The Rough Rider (40 page)

“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 abject 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—”

A mutter went around the room, and the judge politely nodded toward Gail. Instantly Carwell said, “I would like to call Private Lewis Winslow as a character witness for my client.”

“Very well,” said Judge Cross, motioning for the bailiff to swear in the new witness.

Again the pause—”Private Aaron Winslow—will you bring your brother forward?”

Every eye in the room was on the two men as Aaron wheeled the chair down to the front. Judge Cross leaned forward, his deep-set eyes fixed on the young man. “You were wounded in Cuba, sir?”

“At San Juan Hill, Your Honor.” Lewis was looking fit, his eyes clear as he smiled at the judge.

“You were close to Colonel Roosevelt?”

“Why, we were all as close as we could get to the colonel! He was leading us up that hill! He’s a fine commander! He
came by to see me when I was in the hospital.” Lewis smiled more broadly. “I’m going to vote for him when he runs for governor of this state!”

Cross smiled for the first time. “So am I,” he said quietly. “How were you wounded, Private?”

“Oh, just got in the wrong place at the right time, sir!”

“I must correct Private Winslow, Your Honor.” Seeing his opportunity, Carwell spoke clearly, and there was a gleam in his eye. “Private Winslow exposed himself to enemy fire by courageously charging across an open field to save his lieutenant and two of his fallen comrades. He carried them off the field on his back and was wounded just as he was saving the life of the third.”

A mutter of exclaim ran around over the courtroom, and then Carwell said dramatically, “Private Winslow was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for his heroic deeds that day under Colonel Roosevelt.”

The effect of his words was tremendous. People murmured loudly, and some stood to get a better look at Lewis. “Order in the court,” Judge Cross said, but his voice was mild. He turned to Lewis and studied him for a long moment. Then he said, “The court honors you, sir, and I must add that it is good to see one so young ready to serve with such devotion.”

Lewis flushed. “Thank you, Your Honor—but the real heroes are still there—those who died for their country.”

“Well said, Private.” Cross hesitated, then gave a rather bitter look at Carwell, thinking,
You’ve boxed me in, haven’t you, you weasel?
He turned to Lewis and asked, “You are acquainted with the defendant, Jeb Summers?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Let the court hear of your relationship.”

Lewis spoke briefly, making the most of his rather limited experience with Jeb. He’d seen the boy often enough at the mission, and focused on that, but almost at once said, “My brother, Aaron, knows the boy much better.”

“Very well. You may take your brother back, Mr. Aaron
Winslow, then approach the bench.” When Aaron had done so and been sworn in, the judge asked, “You were at the battle of San Juan Hill with your brother?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were you wounded?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Well, then, please tell the court what you can about this boy.”

Aaron made an exemplary witness. He was a handsome man, and the aura of his war experience clung to him like a medal. He spoke not of himself, but of his time with Jeb. “He’s had a hard life, sir, and I wanted to make it a little easier.”

“He’s accused of robbing a warehouse, Mr. Winslow. You can’t admire that!”

Aaron said carefully, “I don’t admire robbery, Judge. But I’m convinced that Jeb isn’t a hardcore thief. He was hanging out with the wrong crowd and did a foolish thing, but he’s got good stuff in him.”

Judge Cross stared at the tall man, who looked him straight in the eye. “What about your family?” he asked curiously.

“My father is president of a Christian college in Virginia, Your Honor.”

“You and your brother are to be commended. Thank you for your time, sir.”

Aaron returned to his seat, and Gail squeezed his hand. “You did fine!” she whispered.

“Do you have other witnesses, Mr. Carwell?” Judge Cross asked.

“Just one, Your Honor.”

“You may call him, sir.”

“I call Robert Devaney to the stand!” said Carwell in a rather loud voice.

Jeb turned pale and stared at the face of the attorney. Then when the outer doors opened and two armed guards entered with Devaney between them, he shot an agonizing glance at
Aaron. Then he turned to listen as the judge said, “You are incarcerated, Mr. Devaney?”

“Yep, I’m in the clink, Judge.”

“You were convicted of robbing the Cooper Warehouse?”

“Sure. Sentence was only five years.” Devaney stood sneering at the judge. “I can do that standing on my head!”

“Mr. Carwell, would you explain the purpose of this witness? Let me warn you. I am not likely to be swayed by the words of a convicted felon.”

“I think you should hear what he has to say, Your Honor. What he has to say is relevant to my client.”

“Very well—but make it brief.”

Carwell turned to face the felon and asked, “I will ask you, was Jeb Summers one of your gang?”

“Him?” Devaney snorted in derision. “He’s nothin’ but a pest, that’s wot he is!”

“Was he involved with the robbery of the Cooper Warehouse?”

A silence fell on the room, and Carwell grew tense—though he didn’t allow it to show on his face. He’d spoken in private with Devaney, and had gotten nothing but curses at first. But when Devaney learned that Carwell had influence with the parole board, he changed his tune. However, he was a volatile individual, and on impulse would dare anything. Carwell held his breath, seeing the desire in the man to get attention.
He might implicate Jeb just for the sake of seeing the boy squirm!
Carwell thought.

Then Devaney laughed loudly, saying carelessly, “He was always around, looking to get in—but he’s nothin’! Doesn’t have what it takes.” He grinned at Jeb, adding, “He wuz around that night, but the dumb cluck didn’t even know there was a robbery goin’ on. I let him tag along, but when we got there, I told him to stand on the corner and holler if he saw a cop. He didn’t know beans—and he still don’t!”

“Thank you. Do you have any questions for this witness, Your Honor?” Carwell asked smoothly, anxious to get the
young criminal out of the courtroom as quickly as possible. He saw the judge’s brow arc as he took in Devaney’s words. For one moment Carwell thought Cross meant to question Devaney—but the moment passed. “Take him back to his cell,” Cross ordered.