The Barton Massacre of 1857, Part Seven: An "Anonymous" El Clamor Público Editorial

In the midst of the increasing excesses of popular justice resulting from the late January 1857 murders of Los Angeles County Sheriff James Barton and three members of his posse hunting the Flores-Daniel gang of bandits, the gap between the coverage and editorializing of the English-language Los Angeles Star and the Spanish-language El Clamor Público widened.

Occasionally, as noted previously, earlier instances of lynching were cited, generally by El Clamor to put some context to the current spate of executions visited upon gang members and others by locals.  An interesting example of an editorial to appear in that paper was on 21 February and was titled "Cipriano Sandoval: A Reminiscence."

The unnamed author began his piece by explaining his reversion to an event that happened almost five years prior, "as showing how much caution is necessary in popular movements against crime, and when the movers are of the soundest heads and the best hearts, let us mention a fact now almost forgotten in our history."

That fact had to do with the late 1852 murder of Joshua H. Bean, who was widely known for his role as a state militia general in the widespread campaign against a revolt led by Chief Antonio Garra of the Cupeño Indians in San Diego County.  After that effort ended, Bean relocated to San Gabriel, where he operated a saloon in the shadow of the mission.

One night, Bean was shot to death and in the shadowy investigation that followed, it was claimed by a local woman, said to be the lover of legendary bandit, Joaquín Murieta, that the perpetrator was Cipriano Sandoval.  A popular meeting convicted Sandoval for the murder and he was lynched along with a pair of other suspects in Los Angeles.  This incident will be covered in detail in a later post here.

The forgotten fact noted by the editorialist was accompanied by the statement that

Of seven persons who have been hung on Fort Hill, or elsewhere, during the last seven years, by the people of Los Angeles, without legal authority—one was clearly innocent [original italics] of the crime with which he was charged. . . The name of this unfortunate man was Cipriano Sandoval.

Continuing on, the writer observed that Sandoval "was a simple, ignorant, obscure man who had the misfortune to be found at San Gabriel—where he lived soberly and worked industriously at this trade."  Referring to Bean's murder, the author then claimed that "the Indian women of that pueblito pointed to another as the real author of the deed; and many judicious men thought they had no motive to lie."

As it turned out, using Indian testimony in matters of capital cases in court was forbidden by statute, but this would not have been the case, obviously, in a so-called "popular tribunal," or citizen's court.  Still, the "trial" held for Sandoval did not, evidently, include any Indian women testifying before the citizen jury.

Strangely, the editorial then continued with a sentence starting with "It happened that . . ." before the text dissolved into nearly three full lines of ellipses.  When the article resumed, it was to remark that "it is terrible to reflect that the wretched shoemaker, Cipriano, was hurried to his end, by the side of two alleged murderers [for other crimes] . . ."

A portion of an unattributed editorial from El Clamor Público on the 1852 lynching of Cipriano Sandoval that was connected to the excesses wrought at San Gabriel on several men, including Diego Navarro, who may have been the corollary to Sandoval in the mind of the writer:  District Court judge Benjamin Hayes.  Thanks to Paul Bryan Gray for providing microfilmed copies of this paper.

Meanwhile, the writer went on, Sandoval's demise took place "amid the cheerful congratulations lavished on one whose better lot it was to have rich and influential friends."  But, this shield was only effective for so long as "the death-bed lamentations of this last, not long after, revealed the whole truth, if it was not sufficiently known before."

The author then turned to religious feeling, stating that "the main authors in that tragedy [may] hopefully be forgiven" and the addressed the "eternally just God" whose designs are "inscrutable," so that "remunderation does not belong to man, but remains in your mighty hand!"  As for the "punishment of the innocent" like Sandoval, this signified "the triumph of proud and powerful crimes" and led to the conclusion that "this is justice in this world" which represented a "great and solemn mystery!"

Returning to the present circumstance of the lynching of Juan Flores, the editorialist noted that

there was a singular propriety, although not intended, in changing the spot of execution, when the seventh [lynching victim in the town's history] was released to eternity last Saturday, for consecrated was the ground on which had fallen the blood of innocence

In other words, according to this writer, Flores was executed on precisely the same spot as Sandoval.  To "all of which have a heart susceptible of the most tender of sensibilities," the editorial concluded, "may they turn to the barren brow of that fatal hill, [and] let them spill a tear, not without a prayer, for poor SANDOVAL.   May he rest in peace! [original italics and capitalization]"

Being that El Clamor Público was owned, edited and written mainly by its teenage prodigy, Francisco P. Ramirez, it would natural to conclude that this passionate indictment of popular justice was penned by him.  It was not.

