“As for this man,” said he, “commit him to the Tombs pending his indictment by the Grand Jury, and see to it, Mr. District Attorney,” he added with significance, “that he be brought before me for sentence.”
Out into the balconies of the court-house swarmed the mob. Monohan had disappeared with his wife and child, not even pausing to thank his benefactor. It was enough for him that he had escaped from the meshes of the terrible net in which he had been entangled.
From mouth to mouth sprang the wonderful story. It was shouted from one corridor to another, and from elevator to elevator. Like a wireless it flew to the District Attorney’s office, the reporters’ room, the Coroner’s Court, over the bridge to the Tombs, across Centre Street into Tom Foley’s, to Pontin’s, to the Elm Castle, up Broadway, across to the Bowery, over to the Rialto, along the Tenderloin; it flashed to thieves in the act of picking pockets, and they paused; to “second-story men” plotting in saloons, and held them speechless; the “moll-buzzers” heard it; the “con” men caught it; the “britch men” passed it on. In an hour the whole under-world knew that Supple Jim had squealed on himself, had taken his dose to save a pal, had anteed his last chip, had “chucked the game.”
IV
Three long months had passed, during which Jim had lain in the Tombs. For a day or two the newspapers had given him considerable notoriety. A few sentimental women had sent him flowers of greater or less fragrance, with more or less grammatical expressions of admiration; then the dull drag of prison-time had begun, broken only by the daily visit of Paddy, and the more infrequent consultations with old Crookshanks.
The Grand Jury had promptly found an indictment, but when the District Attorney placed the case upon the calendar in order to allow our hero to plead guilty, Mr. Crookshanks, Jim’s counsel, announced that his client had no intention of so doing, and demanded an immediate trial.
Dockbridge, however, now found himself in a situation of singular embarrassment, which made action upon his part for the present impossible. He was at his wits’ end, for the law expressly required that no prisoner should be confined longer than two months without trial. And each week he was obliged to face the redoubtable Mr. Crookshanks, who with much bluster demanded that the case should be disposed of.
Thirteen weeks went by and still Jim lived on prison fare. Soon a reporter—an acquaintance of Paddy’s—commented upon the fact to his city editor. The policy of the paper happening to be against the administration, an item appeared among the “Criminal Notes” calling attention to the period of time during which Jim had been incarcerated. Other papers copied, and scathing editorials followed. In twenty-four hours Jim’s detention beyond the time regulated by statute for the trial of a prisoner without bail had become an issue. The great American public, through its representative, the press, clamored to know why the wheels of justice had clogged, and the campaign committee of the reform party called in a body upon the District Attorney, warning him that an election was approaching and inquiring the cause of the “illegal proceeding which had been brought to their attention.” The editor of the Midnight American, with his usual impetuosity, threatened a habeas corpus.
Then the District Attorney sent for the Assistant, and the two had a hurried consultation. Finally the chief shook his head, saying: “There’s no way out of it. You’ll have to go to trial at once. Perhaps you can secure a plea. We can’t afford any more delay. Put it on for tomorrow.”
The next day “Part One of the Court of General Sessions of the Peace, in and for the County of New York,” was crowded to suffocation, for the dramatic nature of Jim’s act of self-sacrifice had not been forgotten, and a keen interest remained in its denouement. It was a brilliant January noon, and the sun poured through the great windows, casting irregular patches of light upon the throng within. High above the crowd of lawyers, witnesses, and policemen sat the Judge; below him, the clerk and Assistant District Attorney conferred together as to the order in which the cases should be tried; to the left reclined a row of non-combatants, “district leaders,” ex-police magistrates, and a few privileged spectators; outside the rail crowded the members of the “criminal bar”; while in the main body of the room the benches were tightly packed with loafers, “runners” for the attorneys, curious women, indignant complainants, and sympathizing friends of the various defendants. Here no one was allowed to stand, but nearer the door the pressure became too great, and once more an overplus, new-comers, lawyers who could not force their way to the front, tardy policemen, persons who could not make up their minds to come in and sit down, and stragglers generally, formed a solid mass, absolutely blocking the entrance, and preventing those outside from getting in or anyone inside from getting out.
