It is a singular coincidence that three men, closely though indirectly connected in portions of their careers, and identified, though in very different ways, with the local history of New York, all died not long ago, and on the same day. I allude to District Attorney McKeon, ex-Police Justice Montfort and Biggs–the latter the man who attempted to blackmail William B. Astor. Biggs had been brought to grief principally through the untirin’ efforts of McKeon, while Montfort once unwittin’ly spoiled one of McKeon’s best cases for him, getting’ the laugh on him–a thing which McKeon never forgot, or forgave.
It was in the good old days when Montfort–Napoleon Bonaparte Montfort, as he loved to style himself–was Police Justice, and when McKeon was servin’ his first term as District Attorney.
In those days a Police Justice had considerably more power than at present, and among his powers was that of actin’, in murder cases, like a Coroner, with full powers to do all that a Coroner does now, in criminal cases.
A murder had been committed in Montfort’s police jurisdiction, and on an investigation bein’ made, under Montfort’s supervision, facts had been developed strongly indicatin’ the murderer. Among other things a shirt worn by the murderer, havin’ blood stains on it, the shirt being worn when the murderer had committed the awful deed, was handed over to Montfort’s keepin’ to be retained as evidence against the culprit on trial.
The trial took place under Judge Edmunds, one of the ablest and most impartial of New York judges–a man whose decisions as a judge have never been reversed, and against whom only one charge had ever been brought, that of turnin’ spiritualist.
The eloquent and talented Ogden Hoffman, one of the leadin’ lawyers of his time, had been retained by the accused man, while the prosecution was conducted in person by McKeon, who had determined to secure a conviction. Both Hoffman and McKeon were aware of the existence of this blood-stained shirt, and the former was as anxious to prevent its bein’ brought into the case as testimony as the latter was resolute to have it produced. After the usual amount of preliminary fencin’, the counsel came down to business. McKeon made one of his most forcible and feelin’ speeches, and finally got down to his bloody shirt.
He called Montfort to the witness stand; Hoffman’s face clouded, and the prisoner at the bar looked black as his prospects.
Montfort took his place on the witness stand with all the dignity befittin’ a man whose name was Napoleon Bonaparte.
He was always particularly neat in his personal appearance, but on this occasion he looked even more fresh and neat than usual. His shirt front was Immaculate. Shirt fronts were Montfort’s strong–or weak—point. He regarded a dirty shirt as bad as a dirty character. He classed soiled linen with soiled reputation and avoided both.
McKeon asked the usual introductory questions, as to Montfort’s name–which he gave in full–his residence, his official position, etc., and then interrogated him as to his official conduct in and relations with this particular case.
Finally he asked the question: “Was there not a shirt found among the clothin’ in the room occupied by the prisoner at the bar at the time of his arrest?”
“There was,” answered Montfort.
“Was not this shirt handed over to your official keepin’ as police magistrate?”
“It was,” answered Montfort.
“What was the condition of this shirt when it was found in the room of the prisoner at the bar and handed over to your keepin?” asked McKeon.
Here Hoffman nervously arose and made the point, in behalf of the prisoner, that the witness not bein’ present when the shirt was found in the prisoner’s room, could only give evidence as to the condition of the shirt when it was finally handed to him for safe keepin’.
McKeon altered his question to suit the rulin’ of the court on this point, and asked Montfort in what condition the prisoner’s shirt had been handed to him.
“In a very foul and filthy condition, indeed,” replied Montfort in evident disgust.
“Was there not blood upon the shirt?” asked McKeon.
“There was,” answered Montfort. “It was stained with human gore,” he added, solemnly.
The jury looked interested; the prisoner looked desperate; Hoffman looked as if already defeated, and McKeon looked as if already triumphant.
“What did you do with this bloody shirt?” asked McKeon.
“I placed it in a box to wait the disposal of the constituted authorities,” answered Montfort.
“Have you this box with you now? asked McKeon.
“I have caused it to be brought with me,” answered Montfort.
“Produce this box, sir, that the court and jury may see with their own eyes this blood-stained shirt.”
Amid a death-like stillness Montfort made a sign to an attendant, who approached carrying a box.
“Open that box,” said McKeon dramatically to the attendant.
Judge, jury, spectators, were now deeply interested. The situation was becomin’ thrillin’. The prisoner already felt the rope round his neck, and McKeon prepared to deliver one of his most tellin’ sentences when that box should disclose its bloody contents.
“Open that box,” he repeated to the attendant, “and hand me what it contains, that I may show it to the jury.”
You can imagine what would have been the effect when the District Attorney should have held in his hand the damnin’ evidence of the prisoner’s guilt. But no one but those who were present can imagine the effect that really did take place when, obedient to McKeon’s order, the attendant forthwith handed him a shirt, the shirt–the very identical shirt found in the prisoner’s room and worn by the prisoner when he committed the murder probably, but with not a speck or stain upon it–a clean shirt, a laundered shirt–a shirt, which it afterwards transpired, Montfort had overlooked, and which his folks at home, knowin’ his hatred of soiled linen, had taken and washed.
A roar of laughter–suppressed at once, but with difficulty, by the judge–went up from the court room. McKeon was confounded; the great point upon which he had relied as proof positive, was lost, and Hoffman won by a shirt.
[Editor’s notes: It should also be noted that John McKeon had succeeded Ogden Hoffman as NYC District Attorney.
But the reference made to “Biggs” at the beginning of this column is more intriguing than the anecdote that follows. Isaac A. Biggs was a hustling estate broker and real estate dealer who was involved in a plot to blackmail William B. Astor Sr., the son and main heir of dynasty founder John Jacob Astor. The blackmail plot meant to expose the extent to which John Jacob Astor had been involved in manufacturing counterfeit coins to use in trading with Native Americans. However, William B. Astor had no fear of this threat and went straight to the police, who arranged a handoff of a fake payment and followed the courier, which led them to Biggs. Moreover, despite the Astors’ influence, apparently little was done to suppress the publication of the blackmail demands. The extortion letter was printed in full in the New York Daily Herald of March 16, 1849:]
