NOT EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

October 20, 2024October 31, 2024 Jeff Elliott Leave a comment

Don’t be scared, but there may be strangers in your house.

Anyone lucky enough to inherit their family’s photo album must have wondered about some of the folks in there. Are there unlabeled Victorian-era portraits where people look as stiff as statues? Maybe there are snapshots from a century ago of relatives posing with seemingly close friends – but could they be distant relations you’d like to know about? There may also be missing persons. Why do none of the photos with great-aunt Tilda include her husband Cornelius?

This is a quick trip through a collection of pictures left by a Santa Rosa family from around the turn of the century. Or rather, it’s about forty images that were donated to the Sonoma County Library, which scanned them and placed them online. Not all of the set is interesting – about half are nameless, rigid-necked Victorians – but some are quite unusual and deserve attention. The final section of this article concerns the more serious question about what could be done to restore information missing from thousands of historical photos in our library’s archive and elsewhere.

The first puzzle is figuring out which family we’re looking at. The library’s descriptions usually mention “William H. Hudson” or “part of a collection of Hudson family photographs” but that’s a weak clue, as there were several unrelated Hudson clans in the North Bay at the time and three included a William H. living in Santa Rosa, St. Helena and Petaluma. A few years ago the Sonoma County Historical Society wrote a piece on this and concluded a Santa Rosa businessman was the right guy.¹

But in the library collection three different men are identified as William H. Are their photos mislabeled or were these really the trio who shared the same name? And which one is the businessman we seek? Fortunately, he was vain enough to buy an entry in one of the local history “mug books” so we have an accurate reference of what he looked like, at least in his senior years.²

RIGHT: William Hall Hudson (1855-1927)

That history book offers a detailed bio or you can read a condensed version at his entry on Find a Grave (although it presently uses photos of wrong Williams). Here I’m skipping most of the details except for those that apply to the photographs.

Overlooked was that William and his wife Percie had very private lives. Rarely were they mentioned in any of the local newspapers. Aside from a nice announcement in the paper where he once worked as a printer, their marriage was elsewhere a two-line notice in the Vital Statistic columns. There were no birth announcements for their children, even though she was part of a large and prominent Healdsburg family.

Their quiet profile extended to the family album. There’s no wedding photo, nor baby pictures, nor portraits of their son in Army uniform as he went off to fight in WWI, nor picture of the son with his wife or of their children. (Think about that for a moment: Grandparents without a single photograph of their grandkids?!) I want to assume such images did exist and at some point a family member raided the album, but the Hudson’s seeming desire to live behind closed doors does not lend great confidence.

"Portrait of an unidentified couple with their backs to the camera" (Courtesy Sonoma County Library) — “Portrait of an unidentified couple with their backs to the camera” (Courtesy Sonoma County Library)

The iconic picture in the library’s Hudson set portrays a man and woman with their backs turned. The Sonoma Historian newsletter printed it in 2010 as a “mystery photo” and it can also be spotted on social media, where it’s usually tagged as being funny. It may indeed be a gag photo; we have no information about it or if the couple is Percie and William.

We can date it to around the late 1880s because of the “Souvenir Studio” credit.³ Photographer Jim Piggott seemed to be a light-hearted fellow who might encourage goofiness; his advertising motto was “A man may have A BAD DISPOSITION Nevertheless he may conceal it by having his photos taken at the Souvenir Studio.”

Also in that period the Hudsons lost a child – the mug book biography stated one of their two kids died in infancy. We can guess that happened in 1886 or 1887 because an item in the May 1886 Democrat noted Percie had returned to Santa Rosa from a long visit in the Midwest with her “little daughter” Ethel. Per the Hudson’s pattern of reclusiveness, there was no death notice, as there had been no birth announcement.⁴

This photo is likely a “mourning portrait” taken to memorialize Ethel’s passing. Americans in the Victorian era were somewhat more restrained than their Brit cousins in taking creepy post-mortem photographs of their dead and poses similar to this were an alternative. The symbolic objective was to conceal faces of the mourners because they could not bear to be seen, as they were wracked with indescribable grief. (Some were quite artistic, with the eyes and upper face hidden in noir-like shadow or the head sharply turned away from the camera.)

"Portrait of Willam H. Hudson, about 1863" (Courtesy Sonoma County Library) — “Portrait of Willam H. Hudson, about 1863” (Courtesy Sonoma County Library)

Seven portraits in the library’s Hudson family collection are supposedly William as a child, but like the adult portraits they appear to be two (or more?) boys; colors of the eyes and hair vary and the ears may jut out (or not). In one bizarre offering the boy’s hair is crudely drawn in along with his eyebrows, which were placed so high on his forehead he could pass for a Vulcan.

Another quirky example of Victoriana can be spotted in the portrait that’s assumed to be William at age six or seven. Notice the curtain is unusually draped behind his right arm and over the corner of the chair. That was a typical trick used to conceal a mother or other adult for what’s now called “hidden mother photography.”

As the Wikipedia page explains, it was difficult to keep small children completely still during the long exposure times required by early cameras, yet the Victorians didn’t want the distraction of including an adult in the picture. Their solution was to hide the mother under a blanket or behind something, such as the curtain seen here. Presumably the mother is clutching the boy’s hidden left hand and chanting, “holdstillholdstillholdstill…”. Hidden mothers were most commonly used while photographing infants, but perhaps William was an unusually squirmy child.

"William H. Hudson and daughter, Santa Rosa, California, about 1900" (Courtesy Sonoma County Library) — “William H. Hudson and daughter, Santa Rosa, California, about 1900” (Courtesy Sonoma County Library)

The library caption on this image is incorrect, as his only daughter died in infancy. We don’t know who she is, but comparing this man to the portrait in the history mug book shows this is indeed William, and is the only bonafide picture of him in the Hudson family collection.

Today we would call William an entrepreneur, as during most of his adult life he owned and operated different businesses at the same time. Trained as a printer he became the proprietor of hotels in Ukiah and Windsor. His main income came from plants that bottled soda pop and mineral water, which he ran in Mendocino and Southern California before buying the Santa Rosa Bottling Works in 1887.

