Jeb was watching with startled eyes, and when Aaron finally straightened up and turned to him, he saw the tears and thought, He said it was all right to cry!
What followed was a wild time, with Lewis and Deborah telling the story of Lewis’s slow recovery, both of them insisting it was a miracle from God. Then Aaron had to recount the story of how he’d gotten saved—and Aaron kept his hand on Jeb’s shoulder the whole time he was talking.
Finally, when Gail and Aaron had a moment alone, she said, “Well, Aaron, we needed a pair of miracles. We’ve got the first one.”
Aaron nodded, his eyes bright with hope. “Yes—and now we’ll trust God for the second one!”
****
Simon Carwell was not a man who believed in miracles all that much. He was a man with a calculating look, one who had a driving energy to accomplish what he set out to do. He’d come to the Winslow home early in the morning the day after Aaron and Gail had arrived to meet his newest and youngest client. Mark had called the two of them into the library, and they hurriedly located Jeb, who was helping out in the stables. “Come along, Jeb,” Aaron said. “It’s time to meet your lawyer.”
When they entered the high-ceilinged room lined with books, Jeb looked nervously at the short man almost concealed behind a cloud of smoke that rose from a cigar he was smoking. “This is Mr. Carwell, Jeb,” Mark said quickly. Mark introduced the three to the lawyer, who rose and nodded with a jerky motion.
“Sit down, Jeb,” he said in a deep voice that seemed to rise from his chest. “I want to hear about the robbery.”
“Y-yes, sir.” Jeb’s face was pale as he told his story. He didn’t spare himself, but confessed that he’d known that Tug Devaney was a tough one.
“Did you know there was going to be a robbery?” Carwell inquired. He had a pair of intense brown eyes—deep-set and bright—that seemed to stare straight through the young boy.
“I . . . heard one of the guys say they were going to make a haul.”
“But did he say they were going to rob the warehouse?”
“No, sir—but I guess I knew—”
“Don’t say that!” Carwell spoke sharply, his eyes unblinking. “You were never told by anyone that there was going to be a robbery. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
Carwell went over the story three times, probing and asking questions. Finally he leaned back and puffed on his cigar. “I guess that’s all I need from you right now, young man.” He studied Jeb carefully, then said, “You and I are going into town. When we get there we’ll go to the police and you’ll be questioned.”
“Will I have to . . . go to jail?” asked Jeb nervously.
“I expect not. Do you know what ‘bail’ is?” asked the short man as he took another puff of his cigar.
“No, sir.”
“Bail is money that somebody puts up to be sure you don’t run away.”
“I don’t have any money,” said Jeb, worry creasing his brow.
“I’ll take care of that, Jeb,” Mark Winslow broke in. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Can Gail go with me?” Jeb asked.
Carwell shook his head. “I think it would be better if just you and I go in—and Mr. Winslow.” Carwell saw the anxiety on the face of Gail Summers and said gently, “I’ll take care of the boy. It may take a while, but I’m sure he’ll be released on bail. There’s nothing you can do at the station.”
“You’ll bring him to us as soon as possible?” It was Aaron who spoke up, and both Gail and Jeb warmed at his use of the word us. Gail felt his hand on her arm, and when Carwell agreed, she thought, What would I do if it weren’t for Aaron?
“I want a word with you, Mr. Winslow,” Carwell said, and when the room had cleared, he said at once, “I think you ought to know something, Mark. Didn’t want to bring it up in front of the boy.”
Mark was good at interpreting faces, and saw that Carwell was troubled. “What’s wrong, Simon?”
Carwell stared at his cigar for a moment, then put his eyes on Winslow. “The case against the boy is weak—but I’m more worried about who the judge is.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, it’ll be Judge Cross handling the case—Albert Cross.”
“I never heard of him,” said Mark, waiting for Carwell to state his concerns.
“He handles mostly juvenile cases—and they call him ‘The Hanging Judge.’ ”
“I see.” Mark studied the lawyer for moment, his mind working. “Is he a bad judge, Simon?”
