The dress was jade green silk crepe, and Virginia Rappe had designed and sewn it herself. She pinned a white sailor-inspired hat to her dark hair, walked into a party at the St. Francis Hotel in San Francisco, and four days later she was dead. The dress, nearly shredded, became evidence. Eight thousand members of the public filed past her coffin at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, and the man accused of killing her was the biggest comedy star in America.
Nobody has ever settled what happened in room 1219. What's certain is that it destroyed a career, rebuilt the movie business, and left behind a legend that doesn't match the facts.
The girl who added an E
Virginia was born in Chicago on July 7, 1891. She never knew her father. Her mother, Mabel, was a showgirl known as the queen of Chicago's Chinatown, who got arrested for passing bad checks handed to her by Frank Parker, the reckless son of a wealthy family. Parker's family money got him back into polite society. Mabel moved to New York and worked as a chorus girl. She died of tuberculosis in January 1905, of the disfiguring form once called scrofula, or the king's evil. Virginia was 13. Her grandmother died three years later.
Virginia modeled for department store fashion shows and changed the spelling of her last name, adding an E so no tabloid reporter could tie her to her mother's reputation as a check kiter, someone who wrote checks with no money behind them. In San Francisco she got engaged to a dress designer, Robert Moscovitz, who was killed in a trolley car accident. She moved to Los Angeles, landed a big part in Paradise Garden, and by 1918 had been named the best-dressed girl in pictures. The press puffed her up as a Texas oil heiress with 800 acres. That was nonsense, but her style was real: she was billed as the tuxedo girl for turning a man's tuxedo coat into a woman's street suit, and she came up with the knee watch. A wealthy Argentine planter chased her all the way to New York with jewels and a marriage proposal. Her verdict: "He's nice enough, but old enough to be my grandfather."
Then she fell for Henry Lehrman, the first director ever to work with Charlie Chaplin. He couldn't make her a star — "Her beauty does not film," he said — but he loved her. She gave him platinum cufflinks engraved To Henry, my first and last sacred love.
A baby his father disowned
Roscoe Arbuckle weighed thirteen pounds at birth. His father took one look, decided the baby couldn't be his, and spitefully named him Roscoe Conkling Arbuckle, after a politician he loathed. His mother died before Roscoe turned 12, and his father skipped out. At a talent show where the crowd yanked bad acts offstage with a giant shepherd's crook, the boy saw the hook coming and did a diving somersault into the orchestra pit. The crowd went wild.
By 1921 he'd appeared in well over 300 films and directed 100 more. He was the first actor to get a million-dollar paycheck, bathed in a gold-plated tub, and took the first custard pie to the face in the 1913 film A Noise from the Deep. And a wry note on craft: blondes got hit with blackberry pies, because in black and white the dark filling showed up, and brunettes got lemon meringue.
Room 1219
Over Labor Day weekend 1921, Virginia's manager, Al Semnacher, invited her on a road trip. They were joined by a woman introduced as Maude Delmont, a beauty specialist, and the group ended up at San Francisco's Palace Hotel. Arbuckle's friend Ira Fortlouis spotted Virginia at breakfast, and an invitation arrived to Arbuckle's suites at the St. Francis, where the gin and scotch were flowing in open defiance of Prohibition. Virginia told Delmont, "I wouldn't go if you weren't with me. I don't trust Arbuckle and I don't know exactly who's to be there."
Arbuckle greeted guests in pajamas and a purple velvet robe. Virginia went looking for an empty bathroom and ended up in room 1219. Arbuckle followed and locked the door behind him. It was just before 3 o'clock.
Guests later found her half-conscious, tearing at her clothes, screaming about pain in her belly. They put her in a cold bath. The hotel doctor decided she was drunk and dosed her with morphine, and the party went on. Three days passed before anyone took her to a hospital. She died on September 9 of a ruptured bladder and peritonitis.
The Coke bottle at the center of the famous legend never came up in the case, and a jury cleared Arbuckle after five minutes and apologized to him. Hollywood destroyed him anyway, and the cleanup gave America the Hays Code.
Three trials and a bucket of ice
Delmont went to the police. District Attorney Matthew Brady, with a very big fish on the line, ignored the grand jury's manslaughter indictment and went for a death penalty felony murder case. He never checked out his star witness: Delmont had a long record of fraud and was a bigamist, and she never took the stand. Semnacher told one story to the grand jury and the opposite story under oath. He also testified that Arbuckle had put ice on Virginia's body, and he whispered where to the court reporter rather than say it out loud. Out of that murk grew the Coke bottle story, which never came up in the actual case.
The first jury deadlocked 11 to 1 for acquittal. The second deadlocked 9 to 3 for conviction. For the third trial, the defense went after Virginia, with a midwife's deposition hinting at abortions and testimony about venereal diseases the autopsy never showed. The jury took five minutes, then issued a statement: "we feel that a great injustice has been done him," calling Arbuckle "manly throughout the case."
The watchdog bites back
It didn't matter. The studio heads hired Will H. Hays, the postmaster general, at $100,000 a year to run a new self-censorship group, the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America. The idea was to police themselves before the government came snooping, including into a business that looked a lot like a monopoly. Under pressure from Paramount's president, Hays sacrificed Arbuckle, and theaters banned his films. Then Hays turned on his bosses with his list of movie don'ts: no profanity, no drug use, no explicit sex or violence, no interracial relationships. The Hays Code shaped American movies from the early 1930s through the late 1960s.
Arbuckle went broke paying for his defense. He drank, bought a nightclub the 1929 crash wiped out, and died at 46, before any real comeback. Henry Lehrman never married and was buried at the same cemetery as Virginia. The only thing anyone knows for sure is that a woman died. There was no Coke bottle. In the end, as so often happens in sexual assault cases, the person who stood trial was the victim.