The girl’s fan advertises “Sassafras Sour” which was probably among the brands of root beer he made under license. Other carbonated soft drinks included “Cresta Blanca” (not the wine), “Ly-nola” (described as a ‘fruit beverage’), “Oyster Cocktail” (stored at room temperature for how long?), “Whistle” (maybe the best name ever for a soda) and “Dr. Swett’s” (maybe the worst).

William upgraded his bottling plant on West Third and the Press Democrat ran little items about new state-of-the-art carbonation machines and such. He expanded his territory and opened a branch store in Occidental before selling the business and retiring in 1924.

"Gold Lion whiskey--perfection--the Old Crow whiskey" (Courtesy Sonoma County Library) — “Gold Lion whiskey–perfection–the Old Crow whiskey” (Courtesy Sonoma County Library)

“Dear Dr. Freud; please take a look at this photograph. Seriously, WTF? Sincerely, William, Santa Rosa Ca.” [parody]

This advertisement cabinet card is the oddest artifact in the Hudson collection and, I’ll wager, the champion oddity in the library’s entire photo archive. Nothing is known about it except that the back reads, “‘Compliments of Tom Spencer, Livingston & Co.’ for Gold Lion whiskey, 1234 Deer Run”.

William likely had this because of another of his companies. From 1892 to 1901 he had the largest retail and wholesale liquor store in Santa Rosa, first on Exchange Avenue then moved to lower Fourth St. Yet curiously, he later acted as if it never existed – that long-running business went unmentioned in his history book bio and in the obituaries.

"Mrs. A. H. Bates, Capt. M. V. Bates" (Courtesy Sonoma County Library) — “Mrs. A. H. Bates, Capt. M. V. Bates” (Courtesy Sonoma County Library)

The Hudson album also included a souvenir card from a circus sideshow with Anna and Martin Van Buren Bates, the “tallest couple in the world” according to a blurb printed on the back. The man of “ordinary” height next to them was about six feet tall. The Bates were part of the W. W. Cole circus which played Santa Rosa on October 6, 1880.

It was not uncommon to include such photos in a family album. My own family’s collection had a portrait from about that same time of an adult couple with dwarfism, but no caption explaining who they were or if they were relations. (This caused high anxiety in my cousin when we were kids, as she was slightly shorter than her schoolmates and convinced herself she had stopped growing.)

This keepsake cabinet card and the whiskey ad above make the point the albums weren’t just archives of dead ancestor portraits. They were storybooks. Particularly in the age before radio and TV, the family album was an important source of entertainment – a display of assorted interesting people to talk about. Other identified (and presumably unrelated) portraits connected to the Hudsons included a Petaluma minister and the vice president of the United States under Grover Cleveland.

An album might be pulled from the shelf when relatives or old friends stopped by to visit and the pictures unlocked memories: Perhaps someone would say, “Oh, here’s grandma Gus. Remember how blue were her eyes?” The visitors might chip in with their own stories and for a few nostalgic moments the clock turned back as she was recalled tenderly (or not). And then everyone had a good laugh over the card of the girl with riding crop in her teeth on the next page.

"Unidentified male member of the Hudson family, about 1880" (Courtesy Sonoma County Library) — “Unidentified male member of the Hudson family, about 1880” (Courtesy Sonoma County Library)

The photo of this unknown workman is (in my opinion) the most intriguing of the Hudson set. There must be quite a tale behind it; Victorian-American tradition was to wear somber “burial clothes” and pose in the style of formal classical painted portraits. Everyone else in the Hudson album was a model of respectability to be honored for a life well lived.

It’s not just that he’s dressed as a heavy laborer and looks like he’s taking a break from ditch digging. His hands are rough, dirty and he’s holding them in a way to draw attention to them. Having that big cigar clenched in his teeth makes him seem all the more defiant over having to sit for a portrait. “Ya’ nagged me for a damned picture and here it is. Hope yer’ happy.”

Some other unknown portraits from the Hudson collection in the Sonoma County Library

We don’t know the name of our stogie-chompin’ pal, nor do we know when he was photographed. Among the Hudson set there are eighteen others of unknown people from the family or supposedly connected to them. Of the 31,000+ images in the Sonoma County Library Photograph Collection, I imagine there are easily a thousand with one or more unidentified figures. And that’s just for our little slice of heaven – multiply that by all the holdings in university and library archives and posts on social media nationally. A truly staggering number of pictures show people who have no names and likewise no stories.

With a family album like the Hudsons where nearly half of the entries have no-names, the temptation to speculate can be difficult to resist, even for experienced genealogists. That middle-aged couple photographed in Iowa, where the Hudsons lived when William was a child – it must be safe to assume they are his parents, right? Well, no; they could easily be relatives from far-flung branches on the family tree or just friends.

Is there a solution to this identification problem? I believe there is – or at least, a means to ID lots of these mystery people.

It should come as no surprise that late 19th century studio photographers made their real money on selling copies, not taking the picture itself. Customers were sold packs of cabinet cards like the ones seen above to be given away to family and friends (prices ranged around 4/$1.00 and 12/$2.00). This means there could be surviving duplicates of these cards floating around in other online collections. And some of those surely have details about who’s in them.

Much has been written about AI companies scraping the internet for text that could be reused for apps such as ChatGPT. Lesser known is that they also collect image data on the web and reverse image search apps, such as Google Lens, can find other copies of the same portrait. In theory.

For better or worse you can’t do that, but not for any technical reasons. In Google Lens any image search for a person comes with an alert which reads, “results for people are limited”. Experiments using images from the Hudson collection results in no exact matches but plenty of lookalike portraits, almost all from commercial sources such as eBay, Etsy and antique vendors where they are available for purchase. Yet we know Google has indexed the Sonoma County Library pages because it finds the captions from the photos. What’s going on here?

Google and its ilk are justly concerned image search tools can be used to easily violate privacy – there’s no foolproof way to determine whether the picture of someone’s face came from a century-old source or was taken sans permission using a phone five minutes ago. The risk of all manner of wrongdoing is indefensibly high.

