in Santa Barbara and working as a commercial artist in Oakland. The couple had a son in 1916 but they later divorced.

By 1933 Aimee was the matron of the Alameda County jail in northern California. She looks happy, in a 1933 newspaper photo, escorting a new prisoner to San Quentin, but of course her role was as the jailer, not the jailed.

It isn’t a total surprise that a woman who didn’t expect to go to prison but ended up there anyway chose a career in the corrections field. After all, she had a lot of experience.

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Alameda Jail Matron Aimee Meloling, lower left. The Oakland Tribune, January 24, 1933.

Puzzled Police

Puzzled Police

On March 4, 1938, Jean Williams was arrested in Scranton, Pennsylvania, for disorderly conduct. Born in New York City, Jean told the police she worked as a “nightclub entertainer.” After conducting a search of her person, police placed Jean, who was dressed in men’s clothing, in the cell room for males. This was apparently her first arrest in Scranton.

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Headline from The Evening News, Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, Saturday, March 5, 1938.

A friend arrived at the police station a short time later, asking why Jean had been arrested. After informing Captain John Lewis that Jean was female, the friend wanted to know why Jean was being held in a cell for male prisoners. Eventually he succeeded in convincing the police captain that Jean was a woman. She was transferred to the women’s cells and later discharged.

Scranton Police arrested Jean again for disorderly conduct on December 12, 1938. Her booking card indicates that she was 27 years old, tall and slender, with black hair and “maroon” colored eyes. In the “mustache” section of the card the police wrote “Hermaphrodite” in parentheses, as if embarrassed and needing to whisper the description. It’s unknown which cells she was placed in on that occasion.

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Jean Williams’ police booking card (back). Collection of the author.

Jean identified as a female. Her face, with its delicate features and thin eyebrows, looks feminine, however she has a distinct adam’s apple, no breasts and she’s dressed as a male. The way her hair is tucked under at the back gives the impression that she’d recently been wearing a wig.

The confusion regarding Jean’s gender identity isn’t surprising. America in the 1930s was decades away from acceptance of people who didn’t fit clearly into traditional sex roles and appearances. The word “transgender” wouldn’t come into common use until the 1970s. It would take until almost the end of the 20th century, with advances in understanding of genetics, for the word “hermaphrodite” to be replaced by “intersex.”

Jean appears in only one Scranton city directory — the 1936 edition. Her profession is listed as “waiter” so she may have identified then as male. She worked at a Scranton tavern called the Ritz Café that was raided by police due to violations of the state’s liquor laws.

After December 1938 Jean could not be traced. Perhaps she’d had enough of being arrested by the puzzled police in Scranton, so she moved on.

Featured photo: Jean Williams’ police booking card (front). Collection of the author.

Francis Schlatter & Hankie Panky

Francis Schlatter & Hankie Panky

Televangelists and their “healing” product scams have a history stretching far back in time. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, driven by news of events described as miracles, thousands of people lost money to clever con men (and occasionally women) posing as “divine healers.” One phony man of the cloth, going by the name Reverend Francis Schlatter, claimed to be able to cure the sick using handkerchiefs that he’d blessed. Send him your hard-earned cash, along with a handkerchief, and he’d bless it and return to you a “divine handkerchief” capable of healing whatever ailed you.

His name was as bogus as his handkerchiefs — he was born in 1838 in Switzerland and his real name was reported to be either Jacob Kunze or James Dowie. The original Francis Schlatter was an Alsatian cobbler and immigrant to the United States who, in 1894, felt the call of God in Denver, Colorado. Francis traveled around the west for two years, drawing huge crowds and supposedly healing the sick by clasping his hands together. He took no money for his services. He vanished mysteriously in Mexico and was presumed dead in 1896, though his body was never found.

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Francis Schlatter, the healer, c. 1895. Collection of the Library of Congress.

The absence of Francis’s body created an irresistible opportunity for con men and imposters began popping up immediately after he disappeared. Since it wasn’t illegal in most places in the United States to use a different name from the one you were given at birth, the copycat Francis Schlatters simply started using that name, claiming they were the “real” healer who hadn’t actually died.

