Telling them about his Plymouth trial. 2 s. (3 p.) In Italian.

Translation:

“You must know now of my sentence. It is a crime. Anyone who was present at the trial can confirm it. . . The D.A. resorted to truly miserable measures  . . . They condemned me on hypothesis . . . The state’s witnesses showed by their contradiction, their wish to ruin me. Twice Mr. Cox tried to say  he was sure he recognized me, twice he had to confess that he couldn’t say for sure. An adolescent said he saw me hide behind a tree and that he recognized from the way I ran that I was either Russian or Italian. The woman who swore she recognized me, as soon as she was questioned, began to shake, change color, and lower her eyes. Since she couldn’t answer the D.A.’s questions, they sent her away. She left, drying her tears, and only returned an hour or more later to her sad mission. Then came my witnesses, mostly women, poor people who spoke neither English nor Italian, only their dialect. Unfortunately the interpreter was from the South [of Italy], so did not understand the women, and they did not understand him . . . I explained this to the judge, but was not listened to . . . They promised a new interpreter, but the same one continued. And the D.A. had a magnificent game going. Nevertheless, my witnesses did not get confused, did not change color, everything inspired confidence in them and their sincerity . . . At the end, two policemen who have known me for years testified that in the past year they saw me 3-4 times a week, and that my moustache was always the same as it is now. The judge who seemed admirably impartial reminded the jury that, given the close range from which the shots were fired at the car, and since no one was wounded, nor the car hit, it is logical to deduce that whoever fired the shots must have intended to frighten nor to kill.

After which the jury of red skins found my guilty on all counts.

You know me and know I can bear misfortune, still my heart is heavy. With calm ferocity that handful of men ruined my life, and that of my father. Yes, it’s the thought of my poor parent that plagues me the most. Involuntarily, innocently, I have poisoned his last days, and perhaps even shortened them.

But is so much infamy possible nowadays? I hope, I think not. And if you don’t abandon me, and I know you won’t, and the working people support you and me, we will obtain justice.

There are so many things I would like to say, but I cannot.

Thanks to everyone.”