But as you can probably imagine, there’s also plenty of complaining on social media that this approach is overbroad. Not only does it restrict legit research such as genealogy, it also can enable crime by helping identity thieves keep themselves concealed.

Unless I’m missing some fine legal hairsplitting, it seems to me the solution to the researcher’s dilemma is to recognize that exact matches for images now in the public domain are fair game. That’s how Google and Internet Archive handle books; currently anything produced before 1929 (the 95 year limit of copyright) is available for full download without restrictions. Similarly, you should be able to find other copies of your ancestor’s Victorian era portrait if Google et. al. know where they are. Or to put it another way, the search engines with this particular information do not have a legitimate reason to hide it from you.

There’s no dispute Google Lens is the 800 lb. gorilla in the world of reverse image search, so this is an issue only that company can solve. Perhaps they should split off (what surely is) the small niche of historic image searching to a different body, such as an academic institution or Ancestry. They could even drop the facial recognition module – ain’t nobody’s going to use a portrait of your g-grandma to catfish lonely men on dating sites.

Linking all the image archives on the internet with simple matching could be an incredibly powerful tool. Historians may discover photos which were described at the time but have been long considered lost; genealogists could find unknown branches of their family. And we even might learn that all the strange business packed into that whisky ad was just symbolism connected to silly rituals performed by a group like the Elks’ club in the day.

¹ “Lots of Names, Few Photo IDs” Sonoma Historian 2010 #4, pg. 14-15

² Honoria Tuomey, History of Sonoma County, California Vol. II, 1926, pg. 548-549

J. K. Piggott’s studio at the corner of Fourth and B street first advertised in 1888 and he sold it a year later, then repurchased it in 1890 before selling it again the next year. So the photo had to be taken 1888-1891 except for a gap between Nov. 1889 and Aug. 1890.

⁴ Confusing matters further, there was another Santa Rosa girl named Ethel Hudson, born in 1879. She was the daughter of daughter of Henry W. Hudson and on at least one occasion the Democrat confused H. W. Hudson with our W. H. Hudson. It appears there might be a link between those two Hudson families. The mother (Mrs. H. W. Hudson) of 1879 Ethel was part of the Northcutt family. Percie was the aunt of a Miss Lou Northcutt – see reference in sources below. Tracing it further, however, is beyond my genealogical skill set.

All images above from the Sonoma County Library Photograph Collection have been slightly modified, usually to brighten the photo and improve contrast. The entry with Hudson and the girl was flipped horizontally so the text on her fan would be legible

MARRIED. PALMER-HUDSON — In Healdsburg, July 10, 1881, at the residence of the bride’s parents, by Rev. S. A. Taft, Miss Percie Palmer of Healdsburg to Wm. H. Hudson of Ukiah. With the above happy announcement came the largest package of the best-made wedding cake, and we join the many friends in wishing the young couple much joy. The groom is a nephew of T. W. Hudson, Esq., of this city. Arriving in this State a few years ago in his teens, he aided us a few times in printing the Flag; bis course since then has been characterized by enterprise and industry till now, by his own exertiona he has become a partner in a good business in Ukiah, as well as the possessor of one of the fair young ladies of Healdsburg. How many of our young men have made a better record? We congratulate both of the young people and have unbounded confidence in their success and happiness.
– Russian River Flag, July 14 1881

Mrs. W. H. Hudson and little daughter Ethel returned from Columbia, Missouri, where they been visting for some time past. Mrs. Hudson’s niece, Miss Lou Northcut, accompanied them, and will spend the summer with her aunt in this city.

– Daily Democrat, May 14 1886

HEART ATTACK HELD CAUSE OF HUDSON DEATH
Retired Businessman, 71, Drops Dead in Street; Final Rites Thursday

William H. Hudson, 71, for 40 years a resident here and founder of the Santa Rosa Bottling Works, dropped dead in Third street within two blocks of his home yesterday morning while on his way uptown. Heart trouble is blamed for his sudden death, although he is said to have been in good health and is reported to have remarked to members of his family before leaving home how well he was feeling. He was picked up by passersby, who saw him fall near the cannery. Although Coroner Fred Young could not be reached last night, it is probable there will be a formal investigation, the date for which has not been set.

Funeral services will be held Thursday afternoon at 2 o’clock from the Welti chapel on Fourth street, with the Rev. J. Allan Price of the Baptist Church officiating. Burial services will be held in Odd Fellow’s cemetery by Santa Rosa Eagles, of which Hudson member. Hudson was born in Missouri on December 24, 1885 [sic], and when a child went to Iowa and then to Nebraska with his parents, where he learned the printer’s trade. On first coming to California in 1882 he entered the hotel business at Ukiah, later establishing a bottling works in Mendocino.

Five years later he transferred the business to Visalia and in 1887 he moved to Santa Rosa, where resumed business. He retired in 1924 and since that time has not been actively engaged in business. He married Miss Percie Palmer. daughter of Mr. and Mrs. J. S. Palmer, Healdsburg pioneers, on June 10, 1881. Clyde V. Hudson is the only surviving son of the two children born to the couple.

Besides his son is survived by two sisters, Mrs. Theodicia Schroder and Mrs. Allie Tolson of Long Beach.

– Press Democrat 1 November 1927

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THE ELIOT NESS OF SONOMA COUNTY

June 12, 2022June 13, 2022 Jeff Elliott 1 Comment

When the history of Prohibition in Sonoma County is written, one name will appear more than any other: John W. Pemberton, County Detective – the nemesis of bootleggers and rum-runners and the scourge of anyone with a blind pig or backroom speakeasy.

Technically the County Detective was the investigator for the District Attorney but “Jock” Pemberton was like our resident G-man, on hand whenever federal Prohibition Agents conducted local raids (in the photo above Pemberton is the man on the right next to the feds). He also was often alongside the sheriff or Santa Rosa police chief during harrowing moments while they were trying to apprehend the most dangerous criminals.

Yet the most important moment of his career happened after his retirement, when he gave crucial testimony showing the California Attorney General was so corrupt he was running a protection racket out of his office.