Kunze/Dowie partnered with a younger man named August Schrader around 1908. Styling themselves as “King” Francis and “Prince” August, the pair traveled around America and Canada organizing churches — they weren’t picky about the denomination — and officiating at weddings and funerals. They also offered prayer for a fee and the blessed cure-all hankies, sent through the mail.

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August Shrader (left) and his partner, “Francis Schlatter” (right). The Oakland Tribune, Oakland, California, February 6, 1917, page 18.

They set up shop in Oakland, California, by 1910, but were asked to leave when people complained that their morals were “not conducive to the best interests of the neighborhoods where they carried on their practice.” Next they landed in Los Angeles (city of all things fake) and established their “Baptist Church, Inc.” — described as a cult — at a property they purchased in Hollywood. Garbed in long black robes, with flowing hair, thick beards and high silk hats, they attracted attention wherever they went.

It was the handkerchief scam that finally brought the pair down. Many of the people who sent money for handkerchiefs complained that they didn’t work. No one was cured of being blind or deaf (and certainly not of being dumb). In June 1916, postal inspectors arrested the men in New York and returned them to Los Angeles for indictment. The charge: conspiracy to use the mails to defraud.

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News photograph dated July 18, 1918. Collection of the author.

They signed over their Hollywood property to the lawyer who represented them at trial. August, aged 49, died of pneumonia before the trial finished and was given a pauper’s burial. “Francis” declined the offer to officiate at the funeral of his friend and business partner.

He was convicted of the mail fraud charge and sent to McNeil Island Federal Penitentiary in Washington State, arriving on March 18, 1917, where he was booked into the prison as “Francis Schlatter.” It was unusual but he was allowed to wear his silk top hat in both his mugshots. (Normally the side view would be hatless.) His booking card notes that he had lost almost all his teeth and was less than five feet tall. He was released from prison on June 1, 1918.

On October 16, 1922, a man going by the name “Francis Schlatter” was discovered dead in a cheap rooming house in St. Louis, Missouri. Many newspapers reported that this was the man who’d been imprisoned at McNeil Island for mail fraud. But was it?

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The Topeka Daily Capital, Topeka, Kansas, October 25, 1922, page 15.

The informant on the man’s death certificate was Luverna Schlatter, who’d been contacted because she was thought to be the ex-wife of the dead man. Luverna was divorced from a different “divine healer” going by the name Francis Schlatter. However the body of the man who died in St. Louis in 1922 was not buried in Miamisburg, Ohio, as stated on the death certificate. In a bizarre twist, the body went unburied. On May 7, 1945, it was discovered in the basement of a St. Louis funeral home.

One plausible scenario is that Luverna, who lived in Chicago, went to St. Louis and discovered that the corpse awaiting her there was not that of her ex-husband, but belonged to the man who’d been incarcerated at McNeil Island* so she left without it. The death in 1922 of the fake Francis Schlatter is as much a mystery as the death of the man he spent years impersonating.

Featured photos: Francis Schlatter, McNeil Island Federal Penitentiary. Collection of the National Archives at Seattle, Washington, record group 129.

*Update: I recently received a copy of an article from the Denver Times, dated October 19, 1922, from David Wetzel, author of The Vanishing Messiah. The article describes how the man who was imprisoned at McNeil Island was still alive at that date, when he visited the Los Angeles Times offices to tell the paper he was not the man who had recently died in St. Louis.

Fainting Bertha

Fainting Bertha

She was an expert pickpocket who would steal a man’s diamond stickpin, using her well-known fainting trick, without batting an eye. But she was also mentally ill, suffering periodic bouts of insanity so intense that it was impossible for doctors or hospital attendants to control her. In the grip of one of these attacks, which sometimes occurred at night, she had been known to break every window she could reach while screaming profanities at the top of her lungs. Her mood swings were intense — she was calm one moment and crying hysterically the next. By July 1911, officials in Nebraska were faced with the vexing question of what to do with “Fainting Bertha” Liebbeke.