Around the room the huge pipes of the radiators clicked diligently; full steam was on, not a window open.
Jim was called to the bar, the jury sworn, and Dockbridge, with several innuendoes reflecting upon the moral character of any man who would confess himself a criminal and yet put the county to the expense and trouble of a trial, briefly opened the case.
The stenographer who had taken Jim’s confession was the first witness. He read his notes in full, while Dockbridge nodded with an air of finality in the direction of the jury.
“Do you care to cross-examine, Mr. Crookshanks?” he inquired.
The lawyer shook his head.
Jim sat smiling, self-possessed, and silent.
The youthful Assistant, still hoping to wring a plea from the defendant, paused and leaned toward the prisoner’s counsel.
“Come, come, what’s the use?” he suggested benignantly. “Why go through all this farce? Let him plead guilty to ‘robbery in the second degree.’ He’ll be lucky to get that! It’s his only chance.”
But upon the lean and withered visage of the veteran Crookshanks flickered an inscrutable smile, like that which played upon the features of his client.
“Not on your tin-type!” he ejaculated.
Dockbridge shrugged his shoulders, hesitated a moment, then glanced a trifle uneasily toward the crowd of spectators. Once more he turned in the direction of the prisoner.
“Well, I’ll let him plead to grand larceny instead of robbery,” he said, with an air of acting against his better judgment.
Crookshanks grinned sardonically and again shook his head.
“Very well, then,” said the prosecutor sternly, “your client will have to take the consequences. Call the complainant.”
“Daniel Farlan, take the witness’ chair.”
The crowd in the court-room waited expectantly. The complainant, however, did not respond.
“Daniel Farlan! Daniel Farlan!” bawled the officer.
But the venerable Farlan came not. Perchance he was a-sleeping or a-hunting.
“If your Honor pleases,” announced Dockbridge, “the complainant does not answer. I must ask for an adjournment.”
But in an instant the old war-horse, Crookshanks, was upon his feet snorting for the battle.
“I protest against any such proceeding!” he shouted, his voice trembling with well-simulated indignation. “My client is in jeopardy. I insist that this trial go on here and now!”
Dockbridge smiled deprecatingly, but the jury and spectators showed plainly that they were of Mr. Crookshanks’s opinion. The Judge hesitated for a moment, but his duty was clear. There was no question but that Jim had been put in jeopardy.
“You must go on with the trial, Mr. Dockbridge,” he announced reluctantly. “The jury has been sworn, and a witness has testified. It is too late to stop now.”
The Assistant was forced to admit that he had no further evidence at hand.
“What!” cried the Judge. “No further evidence! Well, proceed with the defence!”
Dockbridge dropped into a chair and mopped his forehead, while the jury glanced inquiringly in the direction of the defendant. But now Crookshanks,
the hero of a hundred legal conflicts, the hope and trust of all defenceless criminals, slowly arose and buttoned his threadbare frock-coat. He looked the Court full in the eye. The prosecutor he ignored.
“If your Honor please,” began the old lawyer gently, “I move that the Court direct the jury to acquit, on the ground that the People have failed to make out a case.”
The Assistant jumped to his feet. The spectators stared in amazement at the audacity of the request. The Judge’s face became a study.
“What do you mean, Mr. Crookshanks?” he exclaimed. “This man is a self-confessed criminal. Do you hear, sir, a self-confessed criminal.”
But the anger of the Court had no terrors for little Crookshanks. He waited calmly until the Judge had concluded, smiled deferentially, and resumed his remarks, as if the bench were in its usual state of placidity.