Instead, the writer was none other than the district court judge, Benjamin Hayes.  In volume 43 of his extensive scrapbooks of material collated over his many years in southern California, much of which concerned crime, criminal justice and Hayes' years as an attorney and judge and which is now housed at the Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley, the jurist wrote:

It has always been a “question,” as to the author of the death of Gen. Bean.  None of the Californians ever believed, that Cipriano Sandoval was guilty.  The subject was somewhat revived in the year 1857, during the excitement ensuing upon the murder of Sheriff Barton.  Among other articles then written by me, in Spanish, was the annexed in Spanish—a translation of which also appeared in the San Francisco Herald.

Though he doesn't specify who the Cipriano Sandoval was in the aftermath of the Barton killings, it seems almost certain that it was one the men killed in the gross excesses of vigilantism at San Gabriel, most probably Diego Navarro.

Hayes then added a marginal note in the scrapbook: “I have added a brief review of the cases of “Lynch Law” up to 1857,  when the celebrated “Barton” excitement occurred."  This editorial appeared in the 14 March edition of El Clamor Público and will be the subject of a post coming soon.

1850s Vigilantism in Los Angeles via Comedy Central's "Drunk History"

Click here for a pretty funny spoof from Comedy Central's "Drunk History" on violence and vigilantism in 1850s Los Angeles, complete with a naive, law-abiding Benjamin Hayes and a shoot-first, ask-questions-later Andrés Pico on polar opposites of the spectrum.

There are references to actual history, including the county and city jail that had a log across the room with staples attached for securing prisoners (though the log was probably slightly more finished than the rough example in the skit) and what appears to be a loosely-based reenactment of a February 1853 Washington's Birthday celebration at Abel Stearns' El Palacio adobe house, at which party crashers were shot and killed--though not by Don Andrés as shown.

The clip on the link is about 3 1/2 minutes after the obligatory ad, but is worth a look for anyone who has an interest in early Los Angeles and its struggles with crime and violence.

The Los Angeles County Courthouse, December 1859

Within a few months of the 1856 article in the Los Angeles Star comically lambasting the state of the county courthouse, located in the Rocha Adobe, the California legislature approved the concept of a tax levy on county property holders amounting to 1/2 of 1% of taxable property for the purpose of building a dedicated facility for court operations.  This announcement in April 1857, however, was subject to approval by voters at the county elections and was not followed by any action by local officials to place the issue on the ballot.

The 13 February 1858 edition of the Spanish-language newspaper El Clamor Público disucssed the situation regarding the inadequate building serving as the Los Angeles County Courthouse.

Nearly another year went by before the Spanish-language newspaper, El Clamor Publico, put out an editorial on the existing structure.  In its 13 February 1858 edition, the paper observed the structure's "worm-eaten ceiling: and general deterioration.  Its poor proportions in terms of interior layout and appearance on the exterior warranted the opinion that "the jail is a much better building than this."

Nothing that there was a movement to find a way to build a new court house, the paper criticized the fact the county Board of Supervisors had not acted to put the tax levy proposal to voters and reminded readers that "a notice we published in our previous number, we recommended that they try to secure a new law from the legislature authorizing a loan with this object."

El Clamor Publico concluded that "it is therefore evident that a building for the diverse offices of the county is an indispensable need and we expect our representatives to do everything possible to obtain the approval of a law as we recommended to them."

A portion of an article from the Los Angeles Star, 31 December 1859, discussing an order of District Court  Judge Benjamin I. Hayes to Sheriff Tomás Sánchez to locate new quarters for the Los Angeles County Courthouse.

Sure enough, this was achieved, as the legislature passed another statute in Aujgust 1858 permitting county officials to seek a $25,000 loan, in the form of a bond, rather than a tax levy, for the funds to build a courthouse.  At the county elections held a few weeks later, however, the proposal was narrowly defeated 236-194.

Undaunted, county officials pressed for another attempt in 1859 and the legislature duly followed up with a new statute authorizing voter approval for the courthouse levy.  The sour economy, stung by the national depression that broke out in 1857 as well as the lingering effects of the decline of the Gold Rush during the last few years, brought out a very different mentality from voters.  The September elections saw the court house bond vote deafeated by a resounding 953-32!