Bertha was born in Council Bluffs, Iowa, in March 1880 to William and Mary Liebbeke. William was a cobbler and an immigrant to the United States from Germany. Mary was born in Switzerland. Bertha’s parents met and married in Pottawattamie, Iowa in 1870. The Liebbekes had nine children and seven of them, including Bertha, lived to adulthood. William died in 1896.

Soon after her father’s death Bertha was diagnosed with Saint Vitus Dance (now called Sydenham’s chorea), an infectious disease that results in uncontrollable twitching and jerking movements of the victim’s face, hands and feet. Her diagnosis was likely what caused her to be sent to the Iowa Institution for Feeble-Minded Children in Glenwood. Possibly due to age restrictions she was transferred to the Iowa State Hospital for the Insane in Clarinda, where she remained for less than a year.

Iowa State Hospital for the Insane in Clarinda

Iowa State Hospital for the Insane, Clarinda, Iowa.

Between hospitalizations Bertha claimed she was seduced by a man named Gunther who schooled her in the art of “larceny from the person.” Despite her psychiatric problems, she was an excellent student. Not only was she good at getting the goods, she developed a unique approach to her profession, taking full advantage of her blond-haired, blue-eyed good looks and stylish appearance. Bertha would get into a crowd of people and swoon. The gallant gentleman who came to her rescue by catching her got a reward he wasn’t expecting — his pockets were picked. It was done so adeptly that most didn’t realize their loss until Bertha was long gone.

Bertha became notorious. She took trains to all the big midwestern cities, robbing train conductors and passengers along the way. She not only robbed individuals, she used her nimble fingers to steal from large department stores, such as Marshall Field & Co., in Chicago. Her photo was said to be in every rogues’ gallery in the Midwest by the early 1900s. It was reported that three times she had plans to marry, but the engagements were broken when she couldn’t stop thieving. Despite all that, she looked pleased as punch to be photographed by the Nebraska State Penitentiary, as inmate #5693, for her undated mugshot.

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Bertha Liebbeke, undated mugshot. Collection of the Nebraska State Histrical Society.

Unfortunately for hospital and prison officials, Bertha was not only good at stealing cash, watches, furs and jewelry, she had a talent for lifting keys and picking locks. By 1907, she’d been housed in seven separate Midwest penitentiaries and asylums and she’d escaped a dozen times from those institutions. She’d attempted suicide at least once. Back and forth between hospital and penitentiary she went. No one wanted her, but the question of what to do with her remained.

She was sent to the Asylum for the Chronic Insane in Hastings, Nebraska. At Hastings, three physicians from the Nebraska State Insanity Board examined her as part of a report to the governor, Chester Aldrich, in 1911. The following description of Bertha was part of their report.

The evidence (is) that she has delusions or hallucinations as shown by her talking to imaginary persons and having the sensation of insects creeping under the skin. Immediately after physicians left her she became violent, which is a daily occurrence, running up and down the hall, bewailing her condition and position, running from one room to another to evade the physicians and berating them because of her belief that they would not look after her welfare.

The doctors weren’t sure of whether or not Bertha was insane, but they were unanimous in their opinion that she needed to be in a hospital, not a prison. The governor disagreed and sent her back to the Nebraska State Penitentiary to finish her latest sentence, specifying that “special quarters” be provided for her.

After her release from the penitentiary, in 1913, Reverend Charles W. Savidge of the People’s Church in Omaha offered her a home in the church. A safe room was prepared for her and someone from the congregation was available to be with her at all times. The congregation prayed for her and she renounced her bad ways. With the help of religion, Bertha’s “modern devils” might be cast out! The experiment didn’t work and the congregation gave up on her. By 1914 she was in custody in Milwaukee on a charge of vagrancy.

She was sent to the Lincoln State Hospital For Insane in Yankee Hill, Nebraska. She fell out of the news until 1919, when she attacked a nurse, throwing formaldehyde at the woman’s face and partially blinding her. We can only guess at what treatments Bertha endured in an effort to control her violent outbursts. She lived in the asylum for over 20 years and died there on May 5, 1939.

