 The DuPont Company of Wilmington, Delaware, makers of better things for better living through chemistry, presents the Cavalcade of America. Tonight's star, Gregory Peck. Tonight's story, a prisoner named Brown. The time is 1913. In his office in Albany, New York, Governor Solzer is talking to Thomas Moth Osborn. There's something on your mind, Tom. What is it? A shadow, Governor. What are you talking about? For 20 years, the shadow of Auburn Prison has been crossing my office window late every afternoon. For 20 years, I've been watching men coming and going, and then coming back again. Why? Why do they keep coming back? One answer might be that the confirmed criminal has a decided affinity for prisons. Now that's one answer, maybe. But let me tell you about a man who used to work in my factory. A good man, good worker. But five years ago, he got in a jam, and to protect someone else, he let himself be sent to prison. When he went in, he was no more a criminal than I am. And? He came out last month. I talked to him, tried to help him. But he was bitter, full of hatred. All he wanted was to get even, while he got even, by robbing a jeweler. Now he is going right back to prison. Yes, it's an old story, but. Why is it? Why do our prisons keep sending out men who hate us and want to harm us? I wish I knew. Or couldn't you try to find out? A point a group of experts to find out what the cause is. I tried to do it once before. Anton, there was such an almighty hue and holler about how I wanted to molly-cuddle the prisoners and turn the prisons into a country club that I... Well, a lot of important people in this state feel that what was good enough for a prisoner in 1870 is good enough for a prisoner in 1913. But they're wrong, entirely wrong. It's not only the happiness of the prisoner that's so important, but our own safety, once he's released. Governor, couldn't you tell these people that our prisons today are nothing but scrap heaps when they could be repair shops? No, but... But I think perhaps you could. I could? What do you mean? Tom, I think I will appoint that commission. But you'll have to be its chairman. Me? Oh, Governor, I'm a businessman. I'm a manufacturer. Yes, a substantial, respected citizen. You've even been mayor of Auburn. With you as chairman, they can't call the commission just another bunch of sentimental reformers. Well, I'm not a prison expert. Well, Osborne, if you really want your commission to get any results, you'll just have to become a prison expert. I'll adjust one more building to see, Mr. Commissioner. This one here, prison laundry. After you, sir. Just a moment, Warden. You know, we've been touring Auburn for two hours now, and I've seen a good deal of your prison. But about prisoners, how they think, how they feel, I've learned nothing. Yes, I know, Commissioner, and I wish I could be of more help. But until three weeks ago, I was a newspaper editor. I wrote so many editorials about the need for prison reform that they gave me this job to see what I could do. Huh. Frankly, there are so many things wrong here that I don't know yet where to start. Warden, I've been thinking. You know, in a sense, I'm a guilty man. I'm guilty of having lived in Auburn all my life without knowing or caring what went on within these walls. I don't follow you. And guilt calls for punishment. With your permission, I've decided to sentence myself to a week in your prison. You've what? I want to live just as the men do. Eat with them, work with them. I want to be treated exactly as they are, with no favors or exemptions. Remember, the prisoners must know who I am. I'll be Tom Brown. Well, it's quite an idea, sir. But if you don't mind my staying, so being a prisoner is one thing. Being able to walk out any time is something else. I know, I can never really experience how it feels to be a prisoner, but at least I can find out something of what it's like to be in prison. Very well, sir. When would you like to come in? As soon as possible. All right, let's make it Sunday. But remember, sir, it was your idea. In here, Brown, cell 15. That's all, God, thank you. Everything all right in there? Yes, all right, Gordon. I, um, I've decided to go to Albany for a week. It's on business primarily, but also because when I'm not here, the principal keeper is in charge. And he'll run the prison exactly as it's been run for the last 50 years. I understand, but it's a good idea. Now, if you change your mind, you'll let you out. Otherwise, I'll lift strict orders. No favors for you, no exemptions. Good, tell me. The principal keeper doesn't think too much of my experiment, does he? Frankly, no, he doesn't. I see. Well, goodbye and good luck to you. See you next Sunday. Goodbye, Wooden. And so I begin my sentence. It's 10 o'clock Sunday morning when I'm locked in my cell and left alone. Sunday is the guard's day off. So we must stay in our cells for 20 hours until Monday morning. My cell is four feet wide and seven feet long. About as large as my bed at home. Here, the bed is two feet wide and hangs against the wall. And there is no window. Time passes. Minutes grow into hours. The longest hours I've ever known. Speak only if you're spoken to, Brown. Uh, uh, yes, keeper. These are the rules. Obey them. No talking, no noises. Lights grow out at nine. Bell rings