Читать книгу What Happened to Mickey? - Peter McSherry - Страница 13

Toronto’s First Gangland Murderer

(January 22, 1939–March 15, 1939)

After his conviction for robbery with violence, Mickey signed the waiver that relinquished his right of appeal then waited to be removed to Kingston Penitentiary. Day after day, he sat playing bridge in the corridor outside his cell in the Don Jail, but nothing happened. Cullinan, Constantino, and Epter all went. Johnny Brown, who stayed, faced further charges in Toronto and Hamilton, including armed robbery, shopbreaking, and escape custody. After the line-up of January 22, Mickey began to hear stories that the police were grilling criminal associates about the Windsor Murder — and questions with his name on them were coming up at the back end of these conversations. Mickey knew what this meant. He was the real suspect and there was “a squawker” — and he already thought he knew who this must be.[1] How many other friends and criminal allies had been frightened or bribed into turning stool pigeon? he surely asked himself. The police then began grilling Mickey himself — all day, every day, for two weeks, as his mother later complained in the press.[2] True to his own persecution complex, Mickey started making noise in the jail that the police were going to charge him with the murder — shouting that it was all a “frame-up” by the cops.

On February 23, 1939, more than a month after Jack Shea had sold his criminal friends to the police, Sergeant of Detectives Herbert McCready, now with Detective-Sergeant Alex McCathie in charge of the Windsor investigation, formally charged Donald and Alex MacDonald with the murder. Louis Gallow was not charged, since he had not been identified by any of the five eyewitnesses at the line-up and, otherwise, there was only Jack Shea’s hearsay story of Gallow’s supposed involvement in the killing.

Alex MacDonald, aged 19, on his way to City Hall and Toronto Police Court on February 24, 1939. (York University Libraries, Clara Thomas Archives and Special Collections, Toronto Telegram fonds, ASCO7404

That evening Alexander MacDonald Sr., near his end as a working blacksmith and less than four years from the last breath of a hard life, was brought to No. 12 Station at Yonge Street and Montgomery Avenue on Herbert McCready’s order. Old MacDonald broke down weeping at the situation he was faced with. McCready wanted him to prevail upon his son, Alex, to tell “the truth” about what happened on the night of the murder against the advice of his lawyer, Isadore Levinter, who had advised Alex to say nothing.[3]

The next morning, Friday, February 24, 1939, The Globe and Mail, first Toronto paper on the street, wore the streamer: TWO BROTHERS HELD IN BOOKIE’S SLAYING. The heading over the lead story was “Mickey McDonald Named By Police as ‘Trigger Man’.” Later in the day, the Daily Star and the Evening Telegram had the arrest of the brothers as their blacklines, but their front-page stories led off with news of a disturbance Mickey had created that morning in Toronto Police Court. So it was that Donald “Mickey” McDonald, alcoholic, recidivist criminal and well-known frequenter of The Corner, came to be what Toronto and a good part of the rest of Canada then thought to be “Toronto’s first Gangland murderer.” That perception would last even after Jack Shea first told his story on the witness stand, whereupon Mickey might have become in the public eye only a dangerous armed robber who had tried to work “a score” that he was too drunk or too incompetent to handle.

After this, there followed nine months of prominently-displayed news stories, unremittingly full of the Windsor Murder and of the names of Alexander and Margaret MacDonald’s sons, Donald especially.[4] This was so even as World War II impended, even as King George VI and his Queen Elizabeth visited Toronto, in what was part of reigning British Royalty’s first-ever sojourn in Canada, and even after Toronto had adapted to living with the war in Europe on a daily basis. During this time, beginning with his arrest for murder on February 23, 1939, Mickey — dirty little Mickey from The Corner — became nothing less than one of Canada’s best-known contemporary crime figures. His reputation as such would hold up for almost 20 years.

Every seat in Toronto City Hall’s “A” Police Court was filled at 11 a.m., Friday, March 10, when His Worship Robert J. Browne, a grim-faced former policeman, went to the Bench. An air of quiet expectancy hung over the packed courtroom. Inevitably, as on other days of the four-day hearing, this near silence was broken by the sound of clanking steel from down below, a sound that grew louder as Mickey and Alex, in leg irons and handcuffs, were brought upstairs from the basement cells and into the courtroom. With the chained-up brothers came a flock of hovering sheriff’s officers, detectives, and uniformed policemen, to augment those of the same who were already in the room. This too would be part of the ritual each day of the hearing. Outside in the hall thronged many dozens of thrill-seeking gawkers who had failed to get into the courtroom. These had to be content with passing glimpses of the accused men, who were now, of course, made most noteworthy by their being in grave danger of being hanged.