“I must beg most respectfully to point out to your Honor that the Criminal Code provides that the confession of a defendant is not of itself enough to warrant his conviction without additional proof that the crime charged has been committed. May I be pardoned for indicating to your Honor that the only evidence in this proceeding against my client is his own confession, made, I believe, some time ago, under circumstances which were, to say the least, unusual. While I do not pretend to doubt the sincerity of his motives on that occasion, or to contest at this juncture the question of his moral guilt, the fact remains that there has been no additional proof adduced upon any of the material points in the case, to wit, that the complainant ever existed, ever possessed a ring, or that it was ever taken from him.”
He paused, coughed slightly, and, removing from his green bag a folded paper, continued: “In addition, it is my duty to inform the Court that a person named Farlan left the jurisdiction of this tribunal upon the day after Monohan’s conviction of the offence for which my client is now on trial.
“After such an unfortunate mistake,” said Crookshanks with an almost imperceptible twinkle in his “jury eye,” “he can hardly be expected to assist voluntarily in a second prosecution. I hold in my hand his affidavit that he has left the State never to return.”
The Judge had left his chair and was striding up and down the dais. He now turned wrathfully upon poor Dockbridge.
“What do you mean by trying a case before me prepared in such a fashion? This is a disgraceful miscarriage of justice! I shall lay the matter before the District Attorney in person! Mr. Crookshanks has correctly stated the law. I am absolutely compelled to discharge this defendant, who, by his own statement, ought to be incarcerated in State Prison! I—I—the Court has been hoodwinked! The District Attorney made ridiculous! As for you,” casting a withering glance upon the prisoner, “if I ever have the opportunity, I shall punish you as you deserve!”
Dead silence fell upon the court-room. The clerk arose and cleared his throat.
“Mr. Foreman, have you agreed upon a verdict? What say you? Do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty?”
“Not guilty,” replied the foreman, somewhat doubtfully.
There was a smothered demonstration in the rear of the court-room. A few spectators had the temerity to clap their hands.
“Silence! Silence in the court!” shouted the Captain.
The clerk faced the prisoner.
“James Hawkins, alias James Hawkinson, alias Supple Jim, you are discharged.”
As our hero stepped from behind the bar, Paddy was the first to grasp his hand.
“You’re the cleverest boy in New York!” he muttered enthusiastically; “and say, Jim,” he lowered his voice—could it be with a shade of embarrassment?—“you’re a hero all right, into the bargain.”
“Oh, cut that out!” answered Jim. “Wasn’t I playing a sure thing? And wasn’t it worth three months,—and ten dollars per to the old guy for staying over in Jersey,—to put ’em in a hole like that?”
And the two of them, relieved by this evasion of an impending and depressing cloud of moral superiority, went out, with others, to get a drink.
THE MAXIMILIAN DIAMOND, by Arthur Train
Taken from McAllister and His Double (1905).
Dockbridge yawned, threw down his fountain-pen, whirled his chair away from the window, through which the afternoon sun was pouring a dazzling flood of light, crossed his feet upon the rickety old table whose faded green baize was littered with newspapers, law books, copies of indictments, and empty cigarette boxes, and idly contemplated the graphophone, his latest acquisition. To a stranger, this little office, tucked away behind an elevator shaft under the eaves of the Criminal Courts Building, might have proved of some interest, filled as it was on every side with mementoes of hard-fought cases in the courts below, framed copies of forged checks and notes, photographs of streets and houses known to fame only by virtue of the tragedies they had witnessed, and an uncouth collection of weapons of all varieties from a stiletto and long tapering bread knife to the most modern Colt automatic. On the bookcase stood an innocent-looking bottle which had once contained poison, while above it hung a faded indictment accusing someone long since departed of administering its contents to another who did “for a long time languish, and languishing did die.” An enormous black leather lounge, a safe, several chairs, and some pictures of English and American jurists completed the contents of the room. Here Dockbridge had for five years interviewed his witnesses, prepared his cases, and dreamed of establishing a forensic reputation which should later by a shower of gold repay him in part for the many tedious hours passed within its walls. From the grimy windows he could look down upon the court-yard of the Tombs and see the prisoners taking their daily exercise, while from the distance came faintly the din and rattle of Broadway. An air-shaft which passed through the room communicated in some devious manner with the prison pens on the mezzanine floor far beneath, and at times strange odors would come floating up bringing suggestions of prison fare. On such occasions Dockbridge would throw wide both windows, open the transom, and seek refuge in the library.