In 1926, the peak year of Prohibition here, Pemberton was appointed County Detective although he seemed an unlikely prospect for the job. He was 49 when he took the position, with no background in investigating crime; his only experience in law enforcement being a dozen years as Santa Rosa constable, ending in 1923. He had the gregarious personality of a salesman, which is what he was before and after being constable (real estate, then autos). Jock held high rank in both the Elks and Eagles; he and wife Maude were constantly mentioned in the society columns for attending or hosting parties and whatnot.

(RIGHT: Duck hunter in a three-piece suit. 1923 photo courtesy Sonoma County Library)

Not long after being hired, though, he showed his worth. A 27 year-old man named Jasper Parkins was found dead in his bedroom with a bullet wound to his right temple. The sheriff pegged it as an obvious suicide, even though the dead guy didn’t seem troubled and was about to take a walk along the railroad tracks with his brother and niece. Pemberton argued Parkins had his little target pistol in hand when he bent over to pick something up from the floor and bumped his elbow against the edge of the bed. The coroner’s jury ruled it an accidental death.

A few weeks later came the bust of the most famous bootlegging operation in county history. In March 1927 Pemberton led a raid on the old Kawana Springs resort where he and the sheriff’s department found the long-closed hotel had been retrofitted for a three-story copper still that produced 1,400 gallons of pure alcohol/day. The booze was then trucked to San Francisco and LA where it was processed and bottled as “genuine Gordon gin.”

And that wasn’t all. There were two other stills with 250/150 gallon daily capacity, all fed by mash held in seven 2,000 gallon tanks. The big still had a steam boiler weighing two tons; that and the smaller boilers for the auxillary stills were fueled by gravity-fed oil tanks. It was a massive – and ingenious – operation.

The Press Democrat reported, “Pemberton had had the place under surveillance for some time, and had spent several nights in the vicinity of the resort to make certain of its use before the raid was made.”

The only person arrested was a San Francisco steamfitter named George Darnell, who insisted he was only hired to dismantle the equipment (everything had been drained from the tanks and stills). And no, he didn’t know who had hired him. Darnell was held for a few days and released after paying a $500 fine.

Not resting on his laurels, the same week Pemberton arrested a farmer from Cloverdale hauling thirty gallons of “jackass brandy” – a day after busting bootlegger Joe Garayalde near Sebastopol with 800 gallons of “jack” and three stills.

And that set the pace for the following years. It was a rare week when readers of the PD didn’t see at least one story about Pemberton making a liquor arrest, and it was not infrequent for there to be two or three. Just as he once was a familiar name on the society backpages, he was now a regular on page one. As County Detective he investigated other crimes as well and judging from news coverage, Gentle Reader would be forgiven for mistaking him as being the top lawman in the area.

Pemberton had an uncanny knack for discovering hiding places. He found liquor hidden behind false walls in closets and in secret panels that popped open when a button or push latch was pressed. In one restaurant kitchen, a yank on a roller towel opened a cabinet with cases of whiskey.

He also used his nose to find stills, as fermenting mash has a strong, distinctive odor. In a barn near the Shiloh cemetery in Windsor he found one even larger than the monster at Kawana Springs, and this one was still operating (although not producing as much alcohol). Other places where it was hoped strong smells would mask the stink were chicken coops and old outhouses, sometimes further disguised with open buckets of sheep dip or creosote.

Most of the items about him and the sheriff busting up stills and arresting people aren’t so interesting – unless, of course, you knew the bootlegger, which would have been true for many people in small, rural Sonoma County. Here are a few vignettes from those years that appeared in the PD:

Dolly Allen of El Verano is a fortune teller. But she failed to see far enough into the future to know that she was going to be raided last night…a party was in progress in Dolly’s place when County Detective John W. Pemberton and Deputy Sheriff W. A. Shulte burst in and seized wine, “jackass” and gin as evidence and confiscated three slot machines. Dolly said afterwards that she had had a “hunch” the raiders were coming, but, according to officers, she apparently didn’t believe enough in her own forecasting power to dump the evidence. (1927)

“Readin’, ‘Ritin,’ ‘Rithmetic, Rum” – “pupils of a little rural school two miles east of Petaluma carried word to their parents that liquor was being made near the school, and that the odors crept through the windows during class hours, and that one might, if one was careful, sneak up to the windows, of the adjoining house and see forbidden juices dripping from the coil of a little still. County Detective John W. Pemberton and Deputy Sheriff Phil Varner, to whom the children’s tales eventually drifted investigated yesterday and found, they reported, a 50-gallon still, boiling merrily, and about 20 gallons of hard liquor…” (1928)

Mrs. A. Garayalde, living on the Guerneville highway, yesterday came to the sheriff’s office here to claim an automobile truck picked up Wednesday when it was found abandoned on a roadside near Windsor, loaded with 390 gallons of wine. She asserted that the machine had been stolen from her garage and that she knew nothing about its wine cargo. (1929 – remember the Garayaldes from above, and Joe would be charged again for having a still in 1932)

(As far as I can tell, neither Pemberton nor District Attorney Carl Barnard were temperance zealots or had any moral objections to drinking. Their aggressive number of arrests, however, brought in a substantial amount of money to the county treasury. Fines generally were in the $100-500 range and in 1927, $100 was the equivalent of about $1,600 today.)

As the 1920s wained the adventures of Jock Pemberton began to look less thrilling. There were fewer busts of even middling-size bootlegging operations; what jackass stills he found were usually small and amateurish. Finding a stash of a few hundred gallons of ordinary wine in a farmer’s shed was now considered a big deal. By end of 1929 Pemberton was arresting drinkers caught with a jug (or even a pint) of moonshine and mainly searching the cars and homes of those he knew as repeat offenders, also busting hotel restaurant owners who likewise had been caught before.

His run as County Detective paused for about eight months in early 1931 as a new District Attorney took office and appointed someone else. In that time Pemberton opened a private detective agency out of his house at 435 (West) College Ave. After that D.A. died in a car crash the new prosecutor brought Pemberton back to his old job, where he resumed knocking over little stills and re-arresting The Usual Suspects over petty (but lucrative) quantities of wine or hootch.