Her obituary in the Lincoln Evening Journal noted, “When arrested she would readily admit what she had done, and would gloat over men being easy marks. At the hospital it was reported that she had been a very difficult patient, and had caused the authorities much trouble.”

Featured photo: Bertha Liebbeke, carte de visite mugshot. Collection of the Nebraska State Historical Society.

Bigamy Boss

Bigamy Boss

Charles Boss was married to at least six women — simultaneously. Would that make him a sextagamist? Charles was described as Fitchburg’s “much-married man,” though he wasn’t really into matrimony. What he was into was larceny, and marriage got him not only into a woman’s heart, but also into her home and pocketbook.

On March 29, 1910, Charles, aged 68, was charged with larceny from the 55-year-old proprietor of a lodging house, Mrs. Anna Beaumont. Anna was also his wife, or one of them, anyway. In his carte de visite mugshot, taken in Lowell by photographer Napoleon Loupret, he appears confident and younger than his chronological age. On the back of the card, a policeman has noted that he had “done time” in the New Hampshire State Prison (NHSP) and that he was an “all round thief.”

Charles and Anna were married in Lee, Massachusetts, in 1909. Charles told Anna he was a Civil War veteran with a nice pension. A generous woman, Anna gave her new spouse a wedding gift of $200 cash along with a watch and chain. Charles shipped $700 worth of clothing and household items, including Anna’s silver, across the state to Lowell where they planned to reside. Anna paid the shipping bill.

A few days after the wedding the couple boarded a train to Lowell. Once aboard, Charles headed to the smoking car. Anna remained in the passenger car. She disembarked in Lowell, but he didn’t. Initially she thought he’d simply missed the stop. However when he didn’t arrive, she asked questions around town about her husband and began to smell a rat.

What Anna discovered was that his name wasn’t Charles Webster, as he’d told her, it was Charles Webster Boss. He was well known to the Lowell police, with a history of larceny from his employers. She told her story to the chief of police, and then proceeded to investigate on her own. She discovered that Charles was indeed a Civil War pensioner, so she watched the pension list to see if he was picking up his money. When she found that he was, she alerted the police. When police located him he was walking towards Lowell, carrying a shotgun over his shoulder. Having taken $700 worth of his wife’s belongings, he was bound over to a grand jury to determine if there was enough evidence for trial.

Charles Boss Civil War pension

Civil War pension record of Charles Boss. U.S.Veterans Administration Pension Payment Cards, 1907-1933.

The 1910 investigation and arrest opened the floodgates on the marital escapades of Charles Boss, revealing that he’d married at least six New England women, including Anna Beaumont. He promised his wives that his pension would provide a nice income after marriage. Once married, he stole whatever he could lay his hands on and quickly moved on. In addition to larceny he was charged with bigamy in several Massachusetts counties.

His mistake was marrying Anna — she trailed him, found him and wasn’t willing to let him off the hook. His previous wives didn’t try to locate him, probably due to embarrassment at being cheated, then abandoned.

Charles was born in 1842 in Troy, New York. At the age of 18 he served a prison term for larceny in the Middlesex House of Correction in Massachusetts. He was actually telling the truth about being a Civil War vet — he was a private in Company C of the 27th Massachusetts Infantry and was awarded a disability pension for his service.

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Old Soldiers Home, circa 1920. Collection of the Chelsea Library Archives.

By 1919 he lived in a county almshouse in New York. The following year he resided in the Old Soldiers’ Home in Chelsea, Massachusetts.

Charles Webster Boss was a thief and a heart breaker, but you have to give him credit — the old soldier knew how to rock the mutton-chop whiskers.

It’s pure coincidence that 21 Central Street, where Charles was photographed in Lowell, is now the office of a divorce lawyer!

Featured photo: Carte de visite mugshot of Charles Boss, circa 1910. Collection of the author.

Arresting Hope Dare

Arresting Hope Dare

When the Philadelphia police took Hope Dare’s mugshot on February 2, 1938, a reporter managed to get access to it and photograph it for news publication. Payoff involved? Possibly. The ex-Broadway showgirl had been charged with being a “suspicious character,” but she wasn’t on the lam. On the back of Hope’s mugshot-turned-news-photo is the comment “not a publicity photo.” Seriously?