Mickey was represented by Frank Regan, the professional thief’s deeply-committed friend. Mr. Regan was an advocate who believed, to the core of his being, that every person — a penniless, recidivist criminal, no matter — was entitled to a fair hearing. A lawyer of not inconsiderable ability, Regan resided for years in lawyerly penury at the Royal Cecil Hotel — Toronto’s notorious “Bucket of Blood” — on the northwest corner of The Corner.[5] A lifelong bachelor and a devout Roman Catholic, he literally chose to live among the kind he represented — and he often did not get paid. In July 1933, he put in 17 days for Mickey McDonald at his Kingston trial for riotous destruction of property and, as he later said, never saw a penny for his work or his expenses. Jack Shea, in September 1934, at the end of his trial for shopbreaking, made a flowery speech wherein he eschewed crime forever and gratefully thanked “Mr. Regan” for defending him for nothing. By late 1938, Regan was telling the likes of Mickey and Johnny “The Bug” Brown that he wanted money “up front,” or he would not be there. But he was always there, because in his quirky mind the judicial process was so badly stacked against his kind of client that, as Mickey had boldly shouted out at his arraignment, “There is no justice! We can’t get justice here!”[6]

In law and order circles, Frank Regan was the perceived author of the Albert Dorland Affair, one of the worst scandals in Toronto Police history — a scandal that ended the career of Inspector of Detectives Alex J. Murray. In the minds of some, the accusation “frame-up” hung over Regan like a dead baby, his famous advocacy of the cause of Dorland being what friends and foes alike saw as his defining effort. The issue was whether or not Dorland had been entrapped by a police informer into an armed robbery so that he could be, and was, shipped off to Kingston for 5 years. Armed with an affidavit signed by William Toohey, Dorland’s former partner-in-crime and the alleged police agent, Regan remade Dorland, a gunman and career criminal, into “Canada’s most famous wronged man.”[7] A subsequent judicial inquiry saw the Toronto Police made out to be untruthful — “liars,” in Gwyn Thomas’s phrase — after which, if not before, the police and much of the judiciary saw Regan as an outright cop-hating “troublemaker.”

Moreover, judges disliked Mr. Regan’s courtroom style, a lengthening element to any court proceeding he was involved in. He would expend enormous amounts of a court’s time, often in order to score niggling points of minor significance. Left alone, he would go back over the same ground again and again. In cross-examination, instead of asking questions of witnesses, he often gave lengthy speeches with a question at the end — in effect, giving evidence himself. He was forever jumping to his feet in court with yet another unlooked-for objection or motion. At times, he would phrase questions in an outrageous manner, or he would roar at witnesses as a form of emphasis, or he would too aggressively accuse witnesses of despicable motives, or of making things up, or of having poor morals. At times, he would create, or try to create, issues that were outside the scope of the matter at hand. Yet, a contemporary estimate of Frank Regan in a courtroom gave him credit for “an enormous capacity for assimilation of detail, a marvellous memory, as well as dogged persistence, and an utter indifference to the attitude of those about him.”[8] All of this was fair enough, but none of it helped to actuate the process or did anything to endear Mickey’s legal representative to the judges and magistrates before whom he appeared.

Alex MacDonald’s attorney was much less painful. Isadore Levinter was a prominent civil litigator whose only career foray into criminal law would be his defence of Alex for murder. Possessed of a sharp mind and a good knowledge of the law, Mr. Levinter’s involvement had come as a result of a friend’s recommendation of a “nice young man” who, as the proprietor of Pop’s Lunch, delivered food to his Parkdale business.

Three of the four days of the preliminary, seated in the same seats each day, were four of the brothers’ main supporters: Mickey’s attractive and unfailingly well-turned-out wife, Margaret; Florence MacDonald, pretty, dark-eyed, sixteen-year-old sister of the brothers, who, like Kitty, usually wore a fur jacket in court; Brigadier Elias Owen of the Salvation Army; and, if anyone would believe it, Marjorie Constable, described in the press as “a friend of the family.” Alexander MacDonald Sr., who was needed at his work, was in court some days and not others. Kitty was most often noticed by The Daily Star, which, on March 10, typically reported, “Her smart ensemble, pert hat and blonde hair, made her the target of all eyes.”

“Call John R. Shea,” the court crier cried.

A kind of faint smile played on Mickey’s mouth as his former friend and associate-in-crime, whom the press termed “a surprise witness,” was sworn. Neither Mickey or Alex would make any complaint or sound while Shea’s story unfolded over two hours or more.

Shea gave his evidence, in response to the questions of York County Crown Attorney James McFadden. He told of his criminal past, of his being charged with the Port Credit bank robbery, and of Mickey’s going with him to rent the Ossington Avenue apartment on December 30. He said that the next evening, New Year’s Eve, 1938, Mickey brought two revolvers — a .45 - and a .38-calibre — to be stored in his dining-room buffet for use in a previously-discussed bank robbery at Ottawa. He told of Mickey drunkenly loading both of the guns in his front room on the afternoon of Tuesday, January 3, in the sight of Leo Gauthier, Joe Smith, and himself, and of the concern this caused among those who were there, Gauthier in particular. Which, as Shea related, meant nothing to Mickey, who persisted in loading the revolvers anyway. He also described the futile trip to Ottawa to rob a bank that began late that same night.[9]