The last hurrah of bootlegging here was the 1932 discovery of a 1,000 gallon rum still near Fulton. His final liquor bust was at the end of that year, when 70 year-old Emil Gerhman, a rancher near Healdsburg, was arrested after three five-gallon cans of jack were found in his cellar. He was fined $100.

Once FDR was elected president, Congress easily passed a bill to repeal the 18th Amendment. Pemberton was 55 when Prohibition officially ended in December 1933.

As tempting as it might be to view him as merely a local “Revenuer,” Pemberton packed a gun and acted like any member of law enforcement at the time. During the Prohibition years he and a deputy pumped four bullets into a car with two bootleggers fleeing the site of a still, shattering the rear window and nearly killing one of them. (The County Treasurer was surely grateful he missed.)

In February 1933 two brothers held up the gas station at the Santa Rosa Municipal Airport, getting away with all of $27.75. Knowing the pair were ex-cons who lived near Cloverdale, the police chief from there and Deputy Sheriff Harry Patteson joined Pemberton in his “heavy sedan” to search for them. The culprits were spotted in a car on a gravel road and Pemberton gave chase, the officers and the robbers locked in a running gunfight. After the suspect’s auto was hit by five bullets they ditched the car and ran into the brush, pursued by the three lawmen as the shooting continued on foot. After one of the brothers was killed the other surrendered, with Pemberton handling the arrest and taking him to county jail.

As Prohibition was winding down in 1933, the county decided to eliminate the County Detective position – but at the same time create a post for a deputy sheriff charged with criminal investigations. “It was generally understood that Pemberton would be transferred to the sheriff’s staff when his present position was wiped out,” reported the PD. In February 1935 he was appointed investigator for Sheriff Harry L. Patteson, who earlier as a deputy had been something of a partner to him during all those bootlegging arrests.

(LEFT: Chief Deputy Melvin Flohr, James Charles and John Pemberton, left to right. Photo Santa Rosa Republican, March 17, 1936)

Pemberton was well suited for the investigations he made over the next few years, but it wasn’t exciting work. He found out who was passing bad checks, stealing cars and burglarizing houses; he looked into suicides and a couple cases of bigamy. He served warrants on suspects wanted for crimes elsewhere and often was the guard who transported them back to whence they came.

The most notable event in those years was when he obtained a full confession from James Charles, who had murdered his brother with an axe. (Pemberton got him to talk only by assuring the 28 year-old he wouldn’t be hanged.) An insanity trial was held a week later and after the jury deliberated for ten minutes, Charles was committed to the Mendocino State Hospital for the Insane. The reason for the killing, BTW, was that the brother didn’t come home on time that Sunday and Charles was very upset that dinner was late.

The last chapter in his career began in 1943, when he was rehired as a deputy sheriff. John and Maude had gone into semi-retirement four years earlier when there was a surprise election upset and Sheriff Patteson lost to a forest ranger. The Pembertons rented their Santa Rosa home and went to live at their ranch on route 128 near Kellogg, where they intended to start a large rabbit farm. Once Patteson was elected again they were back in Santa Rosa and life resumed as before. Sort of.

John was almost 65 and his dangerous days of running gun battles were over. Now he was mainly a court bailiff and sometimes a deputy jailer; he apparently took care of the Sheriff’s Office mascot, a black cat named “Black Bart” (yuk, yuk). He retired without fanfare in mid-1948, around the time he turned 70.

And here’s where his story gets really interesting.

Another of Pemberton’s duties in those final years was serving as an escort and driver for visiting law officers, so it wasn’t unusual when a special agent from the Attorney General’s office showed up on October 9, 1947. Agent Charles Hoy wanted a ride to specific places in Occidental and between Santa Rosa-Petaluma he had on a list. All (or nearly all?) were taverns.

After each stop, Hoy returned to the car with an armful of punchboards. Pemberton noted the agent seemed interested in nothing else but those things, so when he couldn’t find a place on the list and popped in to an inn to ask directions, he told the agent, “if it is punchboards you want, they got plenty of them in there.” Hoy replied, “I don’t want them.” Pemberton later said Hoy “showed no interest” in places not on his list. After they had hit all the locations, Hoy dropped the punchboards on Sheriff Patteson’s desk saying, “you can have them now,” and left.¹

–

WHAT’S A PUNCHBOARD?

Punchboards were a common form of gambling in the first half of the 20th century, found in taverns, cigar stores, pool halls, even barbershops and lunch counters across America.

They were like primitive versions of today’s lottery scratchers; a colorful sheet – often with a cheesecake picture or sports theme – was glued on a piece of wood. Punchboards bought by Young had titles including: Big Hit, Win Er Bust, Nice Curves, High Bidder and Gold Bucket.

On each were many tiny holes stuffed with slips of paper. A gambler used a little stylus to punch through the top sheet and hopefully find a winning number. There were myriad variations; sometimes there were few holes but a higher cost to play, or a great many holes to punch very cheaply. But always the odds favored the owner of the board; on the example seen here, the chances of winning anything on a brand-new board was 1 in 50.

The “branding” described here was a crude way to establish a monopoly and says nothing about whether the punchboards were rigged by the manufacturer. Few (or even none) of the winning numbers might be on the punchboard, or they might be sold together with a key to which holes had winners so the gambler could pay extra for a tip as to where to punch.

In California punchboards were illegal “lottery devices” – but as in many states, using them was only a misdemeanor not rigorously enforced. Some owners tried to skirt the law by offering payouts in cigarettes, candy, glasses of beer or trinkets instead of cash.

Vintage punchboard, courtesy S. David O’Shea/Pinterest

What Pemberton and the sheriff didn’t realize at the time was they had witnessed part of a criminal conspiracy that reached to the top of the state Department of Justice.