at 6.30 in the morning, get up. You feel sick right at your door like this. Otherwise, keep quiet. Understand? Yes, I understand. He goes away and I'm alone again. Somehow, I feel strangely uneasy. An hour passes. Two hours. Three. Four. And still 16 hours before Monday morning. I begin to wonder if I'm a fool. Maybe I should call it off now. No, if I left before my wicker up, I'd be a laughing stock. No, a prisoner. Now it is finally Monday morning. We march to breakfast. We halt at the tables. Stand at attention. The keeper wraps his stick. We sit down. Before me is a bowl of porridge, a bowl of bluish milk, two pieces of bread, and a cup of black fluid. Is it coffee or tea? I'll taste it. I still don't. I don't see any sugar for the porridge. Sit down at the table. I turn to the man next to me. Eyes front brown. No talking. Eyes front, the keeper says. And no talking. I wonder why. Is there a reason? Why are the men eating so fast? Like animals. Because breakfast is over and we're marching out to the various shops and work. Double file, eyes front, no talking. My work is to be in the basket-making shop. The captain in charge leads me to one of the benches. Ever make baskets, Brown? No, Captain. Not hard, you'll catch on. We'll work with Forrester here. Forrester, this is Tom Brown. Hello, Forrester. Howdy. It's against the rules, but I let my men talk quietly in here. But if the keeper comes in, not a word. Yes, Captain. Well, Brown, this is the procedure. We take the return from the water here and we begin weaving in this manner, see? Or like this. Precisely, if that's it. As I understand it, the principle behind our making baskets is those that will know a trade on our release and thus not be tempted into our old evil ways. Do we get any pay? No, of course, of course. A cent and a half a day per man to give us an incentive, so to speak. So I learn to make baskets until five o'clock. On the way back to the cell block. All right, now, one by one. As you pass this table, take one slice of bread a piece. And remember, only one. One slice of bread, not very fresh either. This I learn is supper. And then back to the cells for the night. 13 hours until morning, each man is alone again in his cell. No exercise, no fresh air, no sun. I wonder why. At nine, the lights go out. I go to bed. Last night was quiet. But tonight, something frightening happens. It's around midnight when suddenly, then suddenly silence. Complete terrifying silence. God, what was all that noise? What's happened? God, God! He passes without answering. And I'm left alone to wander. Forster, what was all the commotion about last night? Last night, a young prisoner was recuperating from an illness in the prison hospital. But he made trouble, so the principal keeper had him sent down to the jail for a day or two. To jail? In the basement. Well, apparently it affected the boy's mind. And they brought him back to his cell last night. He made such a commotion that the guards were forced to go in and quiet him, shall we say. Now, I suppose he was back in the hospital. Oh, no, no. The keeper sent him back to the jail. Back to the jail? But that doesn't make sense. No, I don't suppose it does. Well, what happens down there? Nothing. Nothing whatsoever happens. You merely sit to stand hour after hour in a small, hot, dark cage. I don't understand. And why is it so difficult? No one understands until he's sent down there. I see. Until he's sent down there, eh? Take my word for it. It's not a pleasant place. No, I don't think I can take your word for it. I think I'll find out for myself. The ward upon play, a prisoner named Brown, starring Gregory Peck as Thomas Mott Osborn. Having heard that the Mennon Auburn prison feared the jail above all, Osburn has asked the principal keeper that he be sent there. And no, afraid not, not without the warden's permission. But the warden's not here? Yes, I know. Anything else? No, thank you, keeper. So the principal keeper doesn't want me to see the jail. Why? Is he concerned for me or for himself? So as the days go by, I begin to learn things. How to talk without moving my lips. How to get sugar for my porridge. How to break rules and not be caught. Tuesday goes by, then Wednesday, Thursday. It's Friday afternoon now. And in the basket shop, the new shipment of retainer's stiff. My fingers have grown sore and swollen. And my temper's not too good either. Ouch! How do they expect us to work with this rotten stuff? Careful, my friend, or you will pay a visit to the jail. Oh? Oh, I will, eh? Captain! Captain, this return is no good as it disgrace. I refuse to work with it. All right. Come on. You're going to have to talk with the principal keeper. Work, eh? Take him back to his cell. Just a minute. Is that the usual punishment, keeper? It's your punishment. The warden left orders that I was to have no favors or exemptions. Don't the rules say that any prisoner who won't work is sent down to the jail? Ha, ha, ha. All right, Brown. I'll send you down there. And for 14 hours, only remember, and the captain's a witness. You ask for it. The principal keeper takes me down to the jail. It's a small room, close and hot. Next door, the prison dynamo crowds. Along one wall are four iron cages. The keeper opens number three, and I step in. Gage of water, Brown. Four ounces