Another tack was then taken.  District Court Judge Benjamin Hayes issued an order at the end of the year, as reported in the 31 December 1859 edition of the Star.  Hayes noted that the courtroom in which he presided "is altogether unfit . . . by reason of its want of the proper accomodations for its officers and juries, and the general dilapidation of the house" and observed that the Sheriff had "failed to procue a suitable room, under the previous oder of this Court, for want of sufficient time," 

Consequently, Hayes went on, "it is therefore ordered by the Court, that the Sheriff of Los Angeles county do procure a suitable room in which to hold the session of this Court, and that he also procure a proper jury room, and a room for the Judge's chambers" with the furnishings, fuel, lights and stationery needed for court operations.

In an accompanying editorial, the Star reported that, "the Court house, it is true, is in a dilapidated condition, and when the order was made a stream of water was pouring down each side of the Judge of the Bench."  The paper stated that finding another existing structure for the courthouse "will cost the county probably five or six thousand dollars, and in the present embarrased state of the county finances, this is a very heavy addition to the already overburdened tax-payers."  Clearly, though, it was vital that a new location be found.

The conclusion of the Star article discussing how to deal with Los Angeles County's fiscal doldrums, including the great expense of dealing with criminal cases in the courts.

The Star then offered its views on why the county was in so much debt and led voters to overwhelmingly reject a bond issue to build a new courthouse:  "the answer is to be found in the heavy criminal business of the county . . .  crime must be punished, and that punishment entails enormous expense on the county."

Specifically at issue, according to the paper, was that "it is needless to say that the fees of officers swallow up the income of the county."  Salaries, as set by state statute, were generally pretty low for officeholders, but there was a fee system, in which these officers were paid piecemeal for the filing of various process of service, from arrest warrants to subpoenas to the clerk's writing (by hand, of course) the many documents that were part of court operations.

The Star felt that many of these fees were legitimate, such as in the case of the Sheriff who, for "all extra exertions he may make for the capture of ciminals must be paid out of his own pocket" and then reimbursed by submission to the county for his fees.  The county clerk, too, "is often in attendance on the court a week at a time, besides the labor of making up papers in office hours and after office hours."

The paper reserved particular scorn for the District Attorney, though, noting that this official was allotted an extraordinary salary of $10,000 a year, but "has no duties which . . . should entitle him to a recompnese greater than that of the highest Cabinet officer of the Union."  It was observed that the D.A. was not allowed by state law to charge fees."

Another major factor simply was "from the decrease of the property of the county" during the current economic downturn, "where . . . there were droves of cattle taxable for county purposes there are now but waste and unproductive laws."  Given that revnue was derived from taxable property, but the county was in a seriously depressed state of affairs, the only perceivable result, according to the Star was "a general bankruptcy, or repudiation must ensue."

Cutting back on expenses was one approach to consider, but, "with our criminal docket, and the present system of conducting trials, we see no probability of improvement" other than to "let criminal cases be at once disposed of, and the county be relieved from the enormous burden of officers, witnesses, jurors being required to be in attendance time and again fruitlessly."  To the paper, "this alone would prove a considerable saving to the county."

Obviously, this was not going to happen and, even though the economy continue to worsen in the early years of the 1860s in ways the Star and others in Los Angeles could not imagine at the onset of that decade, there was a solution to the matter of the courthouse.

This will be discussed in the next post.

The Los Angeles County Courthouse, November 1856

There were several Los Angeles County courthouses in the first dozen years or so of the American era.  For a few months after the formation of the county in 1850, the adobe house of longtime merchant Abel Stearns, called El Palacio, was used.  The large one-story structure sat on the east side of Main Street and later was razed by Stearns' widow, Arcadia Bandini, and her second husband Robert Baker for the construction of the ornate Arcadia Block.  The site is now where Main crosses the 101 Freeway.

Then, the county contracted with another prominent American, Benjamin D. Wilson and his partner Albert Packard, to use a portion of the Bella Union Hotel, also on Main Street, but a bit south of El Palacio, for court uses.  The hotel served in this function from Summer 1850 to early in 1852.