Attorney General Fred N. Howser (the “N” stood for Napoleon!) entered office in 1947 vowing to keep organized crime out of California. More likely he wanted to keep other foxes out of his henhouse; he had a long history of corruption involving gaming interests. Knowing this, Governor Earl Warren set up the “Special Crime Study Commission on Organized Crime.” The final 1950 report has an entire chapter on the “state-wide plan for racket protection under the cloak of the Attorney General’s Office” which is quite jaw-dropping to read.²

Exactly a week before Pemberton was chauffeuring agent Hoy around Sonoma County, a man named Thompson Norman Young was making a deal in San Francisco to obtain a monopoly on punchboards up in the Marysville area. Later he would testify being told at that meeting they were part of a syndicate which gave Howser $50,000 in exchange for a virtual statewide monopoly on punchboards.

Young would also testify how the racket worked. After a dealer bought punchboards from the syndicate, they would be “branded” – meaning a serial number would be burned into the back of the board with an electric woodburning tool. This was for “protection;” should a local sheriff or police chief bust the dealer, the Attorney General wouldn’t prosecute. And as an extra incentive, a special agent from the A.G.’s office would first sweep through the territory confiscating all other punchboards so the dealer would have a monopoly. One of those former agents testified that indeed happened in Marysville, under orders from Howser’s chief enforcement officer.

Besides the cost of the punchboards, Young was told he would have to pay protection money on each. According to him, the sales pitch was, “…it costs you around a dollar and a half for the brand. That is around seven dollars; you can make forty dollars on a board. You can put five or six boards in each location. Each location should bring you a hundred or two hundred dollars a week.”³

After Young agreed to sign up, he drove the syndicate men to Sonoma County. Their destination was the Buckhorn saloon; besides being the first watering hole in Petaluma a thirsty driver encountered, it was where the punchboards were being branded. (The Buckhorn tavern is still there at 615 Petaluma Blvd South. Virtually unchanged since that time and with its walls covered in old photos, stop by for a taste of Petaluma’s colorful history you won’t find on a tour of the West Side’s elegant Victorian neighborhoods.)

All of this came out because Young turned informant on the syndicate after he contacted the Crime Commission, then became the first witness to testify to the Sonoma County Grand Jury in February, 1950. That ended up with indictments of four men on criminal conspiracy, including Mervyn McCoy, owner of the Buckhorn.

On the day of the indictments, Superior Court Judge Hilliard Comstock signed a search and seizure warrant on the Buckhorn, and the surprise raid netted five tons of branded punchboards from a backroom of the bar – so many the county had to rent a moving van to haul them away. They also found a large stash of “winnings” that could be given away to lucky gamblers, including watches, rings and novelty statuettes. “Among the latter was one of a shapely sea-island hula girl, with electrically operated hips,” the Press Democrat gamely reported.

What appears here only barely skims the surface of a complex and gripping crime story that dominated local news almost daily for five months in 1950. All credit to the PD for its excellent coverage of the case – they even printed every word of the Grand Jury transcript on the front page.⁴

The punchboard investigations and prosecution in Sonoma County also drew widespread statewide and national attention because Howser’s corruption had become household news. After popular muckraking broadcaster Drew Pearson revealed the Attorney General had taken a bribe, Howser sued him for $300,000 damages in libel (Howser would lose the suit).⁵

Howser also didn’t have the sense to keep his mouth shut and kept drawing attention to the upcoming trial in Sonoma County. He insisted the charges were trumped up and an attempt to “smear” him during an election year, running a full-page ad in the PD denouncing District Attorney McGoldrick for “foul political calumny.”

(RIGHT: Political ad from Attorney General Fred Howser that appeared in the Press Democrat, March 30, 1950)

Nor did it escape attention that Howser was desperately trying to get one of his boys in to “interview” Young without any other witnesses present. D.A. McGoldrick responded by assigning a 24-hour guard for his star witness. Pause for a minute to let that sink in: The District Attorney in little Sonoma County is protecting a prosecution witness from being – bribed? threatened? harmed? – by the Attorney General of the state of California.

The trial lasted exactly a month, spanning June-July 1950. In the dock sat Merv McCoy of the Buckhorn, charged with being a punchboard distributor. Another distributor from Los Angeles was also there, along with an ex-LA cop who worked for him. The fourth defendant was the Chicago punchboard manufacturer who was supposedly the ringleader and the man who gave Howser the $50k bribe.

The prosecution’s case closely followed what had been heard earlier by the Grand Jury, including Pemberton’s testimony of driving agent Hoy around the county to confiscate punchboards at specific places. Items about his testimony appeared in papers across the state, although the UP newswire screwed up badly and implied he was working for the syndicate. “ExDeputy Sheriff Admits Picking Up Punchboards,” read the headline in the Fresno Bee.

The surprise witness was Thomas Judge, an undercover investigator for the Crime Commission who met with McCoy while posing as someone who wanted to get in on the branded punchboard racket. McCoy sold him some punchboards and allegedly said their operation was safe because Howser was “getting a cut out of the scheme.” When Judge scoffed that Howser was personally involved, McCoy told him Howser would send a letter on the Attorney General’s stationery to anyone he wanted – and that McCoy had indeed provided the name of a friend who received such a letter.

It seemed an open-and-shut case, particularly since the defense apparently had no strategy other than sowing confusion. Jurors were told District Attorney McGoldrick and Assistant District Attorney Dennis Keegan would be called as hostile witnesses (they weren’t). That Thomas Judge was completely drunk when he met with McCoy (he wasn’t). That Young was in cahoots with Drew Pearson, who had “nurtured” Young’s story (which the lawyers said he had completely made up). And there was an uproar when a defense lawyer tossed out an odd remark that a witness had a striking resemblance to Pearson, implying the famed journalist was testifying under a fake name.

And then it was verdict time: After debating five hours, the jury announced they were “hopelessly deadlocked,” 10-2 in favor of acquittal.

Comments by Judge Don Geary and D.A. McGoldrick both politely expressed shock at the decision. But the jury foreman told the PD that jurors “didn’t show much interest” in the testimony of either Young or Thomas Judge and “didn’t believe part of Young’s testimony.” In deliberation “very, very little of Judge’s testimony came up.”⁶

And so it was all over. Howser’s hopes to continue his corrupt career had actually ended a week before the trial began, when he came in a distant second in the Republican primary. His involvement in punchboard and slot machine rackets were part of the Senate hearings on organized crime the following year, but he was never indicted.

