Next April Thomas Mooney will be once more on the stand in his own defense to fight the old indictment for the 1916 bombing, now being pressed anew. Mooney, as is well-known, is serving a life-sentence in San Quentin jail after a much-disputed conviction in 1917. The opinion of all but Californians is that the prisoner, if not plainly innocent, is at least the victim of an atrociously unfair trial, in which State's witnesses gave perjured testimony, evidence for the defense was suppressed, and the issued clouded over with hysteria. Now the case is going to be reopened.

However plain it is to the rest of the world that Mooney was dealt with unjustly, California has not changed her mind. To her Mooney is still a murderer, a labor-agitator, an enemy of American Ideals and Institutions, and a danger to the sanctity of the home. Even if the April trial goes his way, there is no basis for supposing that he will be pardoned by the governor; the same forces that have prevented four other governors from doing this are still in the field; the Public Utilities still cherish a grudge against the man who fought them vigorously when he was free; and the Bolshevik-phobia still grips California so tightly that only a politician weary of holding office would dare run counter to it.

The new trial has been hailed by many as a real chance for a future reversal of the decision. But this hope appears ephemeral, for the case has gone beyond the question of justice. It has become the focal point in the radical-conservative struggle. It no longer matters whether Mooney was guilty; the significant fact to both sides is that he is the representative of the labor movement. He has become the symbol of class warfare, and while such, no impartial view of the testimony can be expected.