“I don’t say that,” Carwell said slowly. “He’s got a hard job. Lots of tough ones come out of the city, some of them killers at the age of sixteen or even younger. He’s seen some go free to rob and kill who should have been locked up. That’s made Cross a little harder than most.” Carwell puffed nervously on his cigar, sending clouds of purple smoke spiraling into the air. He gave Mark Winslow a hard look, adding, “I’d feel a lot better if it were any other judge than this one, Mark.”
“Let’s have it all, Simon.”
“Well, Jeb’s been positively identified at the scene of the crime. Devaney’s been caught, and two others. They’ve all confessed—made a deal with the D.A. To Judge Cross, it will be plain that Jeb was there—and he’ll have only the boy’s word that he didn’t know there was going to be a robbery. I think he’ll sentence him to reform school. About all we can shoot for is a short sentence.”
Winslow thought hard, then shook his head. “I don’t like it, Simon. I want you to fight for the boy.”
“I can’t guarantee anything—”
“Do your best.” Mark’s face was set, then he looked at Carwell solemnly and said, “We’ll do all that men can do—and then we’ll trust God to do what He can do.”
Carwell lifted one heavy eyebrow, studying the face of the man before him. “I expect He’ll have to do most of it, Mark,” he said finally as he turned to stub out his cigar.
****
Gail held to Jeb all the way out to the carriage, and when she kissed him, she whispered, “I love you—and so does Aaron.”
Jeb nodded, his lips drawn tightly together. He looked up at Aaron, who suddenly bent and hugged him. “I’ll be right with you, Jeb,” he whispered.
Carwell got into the carriage, and Jeb kept his eyes on Aaron and Gail until they were on their way. He looked at the lawyer, who was deep in thought, and fear rose in Jeb. Then he remembered the time by the campfire when Aaron had held him. The words came to him, I’ll be the first one you see on visiting day—the first one you’ll see when you come out the gate.
Jeb swallowed hard and clenched his fists tightly together as the carriage made its way toward the station. And as he sat in the train later, he was still hearing the sound of Aaron’s voice. . . .
****
Lewis caught at Deborah’s hand, held it fast, then said, “I have to talk to you.”
The house was quiet, for it was late. Everyone had already gone to bed, but Lewis had insisted that Deborah stay with him. She had formed the habit of reading to him, and he had insisted that she read from Bleak House, one of Dickens’ novels. He had claimed that he was too excited to sleep, and she had, in fact, been pleased to spend some more time with him.
But as she closed the book, saying, “I must go—it’s late,” he had seized her hand and pulled her back. Now her eyes opened wide as he put his arm around her and pulled down. Overbalanced, she toppled forward, but he caught her and pulled her onto his lap. “What . . . what in the world—!”
“I want to talk to you,” Lewis said. He held on, smelling the lilac scent she used, and grinned as she struggled to stand up. “Don’t try to get away. It would be a scandal. Wouldn’t Mr. Hearst love to have a story like that? It would make front-page news—’War Hero Kisses Nurse in His Bedroom!’ ”
Deborah tried to move, but he held her fast. She turned to him indignantly and said, “I’m surprised at you, Lewis. I thought you were a gentleman!”
“You were
wrong,” he shrugged. “Whatever made you think that?”
“Why—you’ve never tried to—force yourself on me,” Deborah faltered. “Please, Lewis—let me go!”
“I will—after about forty or fifty years.”
Deborah was struggling hard to pull away—but his words caught at her. She turned to face him, and there was a tension in her. “Why would you say a thing like that?”
Lewis loosened his grip, reached up, and touched her soft hair. “You have lovely hair, Deborah,” he said quietly. “I’ve always been partial to it.” He saw that her lips were half-parted in astonishment, and he pulled her head forward. Her lips were soft, yet he felt the tension that flowed from her. There was a surrender in her—but not a complete one. When he lifted his head, he said simply, “I love you, Deborah. I want to marry you and live with you the rest of my life.”
Deborah seemed to freeze, to turn to stone. The shock of his words rolled over her, and she said, “You don’t know—what I’ve been, Lewis.”
“Before we met? Doesn’t count!”
“Yes, it does! Let me up.” He released her, and she turned her back on him, struggling to find words to put to her turbulent thoughts. Finally she straightened and turned to him. “I loved a man once, or thought I did. . . .”