From there, the courthouse relocated to the adobe house of Benjamin Hayes, who was a city attorney and, for a dozen years, the District Court judge.  From early January 1852 to November 1853, the courthouse actually functioned in the former home of one of its own judges.

The county had explored the idea of building its own courthouse and would do so for years to come, but the only feasible financial option was to acquire another adobe building.  The Rocha Adobe was acquired from yet another prominent American, merchant Jonathan Temple, in August 1853 for just over $3,000.

The Rocha Adobe, situated on the west side of Spring Street, between Temple and First streets, needed some work, so the county budgeted $1,000 for repairs and renovations.  It was also decided to construct a new county and city jail in the courtyard of the adobe, but more on that in a subsequent post.

Despite the moderate improvements to the adobe, the deplorable condition of the building sometimes elicited comment in the press.  None of these was more pungent and potent than an editorial in the Los Angeles Star, dated 29 November 1856.  Likely the piece was penned by the paper's colorful editor, Henry Hamilton, though there is no way to know for sure.  In any case, this jeremiad is worth some attention.

The article began by asking "who was the architect . . . or in what age it was built."  After mockingly observing that the structure bore "marks of genius," he went on to say that "no other man than the projector could have succeeded in placing his victims in positions ensuring them such torture, as the judges, jurors, lawyers and officers must endure, condemned to long sessions in this terrestrial purgatory."

The first paragraph of a Los Angeles Star editorial concerning the decrepit condition of the county courthouse, 29 November 1856.

The court room was denoted as a "hog-pen" in the form of a "compressed parallelogram . . . with the smallest possible modicum of breadth."  In the northern portion, there was "a crib . . . in which the Judge is condemned to ruminate, chewing the cud of bitter fancy."  It was suggested that a judge would be so bitter to toil from that locale that "God help the poor sufferer who is condemned from that box—the verdict of a jury is bad enough, but when it comes, double-distilled, from that judgment-seat, the acrimony of misanthropy must, unwittingly, mix itself up with the gall of defeat."

After expressing the hope that a judge may someday have quarters befitting the name of a true courthouse, instead of an "augean stable," the piece continued that the bench was so cramped that "if he shifts his position, his heels must go up and his head down" and that "set him right side up . . . [and] nothing can be seen but the tip of his nose, or two keen eyes."

In sympathy, the editorial lamented, "Alas, poor judge, often have we silently sympathized with you, in your solitary cell."

Yet, it appears the judge had it fairly easy compared to the gentlement of the jury, according to the piece.

But the jury box, Gracious powers!  The man who constructed the "iron cage," was tender-hearted as a woman, in comparison with the projector of this device of Satan.  The builder must have been fresh from the culprit's doom—a verdict of guilty,  That's certain.

In fact, the article went on, those who concocted the concept of the jury box "should be, in the first place, convicted under the statute against cruelty to animals" and then sentenced to "occupy the same position for double the length of time [as jury service]—if they survive that, they should be excused from jury duty for the remainder of their natural lives."

As for the clerk, his space was "in a cage just big enough for one side of his record book—the other half has to trespass on his neighbor's grounds."  There was no discernible means of entering and exiting, evidently, and the author asked "why a clerk of a court, who is supposed to require, and usually has ceded to him, considerable space for his books and papers, should be thus cooped up, no one but the renowned architect of this building could conceive."

The end of the mocking jeremiad about the deplorable state of the Rocha Adobe.

All paled, however, in comprison to "the accomodations for the Bar—the caps the climax."  The space for attorneys "is an immense four-by-nine area.  It can accomodate one man and a chair at a time. If you put in a second man, you must take out the chair."  A table was considered a luxurious item, so an attorney "may write on the crown of his hat, if it be a stovepipe—if not, he must borrow one or do without writing."  Consultations between clients and their counsel had to take place outside the structure.

Finally, there was the matter of cleanliness, or the lack thereof, according to the writer of the tirade.  Aside from the "cribbed, cabined and confined dimensions of the room, is to be considered the quantity of dust and filth . . . which no amount of sweeping or cleansing can keep away."  With all of this in mind, the editorial concluded

we cannot sufficiently admire the ingenuity of the builder in the construction of such a house for such a purpose, nor the patience of the public—judges, jurors, and lawyers, who quietly submit to the infliction.

Whether there was a good deal of exaggeration or not in this piece, the Rocha Adobe continued as the courthouse for a few more years and this will be the subject of the next post.