Old time “steerers” in the palmy days made plenty of money in securing lawyers for prisoners. I recall a man who had secured a lawyer through one of his friends while in the District Prison. It was a homicide case. When he came to the Tombs one of the keepers persuaded him to give him up. The keeper approached him, thus, “Say, who is your lawyer?” “So and So,” was the reply. “Well, let me tell you, he is no good. You will have a chance of going to the Chair or away for life!” “It’s only manslaughter, my lawyer says.” “Don’t make any difference,” said the keeper, “I am telling you for your own good. Give him up. Why don’t you get Mr. ——?” So he secures Mr. —— and that keeper gets the graft from the lawyer. When a certain politician was the boss of the City Prison, it was said by the knowing ones that all homicides as soon as they gave their pedigree at the desk were marched to the warden’s office where they were privately catechised to know whether any “steerer” of the prison had been giving them information about lawyers, and then informed that it was not necessary for them to go to Court to get counsel, that he would out of the goodness of his heart look after their interests and assign them a lawyer. Two or three shyster firms had the murder cases during this “regime,” at $500.00 per head, which was the amount of money allowed by the State for the defence of every murderer, less one-half, which went to the “grafter.” Thanks to Judge Rosalsky, who has made it a rule that no prisoner in the Tombs can change his attorney without the consent of the court. The Prison Food The bread given to the prisoner comes from Blackwell’s Island. It used to be said that it was an inferior quality to that given to the “cons” in the penitentiary. It was often so black that it had to be thrown away, and frequently the dogs would not eat it. The tea and coffee was colored water and the daily soup was mighty poor stuff. When I asked a wise official to explain, he said, “Can’t explain; some guy is getting rich.” It used to be a prisoner could get a small piece of meat once in a while if he paid the captain of the tier five cents! The Friday clam soup used to be horrible! They said it stank like the devil! Holy angels, what stuff to give to human beings. Hear the profane expressions of disapproval from the prisoners as it is taken to the cell doors. “D—— that chowder, take it away at once. The first time I ate it, it nearly killed me.” Perhaps from another tier could be heard as they passed the stinking stuff along, “Not for me. Send for the coroner and the grand jury, call Jerome.” Abusing the Unfortunates Some officials shamefully abuse the prisoners for a small offence and in turn the prisoners curse them in the vilest profanity.