Lewis listened as Deborah spoke, and when she was finished, he reached out and took her hand, saying gently, “I love you, Deborah. I haven’t led a perfect life—but we have to take each other where we are. We must walk in God’s love and His forgiveness. I’ve always admired your courage—and now the past is over. The one question is—do you love me?”
Deborah felt a surge of joy, of full release. “Yes! I love you!” At her words, Lewis seized her and pulled her back on his lap, kissing her thoroughly. Finally they began to laugh. “I’m pretty unromantic—but you just wait! I’ll carry you over the threshold!” Holding her tight, he whispered, “I’ll always love you!”
Deborah could not keep the tears back as she held him tightly. To her it was like coming home, and she knew that she was at last secure—secure in the arms of a man who would not leave her, but would remain at her side for the rest of her life. Lifting her face, she studied his features, then smiled, “We’ll always have each other, Lewis. Nothing matters but that!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
An Odd Sort of Trial!
Aaron looked at the new suit that Jeb was wearing for the trial and nodded. “You look fine, Jeb. Clothes make the man.”
The three of them were sitting in a small side room reserved for those to be tried, just outside the courtroom. They’d come early and were anxiously waiting for the hearing to begin. Gail was sitting close to Jeb and tried to smile. “You look real nice—almost grown up.”
“I’ll be glad when it’s over,” Jeb said as he shifted nervously. The judge had set the hearing for late afternoon, and time had crawled by for the boy. He felt awkward in the stiff new trousers and coat and twisted uncomfortably as he sat on the hard bench. The past three days of waiting had been difficult for him. Aaron had taken him to a baseball game—the first he’d ever seen—and to Coney Island, but the threat of what lay before him hung over him like an ominous dark cloud.
Suddenly the door opened and a clerk came out to say, “Hearing for Jeb Summers. Come inside, please.”
Jeb swallowed as he rose, determined to hide the fear that was clawing inside him. When he entered the courtroom, he saw that it was half-empty. One quick glance and he saw Mark Winslow and his wife, Lola, sitting near the front of the room. Lewis was sitting in his wheelchair in the aisle, and next to him was the pretty nurse, Miss Laurent. Sitting close to Lewis were Davis and Beth. Across the courtroom he saw his mother sitting with Dr. Burns, and at once Gail and Aaron went to sit beside them.
“Sit down here with me, Jeb.” Simon Carwell was standing, holding out his hand, and Jeb went behind the table to sit in the chair that the lawyer pulled out.
Just as he sat down, a door opened and a tall, thin man dressed in a long black robe came out and took his seat as the bailiff spoke loudly, “Juvenile court of the City of New York is now in session—His Honor Judge Albert Cross presiding. Be seated!”
Judge Albert Cross looked down at some papers before him, then put his eyes on Jeb. “The State of New York versus Jeb Summers.” Leaning forward and locking his hands before him, Cross demanded, “This is the defendant?”
“Yes, Your Honor. My name is Simon Carwell. I am representing the young man.”
Cross stared at the attorney silently. “You usually have more affluent clients, Mr. Carwell. I’m surprised to see you here.”
“I have special ties to Jeb Summers, Your Honor.”
The judge weighed the man’s words, then shrugged his shoulders. Looking down at the papers in front of him, he studied them momentarily, then looked up, saying, “This is not a trial, Jeb. There will be no jury. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir!” said Jeb.
“Very well. I have the statement here from an eyewitness who has testified that you were seen at the scene of the crime on the night of September fifteenth. Were you in the vicinity of Cooper Warehouse at eleven o’clock that evening?”
Jeb felt Carwell’s arm nudging him and he spoke up, “Yes, sir. I was.”
“And were you in the company of the men who robbed the warehouse?”
Swallowing hard, Jeb nodded.
“Speak up, young man!” said the judge.
Jeb swallowed hard and said, “Yes, sir.”
For what seemed forever, the questioning went on relentlessly, and Aaron whispered nervously, “That judge has a mean streak! He’s already got his mind made up.” He watched the face of Carwell, but could not make anything of the blank expression he wore.
