The Hellfire Club(88)
“This meeting will now be in order,” Hendrickson harrumphed. “The United States Senate Subcommittee Investigating Juvenile Delinquency, of which I am the chairman, is going to consider the problem of horror and crime comic books. By comic books, we mean pamphlets illustrating stories depicting crimes or dealing with horror and sadism. We shall not be talking about the comic strips that appear daily in most of our newspapers.”
Charlie hated congressional-speak; it reeked of pomposity and self-importance and was utterly disconnected from how actual citizens talked. He’d observed its powers of intoxication: the longer a senator spoke, the more sure of himself he seemed to become. Hendrickson proceeded with long-winded bluster, assailing “horror and crime comic books peddled to young people of impressionable age” while making certain to underline that the subcommittee fully understood the importance of freedom of the press.
He was followed by the subcommittee’s counsel, who took ample time to praise the chairman for his remarks before citing statistics that to Charlie proved nothing so much as a problem in search of someone to blame. Dr. Wertham was soon called to the witness table, where he made his earnest and angry presentation about the damage being done to his patients in Harlem and, indeed, all over New York City—no doubt throughout the United States of America. He was followed by other witnesses, all of them, it seemed to Charlie, associates of Wertham’s or blue-haired types dead-set on the need to eliminate any reading more fun than the cleaner parts of the New Testament. As in Wonderland, with the Queen of Hearts’ demand of “Sentence first, verdict afterward,” the initial part of the hearing was devoted to establishing as fact its premise. After the late and eventful night before, Charlie felt his eyelids weighing heavy; he made repeated efforts, some successful, to stifle yawns.
After an hour, Hendrickson called for a ten-minute break, and Charlie stood, stretched, and headed for the restroom, where he ran into Kefauver.
“You have some questions for our witnesses, Charlie?”
“I do, sir,” Charlie said. “My staff and I have been preparing. We think Danny Gaines would be a good witness for me to question, if that’s okay with you.”
“Wonderful,” Kefauver said, zipping up. “Be ready for me to call on you.”
Danny Gaines was called as the first witness, and from the very beginning he seemed a hostile one. After swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, he identified himself as the CEO of IC Comics, which published gory tales of true crime and macabre stories of horror. He then offered the committee a host of snorts, derisive sighs, and exaggerated, disapproving shakes of his head while Hendrickson, with the help of enlarged copies of faded comic-book pages, spent twenty minutes educating the room about how inappropriate IC Comics’s material was for the children who consumed it. Among the featured stories from the IC oeuvre: an adorable little girl kills her strict father and frames her mother, who is then sent to the electric chair; a priest uses candy to tempt children into a haunted house, where he murders them, after which their ghosts seek revenge in the most gruesome way; a man rapes and then chokes a woman to death on a rowboat, only to trip and drown after several vengeful frogs seek justice.
Outraged stemwinder concluded, Hendrickson turned to his witness with an arched eyebrow. “Is there anything you can say, sir, to help us understand why your company believes this material is suitable for children?”
“You could ask the Brothers Grimm the same question,” Gaines said. “Or Aesop. Or Walt Disney! The hag in Snow White is absolutely terrifying. Bambi’s mom gets blown to bits. Dumbo is one of the most abjectly bigoted films I’ve ever seen. When are you hauling Mr. Disney before this august committee?”
“Surely, Mr. Gaines,” Kefauver said, “you cannot be comparing Snow White with this comic book.” Kefauver held up Gruesome True Crime SuspenStories, issue number 22, whose cover featured a woman’s severed head held by its hair by a man wielding a machete. “Do you think this is in good taste?”
Gaines tilted his head at an angle, regarding the image. “For the cover of a horror comic book, it’s in fine taste,” he said. “If we were aiming for bad taste, perhaps the murderer would be holding her head a touch higher so that blood would be dripping more dramatically from her neck. Or maybe we could see more of her body, to see the bloody neck—”
“There is blood, though, Mr. Gaines. Coming out of her mouth,” interrupted Kefauver, outraged.
“A little,” Gaines said, to a smattering of titters in the crowd.
“I apologize for interjecting, Mr. Chairman,” Kefauver said, turning to Hendrickson.
“That’s quite all right, I yield to you, sir.”
But before Kefauver could proceed, Gaines asked for a moment of time. “Senator Kefauver, I would like to correct the record on something Dr. Wertham said about one of our comics earlier today. He cited one of our comics as extolling bigotry. Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“When was this, Mr. Gaines?” asked Kefauver.
“Earlier he testified that we had a comic using ethnic slurs for Mexicans, as if we were promoting prejudice. We were not. The story in question, which ran in Criminal Comics issue number one hundred and seventy-three in August 1951, was making the point that bigotry was evil and stupid. The racist boss is the clear bad guy, while the braceros who rise up against him are the heroes.”