The Hasheesh Defense: A Seattle Murder Trial Turns on a Drugged Cocktail
Harry Fraser was shot dead in a Northern Hotel saloon. The accused insisted the last thing he remembered was dice dancing on the table—and a drink that may have been laced with hasheesh.
Page, the defendant in the murder trial for the killing of Harry Fraser at the Northern Hotel, took the stand yesterday and told a story of a drugged cocktail and a six-hour blank. He said he was born in Milwaukee, was thirty-four years old, had been a cattle dealer in Wyoming and a farmer in South Dakota, and had come to Seattle on April 11, 1895, bound for Alaska to repair his fortunes. At the Northern Hotel he fell in with Hager, a friend of thirteen years, and spent Monday, April 22, packing, settling accounts, and sending his outfit to a boat. He cashed a draft, most of it in paper money and some in gold. After dinner he stopped to listen to the Salvation Army, gave the collector his loose change, followed the Army to its barracks, and gave the woman in charge a $5 bill. Back at the hotel he found a note from Hager. Looking for him in the barroom, Page said, he was invited to play seven-up. He ordered a cocktail—'without absinthe'—and after drinking it partially lost consciousness. He remembered dice 'dancing about in myriads,' pulling his hat down against a glaring light, someone choking him, and his pistol; then nothing until he was struck in the face. He had a severe pain in his stomach.
Page explained that he carried a pistol because he had money on his person and the wharves were full of holdups. The defense called a series of witnesses to support the drugging theory. Jailer Richard Burkman said Page arrived at the county jail in a dazed state, did not eat for four days, twitched, and vomited a peculiar odor that was not whisky or beer. Reporter Portus Baxter, who saw Page in his cell, described his wild eyes, violent coughing, vomiting, and twitching; after smelling absinthe and hasheesh at a drugstore, he concluded the vomit smelled more like hasheesh. Police Chief Rogers thought Page was suffering from an opiate. Mrs. Schultz of the Salvation Army confirmed Page's $5 donation. Chambermaid Miss Mary Calligan and another hotel servant testified that beer sent up by Marden, the bartender, made them sick and drowsy; one said it took two days to recover. The defense tried to show that Marden had drugged Page and had a history of crooked dice games and sudden departures, but the court sustained the state's objections to much of that line. A valise identified as Marden's was produced; Marden had denied knowing it. The state's witnesses included a butcher who heard the scuffle and a policeman who heard the shot and saw a man run from the saloon.
The courtroom was crowded, with more women than on previous days. Page's mother attended for the first time, having been too ill before. Mrs. Fraser, the widow of the victim, sat near counsel and listened closely. The case had an unusual feature: W. H. Kiefer, representing the Fidelity and Casualty Insurance Company, which held a policy on Fraser's life, was aiding the prosecution. If Page were acquitted, the company would argue that Fraser had come to his death through his own fault. The jury listened attentively, and the trial continued.
“After drinking the cocktail I partially lost consciousness. I remember that there were dice on the table, which seemed to be dancing about in myriads.”
The Page trial reads like a modern true-crime podcast: a drugged drink, a questionable bartender, insurance money, and a courtroom packed with spectators. It also shows how long Seattle has wrestled with the same questions—when a person is too impaired to form intent, and how much the justice system should trust the memory of a blackout.
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