With June fading, Moore found the defense again in the familiar position of running short of money. The fifty thousand dollars collected over the past year was gone, used up in investigations and fees and a hundred other unavoidable expenses. Judge Thayer offered to allow the defense to proceed _in forma pauperis_ with some of their costs home by the Commonwealth, but this humiliation Moore refused to accept. On June 29 with the defense lacking funds even to pay witnesses, Mrs. Evans produced $1500 to tide them over for the week. At the end of the week she added to this all her available income, $2950, plus $600 contributed by her friends. Mrs. Cerise Jack handed over $100. The sixteen-man crew that had been digging the excavation across the street from Rice & Hutchins and that Mrs. Nichols saw cut and run when the shooting started could scarcely be considered the most reliable of witnesses, but Moore with his weight-of-numbers tactics how brought in five of them, of whom only one could speak English. William Foley, the driver of a dump truck, had just left the excavation with a load when the shots rang out and the Buick swayed up Pearl Street. Foley, headed in the other direction, saw only the driver clearly and his description of him was unique: “eyeglasses, short mustache, soft hat, high cheekbones, sallow complexion.” He also had a glimpse of another man in a cap sitting in the rear seat. At this point he could not recall the men’s faces, but they were not the men in the cage. Katzmann, weaving back to Boda, asked Foley several times if the driver was not wearing a velour hat. Foley remembered it as a soft hat, but was positive it was not velour. He admitted that he could not tell whether or not the man in the back seat was one of the defendants. Emilio Falcone, who had been shoveling dirt into Foley’s truck just before the shooting, testified through the court interpreter, Joseph Ross, who also acted as Judge Thayer’s chauffeur. Falcone thought that he had been forty or fifty feet away from the shooting, near enough at least so that he heard Parmenter groan as he dropped. The man who shot him was “kind of pale, light, pale.” Another man had picked up the money-box. Under Callahan’s rather fussy questioning as to whether the two men in the cage resembled the men in the car, Falcone said they did not. Callahan’s reiterations, doubly tedious through translation, made Falcone lose his temper. “Well, for God’s sake,” he replied, “why do you ask me again?”