Taken as a whole, his five years there had been invaluable both from a personal and professional point of view. He had found himself from the very first day in a sort of huge legal clinic, where hourly he could run through the whole gamut of human emotions. It was to him, the embryonic advocate, what hospital service is to the surgeon. He was, as it were, an intern practising the surgery of the law. And what a multitude of cases came there for treatment—every disease of the mind and heart and soul! For a year or two he had been racked nervously and emotionally, forced from laughter in one moment, to tears the next. Then the mere fascination of his trade as prosecutor, the marshalling of evidence, the tactics of trials, the thwarting of conspiracies, the analysis of motives, the exposure of cunning tricks to liberate the guilty, had so possessed his mind that the suffering and sin about him, though keenly realized, no longer cost him sleep and peace of mind. And the stories that he heard! The mysteries which were unravelled before his very eyes, and those deeper mysteries the secrets of which were never revealed, but remained sealed in the hearts of those who, rather than disclose them, sought sanctuary within prison walls!
How he wished sometimes that he could write—if only a little! Through what strange labyrinths of human passion and ingenuity could he conduct his readers! Sometimes he tried to scribble the stories down, but the words would not come. How could you describe your feelings while trying a man for his life, when he sat there at the bar pallid and tense, his hands clutching each other until the nails quivered in the flesh; the groan of the convicted felon; the wail of the heart-broken mother as her son was led away by the officer? He had seen one poor fellow faint dead away on hearing his sentence to the living tomb; and had heard a murderer laugh when convicted and the day set for his execution. Sometimes, in sheer desperation at the thought of losing what he had seen and experienced, he would turn on the graphophone and talk into it, disconnectedly, by the hour. It usually came out i
n better shape than what he turned off with his pen. If he could only write!
“Dockbridge! Hi, there, Dockbridge!”
The door was kicked open, and the lank figure of one of his associates stood before him. His visitor grinned, and removed his pipe.
“Bob’ll be up in a minute. Come along to ‘Coney.’”
“Don’t feel kittenish enough,” answered Dockbridge.
“Oh, come on! It’ll do you good.”
The sound of rapid steps flew up the stairs, and Bob burst into the room, almost upsetting the first arrival.
“What are you doing up here in this smelly place?” he inquired. “Got a cigarette?”
Dockbridge threw him a package without altering his position.
At this moment the heavily built figure of the chief of staff entered.
“Holding a reception?” he asked good-naturedly.
Bob had slipped behind the owner of the graphophone and was rapidly surveying his desk. Suddenly he pounced on a pile of yellow paper, and, snatching it up, ran across the room.
“I thought so! He’s been writing.”
“Here you, Bob, give that back!” cried Dockbridge, springing up. He was blocked by the chief of staff.
“Fair play, now. It may be libellous. The censor demands the right of inspection.”
“Oh, I don’t mind if you see it!” said Dockbridge, “only I don’t intend that cub to snicker over it. It’s nothing, anyway.”
“‘The Maximilian Diamond!’” shouted the thief. “By George, what a rippin’ title! Full of gore, I bet!”
“You give that back!” growled its owner.
“Gentlemen, allow me to present the well-known author and brilliant young literary man, Mr. John Dockbridge, whose picture in four colors is soon to appear on the cover of the ‘Maiden’s Gaslog Companion,’” continued Bob. “I read, ‘The villain stood with his dagger elevated for an instant above the bare breast of his palpitating victim.’ My, but it’s great!”
The Victorian Villains Megapack Page 56