Pemberton lived another ten years. The PD ran a nice photo of Maude and John on their Sept. 20, 1953 golden wedding anniversary. His name occasionally appeared in the “this day in history” newspaper columns. Johnson Watson Marvin Pemberton died on June 23, 1961 and is buried in the Odd Fellows’ Cemetery.

¹ Pemberton testimony to Grand Jury as reported in the Press Democrat, March 25, 1950

² Howser shamelessly used his staff to support and coverup criminal activity. One outrageous example from the Commission report noted another of Howser’s agents was convicted of attempting to bribe the Mendocino County sheriff to allow slot machines in Ukiah. Before the trial Howser sent more than a dozen investigators there to dig up information helpful for his agent’s defense, evidence which was not shared with prosecutors.

³ Thompson Norman Young testimony to Grand Jury as reported in the Press Democrat, March 26, 1950

⁴ Only the testimony of ex-agent Charles Hoy was not made public for reasons unexplained, but his attorney commented to the press “he did what his superiors told him to do.”

⁵ Pearson had even more evidence against Howser which was not made public until decades later. See: “Howser Hit by Kefauver Committee, Loses Libel Action Against Drew Pearson“

⁶ Press Democrat, July 12, 1950

OUR VERY OWN PERRY MASON

October 7, 2020November 5, 2021 Jeff Elliott Leave a comment

There’s a tale Bill Soberanes loved to tell in his Argus-Courier columns that went something like this:

During Prohibition a lawyer was defending a man accused of bootlegging. When the prosecutor introduced a bottle of the moonshine as evidence the lawyer picked it up, put it to his lips and drank it dry. “That wasn’t whiskey,” he told the court. Case dismissed for lack of evidence.

Odds of that story being true are probably nil (or at least, I can’t find anything close to it in the newspapers of the day) but it’s the kind of thing people liked to say about Gil P. Hall. Most often he was called some riff on being “a colorful character” and people meant that in a nice way. During the 1910s and 1920s he was the top defense attorney in Sonoma county and rarely lost in court, particularly if it involved a jury trial. He was such a legal hotshot that courtrooms were packed when he defended a high-profile case. “There was only one Gil Hall, and I don’t think there will ever be another like him,” said the last surviving pre-Prohibition Petaluma bar owner in 1967. “Some of his cases would make Perry Mason look very tame.”

In the 1920s Hall defended so many liquor scofflaws that he had a reputation as being the bootlegger’s lawyer, but that’s not really fair – it seems he took on any and all. While he’s best known for high-profile cases his bread and butter was mundane legal work – representing people seeking a divorce, handling probate paperwork, and arguing a farmer had a right to dig a culvert under a county road.

He won an acquittal for Fannie Brown, who was charged with running a “house of ill-fame” at First and C streets in Petaluma. In the murder trial of two doctors charged with the death of a woman from an abortion (“the illegal operation”) the courtroom spectators burst into prolonged applause when the jury found them innocent. Even when he lost he usually managed to salvage some kind of victory. The owner of Speedway Hotel in Cotati was caught red-handed selling 72 proof jackass brandy (“with a trace of fuel oil”) and had to pay a fine, but Hall blocked the government from shutting down his business – which continued to be busted for selling hootch year after year.

A man who knew him, Petaluma Justice of the Peace Rolland Webb, said “he won most of his cases by outsmarting the young lawyers who came up against him,” so it’s a pity the newspapers didn’t write up some of his Perry Mason-y courtroom arguments. The one sample we have comes from an unusual case – the county election of 1926.

A recount was ordered because the votes for sheriff were almost tied. Hall and lawyers for the other candidate went over the ballots carefully, agreeing to toss three for being “scurrilous” – the voters had added an obscenity next to a candidate’s name. Then they found someone had written in the name of Andy Gump for Justice of the Peace. Andy Gump was an ultra-popular comic strip character who was a lovable idiot; in the 1920s the storyline had him running silly campaigns for the senate and the presidency. But the name was written on a ballot for Hall’s candidate, so he made a fine speech why it should be accepted:

…Andy Gump is one of the best loved characters in the United States. His name is a household word, and of loved memory. All of his actions have been those of a gentleman… Therefore, I cannot conclude with counsel that the writing of Andrew Gump created an atmosphere of scurrility about this ballot. Whether there is an Andrew Gump in Sonoma county I do not know. If there were more Andrew Gumps, in character and thought, Sonoma county would probably be a better county than it is…

His candidate lost the election by 16 votes, but the Andy Gump ballot was counted.

Gil Hall was in his heyday during the Roaring Twenties although he was past 60 years old (b. 1859 in Missouri). He was president of the County Bar Association 1924-5 and threw lavish, four-hour dinner parties for judges and fellow attorneys on his large houseboat named “Ark of Peace” (!) which was moored on the Petaluma River and was connected to permanent buildings on the wharf. When he would rehearse his courtroom arguments on the boat he was loud enough to frighten passing boaters, so reread the Andy Gump speech and imagine lots of shouting.

In his younger days it was expected he would someday be a Congressman; he was well-connected vis his father-in-law (Petaluma banker Dan Brown) and said to be politically ambitious, being appointed as Petaluma’s postmaster at age 27. But Gilbert P. Hall had a closet with skeletons ready to spill out during any campaign for public office; he was wise not to crack that door open.

The San Francisco Examiner, January 18 1897

This is the obl. Believe-it-or-Not! portion of the article, and not just because of some deed by Gil Hall; it’s also because this chapter of his life was so quickly and utterly forgotten and forgiven. Nothing about it was mentioned in any obituary or by 20th century Hall aficionados like Bill Soberanes – in fact, I don’t think this story’s ever been fully told before; I only stumbled across it while researching the previous article about the county treasurer who may have faked a robbery.