every 12 hours is all you're allowed down here. The keeper locks my iron door, turns out the light, and is gone. Anybody here? Sure. I'm in case number two. Where you from? What shop? The basket shop. How long are you going to be here? 2 6 in the morning. How long you been here? Three days, two to go. What are you in for? Me and Joe, he's in four on the other side of you. The guard caught us talking at the mess table. So now we're both down here where we can talk all we like. Ha, ha, ha. Funny, huh? Is there anyone else here? Yeah, there's a kid at number one. He's sick. He took him out Monday, but I guess he made trouble so they brought him back. Hey, kid, how you doing? I don't feel good. I'm hot. I got to get out. You're going to let me out pretty soon? Sure, kid, sure. Won't be long now. So this is the boy I heard that night. The one who should be in the hospital. The more I think of it, the angrier I get of all the imbecilic systems. What is it, son? What's the matter? My water. I kicked over my water. It's gone. Oh, no. How can I help him? I could shut my lungs up and no one would hear. So I sit helplessly and wait for the seconds to go by in single file and the minutes and finally the hours. At last, I hear footsteps. Off the guard. Come to Flash's light in ourselves to make sure we're still alive. Oh, guard. Guard, that boy in number one. He's knocked over his water. Can't you give him some more? Guard, see here. Guard. He goes off without answer. And I'm left alone, full of helpless rage and a strange new kind of hatred. The first time in my life, I understand how a man could commit murder. Long night ahead of you. What time is it? Had guard here five minutes ago or two hours ago? It's hotter now. It's much hotter. It's hard to breathe down here. No wonder men have gone crazy here with that dynamo boring its way into your brain. I'm beginning to feel like a caged beast, a dangerous beast. Is that what the system sets out to do? To make me hate my keepers in the world outside? Do they know what's happening in here? Do they care? Do they care? Six o'clock. By the way, the warden's back. He's waiting for you in his office with the governor. Everything all right? No. What? Everything's not all right. I want this boy here in number one sent to the hospital right away. I'll see you, bro. Osburn is my name. My sentence is up today, and my name is Thomas Osburn. I'm not taking any orders from you. There are rules. I know all about your rules. And I also know how to find the warden's office. Osburn, how are you? You all right, sir? No, I'm not all right. I'm angry. Angry? Where's home? With the system. A system that was wrong 50 years ago and is still wrong. All right. Exactly what is wrong with it? Everything. It's brutal. It's cruel. It's stupid. Whatever good men have in them, it destroys. The bad in them has made 100 times worse. And when they've reached the point where all they want is revenge, they're released. Makes sense? Not to me it doesn't. Have you any ideas? Hundreds of them. Exercise, fresh air, permission to talk, time to eat. Oh, I could go on for hours. But most of all, a new approach. Help these men to become useful citizens. Give them the chance they never had to begin with. Mr. Osburn's right. Governor, why not let him work with me here at Auburn? Let us put his ideas into practice. I warn you, Governor. The old prison system won't die without a fight. There'll be criticism. Lots of it. I know it, but I don't care. Osburn, you're absolutely right. Every one who is a human being knows you are too. So we've had enough. Osburn, go ahead. Let's see what you can do. So later in the day, dressed once again in my civilian clothes, I walk across the yard to the prison gate. The guard unlocks the gate for me, and I walk out. Free man, bound forever by ties that can never be broken to those within prison walls. This time, my sentence is for life. Thomas Mott Osburn, a man who spent his life in bringing about prison reforms. Later, because of the success of the Auburn experiment, the governor appointed him warden at Sing Sing, where, with his great understanding and faith in his fellow men, he led the movement which brought many needed reforms in America's prisons and led the way towards rehabilitation and better citizenship for those who had fallen. Our thanks to Gregory Peck and the Cavalcade players for tonight's story of prisoner named Brown. Next week, the DuPont Cavalcade will present a tender love story. Our star will be Loretta Young. Our play, A Port of Missing Men. Be sure to listen. Tonight's DuPont Cavalcade, a prisoner named Brown, was written by Warner Law and based on the book Within Prison Walls by the late Thomas M. Osburn, used by permission of Appleton Century Crofts Incorporated. Original music was composed by Arden Cornwell and conducted by Donald Boris. The program was directed by John Zoller. Gregory Peck will soon be seen in the Universal International Picture, The World in His Arms. This is Cy Harris speaking. Don't forget next week, our star, Loretta Young. The DuPont Cavalcade of America comes to you from the Velasco Theater in New York and is sponsored by the DuPont Company of Bloomington, Delaware. Makers of better things or better living through chemistry. Next Hollywood Theater star is Claire Trevor on NBC.