For thirty minutes Judge Cross fired questions at Jeb, hoping to catch him off guard, but Carwell had trained the boy well. In the short time he had spent with Jeb, he had made the boy tell the story over and over, saying, “If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember what you said. The judge will try to confuse you. Don’t lose your temper. Be polite and answer his questions as clearly as you can.”
The sound advice of the experienced lawyer stood Jeb in good stead, for Carwell could see that Judge Cross was not able to rattle the boy. He’s got a chance if he just doesn’t give in, the attorney thought. He hated to lose any case, and yet he had been almost certain that there was no way to keep Jeb out of reform school. Because the odds were against him and there seemed to be no chance to win, Carwell had pressured himself more than he would have ordinarily. Besides, in these few short days he’d learned to like the boy.
Judge Cross called the witness who’d seen Jeb at the scene of the crime, and the man was sworn in. Taking the witness stand, he answered the judge’s questions, then identified Jeb, leaving no doubt that he was absolutely certain Jeb was there. The judge then addressed Carwell, “Do you want to question this witness, Mr. Carwell?”
“No questions, Your Honor.”
“You are dismissed, Mr. Delaughter.” The judge waited until the witness stepped down, then leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Carwell, you may speak on behalf of the boy.”
Carwell rose and a silence fell over the courtroom. Some men have whatever it is that draws the attention of others—and Simon Carwell had that quality to command center stage when he spoke. The minute he entered a room, every eye turned toward him. It was not that he was impressive, for he was of middle height and not at all handsome. But there was something in his eyes that drew men, and now as he stood and began to speak in a deep baritone, most of those in the courtroom leaned forward to listen intently.
Carwell began in an easy tone, “Your Honor, Jeb Summers was born on Water Street. He has spent his entire life there, and I would like to briefly sketch that life. . . .”
Carwell painted a graphic picture of the Lower East Side of Manhattan. He knew it well, and was a master at commanding the English language to his advantage. He spoke of the abjec
t poverty, dirt, and despairing hopelessness that those who lived in that area suffered under every day of their lives. With accuracy he dramatized the dark dens of temptation that no dweller on Water Street—young or old—could hope to avoid. And how so many boys and girls had become entrapped, destined to live as denizens of a world filled with abuse and moral degradation.
“It is a whirlpool, a maelstrom that draws even the best of young and old into the sordid depths of crime. To try to rise above such horrible circumstances is like trying to swim up Niagara Falls! In that world, brute strength is worshiped, and those who are not strong are quickly crushed. The wealthy landlords who own the tenements are even more brutal than the men-beasts who roam the streets! They may eat from silver plates—”
“Mr. Carwell, you may spare the court your political views,” Judge Cross interrupted. “As it happens, you are correct, but corruption in high places is not the issue of this hearing.”
“With all due respect, Your Honor,” Carwell shot back, “I am convinced that it is the system that is on trial!”
“It was not the system that robbed Cooper Warehouse. I must warn you, Mr. Carwell, I will not stand for this line of approach,” admonished Judge Cross as he leaned forward.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I will be more careful.” Carwell smiled and began to speak of his young client. He gave a quick summary of Jeb’s life, then said, “He is twelve years old, Your Honor, and has spent his life in the midst of crime and vice—” Carwell paused dramatically, then said forcefully, “In all that time, Your Honor, he has not been in serious trouble—not even once.”
The judge wrinkled his brow and put his eyes on Jeb. He listened as Carwell spoke of how the boy was a hard worker and a regular attendant at the Water Street Mission. “He even turns his meager earnings over to help his family, who need it desperately.”
“Are the parents in this court?” the judge asked.
“Mr. Lawson, the boy’s stepfather . . . is ill, Your Honor. The boy’s mother is here. Would you stand, Mrs. Lawson?” He let Mrs. Lawson remain standing, for the strain of suffering on her pale face could not be ignored. Finally he said gently, “You may sit down, Mrs. Lawson.” He turned to the judge, saying, “The young lady with Mrs. Lawson is her daughter, Jeb’s sister. Her name is Miss Gail Summers.” Again the dramatic pause—”Miss Summers is in training to become a nurse. She’s just returned from nursing our gallant young men who are fighting in Cuba—”
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