Hope was the lover of a mobster lawyer named Richard “Dixie” Davis. Before taking up with Dixie, Hope was a chorus girl and dancer, during the early 1930s, with the Ziegfeld Follies in New York City. Ziegfeld reportedly described her as “the most beautiful redhead I ever hired.” In 1932 she’d been photographed at a New York nightclub with prizefighter, Jack Dempsey. However by the time her mugshot was taken in Philadelphia, Hope was pushing 30 and her glamorous showbiz career was over.

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News photo published in the Star-Gazette, Elmira, New York, September 29, 1932.

Born Rosa Lutzinger in Iowa at the end of 1908, her father disappeared before she turned two. Her mother, Dolly, got remarried to a fireman from Las Vegas, New Mexico, and took her daughter there to live. Rose was a gorgeous girl who had dreams and big plans. She moved to the Big Apple and adopted a stage name — Hope Dare — that expressed her optimistic attitude along with a nod to life’s challenges and her willingness to take them on.

Her boyfriend, Dixie, was a smart and highly unscrupulous guy. He was born in 1904 to a poor family but he got himself into Syracuse University and then Columbia Law School. Money didn’t flow in fast enough while he was working at a distinguished New York City law firm, so he turned to defending policy lottery violators in Harlem at $15 a pop. By 1931 he was raking in a fortune as a lawyer for mobster Arthur Flegenheimer, better known as “Dutch Schultz.” Schultz referred to Dixie as his “kid mouthpiece.” When Schultz was murdered in a Newark restaurant in October 1935, Dixie took over his multi-million dollar “policy empire.”

Thomas Dewey, a future governor of New York, was appointed special prosecutor in Manhattan in 1935. Dewey set his sights on cleaning up organized crime in New York City, targeting Dixie and a number of other gangsters in this effort. Dixie vanished from the city in July 1937. Detectives eventually located him, in February 1938, living with Hope in Philadelphia. After battering down the door to their apartment the police took them into custody. Hope, who was wearing a black wig to hide her red hair, told police that her name was “Rose Rickert.” The charges against her were soon dismissed but Dixie was returned to New York to face the music.

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Mugshot of Hope and Dixie taken on February 2, 1938 after their arrest in Philadelphia. From “The Strange Case of Hope Dare,” Life Magazine, August 15, 1938.

At the time of his arrest Dixie was a married man. The affair with Hope was widely publicized and, due to public humiliation, his wife Martha divorced him. Her comment: “The redheads always get them, don’t they?”

Dixie had already been disbarred for having advised criminals, Schultz in particular, in advance of their committing crimes. He was indicted for conspiracy to operate the numbers racket. Held at the Tombs prison in lower Manhattan, he was allowed to make “secret” visits to Hope at her apartment in return for his cooperation with prosecutors. Hope wanted him to get out of the racket so she pressed him to cooperate with Dewey.

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Dixie Davis and Hope Dare in her NYC apartment on July 23, 1938. Life Magazine, August 15, 1938.

He received a lenient (one year) prison sentence for testifying against co-defendant, Jimmy Hines, and was released from prison in July 1939. Having turned state’s evidence, his career in the underworld was over. Hope and Dixie were married in a secret ceremony, guarded by detectives, after he was released from prison. He provided testimony against some of his other criminal associates and then the couple moved west, ending up in Los Angeles.

On December 30, 1969, two masked men broke into the Davis’s Bel-Air home. Dixie was away from the house but Hope was at home. The burglars tied her up at gunpoint and ransacked the house, stealing cash, furs and jewelry. After the men left Hope was able to get free and call police. Dixie returned home about 30 minutes after the holdup. Upon hearing the details he sat down in the living room, lost consciousness and suffered a fatal heart attack.

Hope lived another 30 years, dying on March 31, 1999, at the age of 90.

Featured photo: Hope Dare’s mugshot (news photo copy), Philadelphia Police Department, February 2, 1938. Collection of the author.