Then Shea’s testimony got to the evening of James Windsor’s murder. He said that, about 6 p.m. on the night of Saturday, January 7, the two MacDonalds unexpectedly arrived at 209A Ossington with a very drunk Cecil Clancy and, soon after, Mickey and Alex — both armed — went out “to do a job,” leaving the little bookie behind at the apartment. The courtroom hushed when Shea got to Mickey’s 8 p.m. return and his alleged immediate confession coming in the door: “I have just killed a man,” which was the start of an alleged dispute with Alex, who thought Mickey had only shot “the mark” in the leg. Shea testified that he asked Mickey why he shot the man. Mickey’s reply, Shea said, was, “I had to do it. He got tough with me and I had to let him have it.”[10]

In the prisoner’s box, it was then that a little smile came back on Mickey’s mouth, but he said nothing.

Cross-examining Shea, Frank Regan asked, “Is it true you have made a deal with the police in reference to the sentence you may get on a Port Credit robbery?”

Shea’s answer was “No.”

“So you are coming out as a noble citizen to tell what you know. Will you be tried on the Port Credit charge?” asked Regan in a voice that was laden with sarcasm.

“Absolutely,” Shea replied with seeming sincerity.[11]

Four other witnesses, including Cecil Clancy, whose evidence was meant as corroboration of the most important part of Shea’s story, testified that day, but the headlines were all about Jack Shea’s testimony and especially Mickey’s alleged confession of guilt. The Daily Star and the Evening Telegram wore Page One streamers directly quoting Mickey’s supposed admission. As pictured in the Star, “Shea was well-dressed and when he spoke he did so with emphasis. His cheeks quivered and his face turned red when he mentioned the return of the MacDonald brothers to his apartment.”[12]

The hearing continued during the first three days of the following week. These were the same days that the world found out with certainty that the word of Adolph Hitler was worth nothing. The fascist dictator, who had guaranteed the borders of the remnant of Czechoslovakia that was not ceded to Germany by the Munich Agreement of September 29, 1938, grabbed again — taking for Nazi Germany the remainder of the Czech nation, the limits of which he had sworn at Munich to respect forever. Neville Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement was, during these few days, shown to be the weak-kneed fraud that it was. The war that had been looming at least since March 1936, when Hitler’s Germany re-occupied the demilitarized Rhineland, seemed by the end of the MacDonalds’ preliminary hearing to be inevitable. Hitler was already talking about helping himself to a chunk of Poland, the so-called Danzig Corridor to the Baltic Sea, which separated Germany from German-administered East Prussia.

The eyewitness testimony of John V. McDermott began the new week of Monday, March 13. He told the story of the brutal murder of James Windsor, graphically, step-by-step, in chronological order. Mickey and Alex, both chewing gum with vigour, looked at the witness and, as at other times, smiled at each other, as if to show their lack of concern. At his story’s end, Jack McDermott pointed accusingly at Mickey and emphatically charged, “He was the gunman.”[13] A few seconds of silence followed, during which Mickey stared coldly at his accuser.

After McDermott’s testimony, Magistrate Browne announced, “I have heard sufficient evidence to commit the accused for trial.”[14]

This got both Isadore Levinter and Frank Regan to their feet in protest.

The purpose of the preliminary hearing, of course, was to determine whether or not there was a strong enough case against the MacDonalds to send them to trial. This meant, in the matter at issue, that the Crown had to disclose enough of its evidence before an inferior-court judge or magistrate for that trier of the facts to determine that there was, in substance, a case that might reasonably result in a conviction. Both the Crown and the defence lawyers surely recognized beforehand that committal of the MacDonalds for trial was a virtual certainty. In such circumstances, in a day when nothing like full disclosure of the evidence was required, for the lawyers representing the brothers the preliminary hearing was very much an opportunity to discover as much as possible of the Crown’s case — and, further, to discover anything else that the Crown might not want the defence to know. Thus, Frank Regan and Isadore Levinter necessarily saw the preliminary hearing as an opportunity to “go fishing” — and, so, they demanded that it continue.

And that, for two more days, was what Magistrate Browne grudgingly allowed to happen. The lawyers for the MacDonalds then called a parade of witnesses who at the impending trial were most likely to testify for the Crown, if they were going testify at all. These included the other four eyewitnesses to the murder and a long line of policemen. The hearing finished at seven minutes after noon, Wednesday, March 15, abruptly, on a farcical note, after a detective of the police identification bureau failed to appear as expected by Mr. Levinter. The reason the detective was not there, smirked James McFadden, was that his subpoena had been wrongly dated for March 12, 1940. The court spectators couldn’t help but laugh. Then Levinter attempted to call another detective, who wasn’t there either. His subpoena had been wrongly dated, too.

“That settles it then. I have no witnesses before me,” announced Magistrate Browne. “The accused are committed for trial.” Then, amidst much lawyerly protest, His Worship straight away got up and disappeared through a door behind the bench.[15]