In 1890 Gil P. Hall was elected County Recorder/Auditor. The job was a perfect way for a novice politician to take off his training wheels – all it required was staying out of the way of the desk clerk and accepting payment of the recording fees. He was reelected in 1892 but lost the election of November, 1894. Take note that starting in January 1895 someone else would be running the office.

Every two years the county had used an outside auditor named Baldwin to examine the books of all offices, but in 1895 they hired someone else and he found something strange – there was a huge gap in Hall’s accounts. Except for a few entries made after he first took office, there were no fee payments listed until he lost reelection. Specifically, an entire ledger was missing: “Fee Book 13”.

The Grand Jury heard testimony that sometimes months went by without Hall making a deposit to the county treasury. Also, Baldwin looked at the books only during evenings when Hall was also there. Meanwhile, accounting experts were combing through all transactions during Hall’s four year tenure. Their audit showed that for his second term alone, $10,199.50 had been received but only $5,651.75 was deposited. That meant there was a missing $4613.38 (about $140k today).

County officers were held personally liable for any funds found missing during their term in office, and Hall had Petaluma businessmen who backed him with bonds for significant losses. The county sued them for about $1,200, which represented only the last few months of Hall’s first term – it was now March, 1896, and the clock was ticking down on the four-year statute of limitations for this type of suit.

A few months later the county filed a second lawsuit to recover the $4613.38. That was followed by a third lawsuit for $4.5k to pay for the cost of reconstructing Fee Book 13.

Gil P. Hall was now indicted on two counts of felony embezzlement and free on $1,500 bail bonds.

The story grabbed the laser-like focus of San Francisco’s yellow press, and the Examiner did a full page story on him with the subhed, “Rise and Fall of an Able Man.” According to their story, the formerly mild-mannered Hall had become “a high-riding swashbuckler, who cavaliered it through Petaluma to the astonishment of the wondering townspeople” and was known for throwing dinner parties that “endeared himself to a certain class.”

I will spare Gentle Reader details of the grinding legal gears during 1897-1899, which consumed a week of my precious life as I labored over a spreadsheet in a futile attempt to track all the doings. The Grand Jury found him guilty of embezzlement; the location of his trial was moved to Ukiah and there was a hung jury and a retrial; Hall insisted he didn’t remember anything (including the names of his clerks); his lead defense attorney, ex-Congressman Thomas J. Geary, embraced a strategy of continually barking “objection!” like a yappy dog. The big surprise came in November 1897, when Fee Book 13 was discovered and reportedly was in the Auditor’s office the whole time. This was, of course, conveniently after the facsimile had been reconstructed.

By the turn of the century there was remorse in some corners that the county had pursued restitution instead of just sending him to prison. It was now approaching the statute of limitations from the time of the indictments. Appeals were made to the state Supreme Court to extend the deadlines which the court first denied – then a few weeks later reversed itself and said the county could indeed reopen the case. Oh, law.

Over objections from the District Attorney, the Board of Supervisors finally threw in the towel in 1901, proclaiming there would be no more litigation because it was costing the county too much. That was followed by another Supreme Court ruling that the statute of limitations had indeed run out, and Hall and his bondsmen were not legally bound to pay back any money he allegedly stole.

As was permissible under the law. Hall then presented the county with a bill for his lawyer’s fees and court expenses. The Board agreed to pay him $850, which was the legal max.

Thus: Gil P. Hall not only got away with allegedly filching a small fortune from the public, but the county paid him for the pleasure of having done so. Believe it or Not!

An older – and presumably wiser – Gil Hall was behind the defense table again in 1927, this time accused of bribing witnesses.

The charge this time was that he had paid two 16 year-old boys $30 each to deny they had bought homemade wine from a Petaluma farmer. The Grand Jury handed down two indictments against him, although one was thrown out on a technicality.

On the witness stand the boys contradicted their earlier statements and each other. Hall had/had not given them money; Hall had promised one of the boys he “would take care of him” if he lost his job, or he hadn’t promised anything at all. And then, in true Perry Mason fashion, there was a shocking courtroom confession: One of the boys had a vendetta against Gil Hall because he had defended an auto driver accused of causing the death of his baby brother. “His admission that he had for years had a bitter feeling against the accused Petaluma attorney caused a profound stir,” reported the Argus-Courier.

The Grand Jury retired to the jury room and returned to court six minutes later with a verdict of innocent. It was the shortest jury deliberation anyone could recall.

Although Gil Hall’s professional life centered around the county courthouse in Santa Rosa, he grew up and lived most of his life in Petaluma. Besides Soberanes, fellow A-C columnist Ed Mannion sometimes tipped his hat to Gil for being among the most colorful residents in the city’s history. Mannion wrote, “he once entered the door of a Main Street pharmacy and was met by a fusillade of shots from the druggist’s’ pistol.”

Mannion told a couple of other stories that can be dated to 1913. The Maze Department Store on the corner of Washington and Main had an art department and was selling prints of “September Morn,” a wildly-popular painting of a nude woman standing in a lake – the sort of artwork someone buys while thinking, “this will really class up the joint.”

The store had a copy in their window display until “the good ladies trying to protect the town’s morals” (Mannion’s words) protested. Their taking offense apparently offended Hall, who talked the store into placing the picture with its back to the window – but in front of a mirror, so the image was plainly in view from the street. Selling at $1.75 each, the store had trouble keeping up with demand.

(RIGHT: Dressed statue of the goddess Hebe. Courtesy Sonoma County Library)

But Gil was not done with tweaking Petaluma’s blue noses. Outside the department store on the Washington street side was the WCTU water fountain, which had at its top a 5-foot bronze statue of the nude Greek goddess Hebe. With two co-conspirators Gil placed a Mother Hubbard dress over the statue. Wags promptly dubbed the censored statue “August Morn.”

That pre-Prohibition barkeep also said, “if I were a writer, I’d do Gil Hall’s life, and I’d have a best seller on my hands.” Well, get in line, bub – Soberanes and Mannion both wanted to write The Legend of the Fabulous Gil Hall and asked readers to send in Hall stories (apparently no one did). Justice of the Peace Webb had a number of stories so if any member of the Webb family recall an old manuscript up in the attic, contact me.

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