The Victorian Villains Megapack (60 page)

Yet the same irresistible force which had directed him to the court-room the day before, now led him to the Grand Central Station. Like one walking in a dream, he bought a ticket and took the noon train alone to Ossining.

Following a path that led him quickly to a hill above the town not far from the prison walls, he threw himself at full length beside a bowlder, and gazed upon the familiar outlook. Across the broad, shining river lay the dreamy blue hills he had so often watched while working at his brushes. Here and there a small boat skimmed down the stream before the same fresh breeze that sent the red and brown leaves fluttering along the grass. The sunlight touched everything with enchantment, the cool autumn air was an intoxicant—it was the Golden Age again. No, not the Golden Age! Just below, two hundred yards away, he noticed for the first time a group of men in stripes breaking stones. Some were kneeling, some crouching upon their haunches. They worked in silence, cracking one stone after another and making little piles of the fragments. At the distance of only a few feet two guards leaned upon their loaded rifles. Jim shut his eyes.

III

The day of sentence came. Once more Jim found himself in the stifling court. He saw Monohan brought to the bar, and watched as he waited listlessly for those few terrible words. The Court listened with grim patience to the lawyer’s perfunctory appeal for mercy, and then, as the latter concluded, addressed the prisoner with asperity.

“Richard Monohan, you have been justly convicted by a jury of your peers of robbery in the first degree. The circumstances are such as to entitle you to no sympathy from the Court. The evidence is so clear and positive, and the complain
ant’s identification of you so perfect, that it would have been impossible for a jury to reach any other verdict. Under the law you might be punished by a term of twenty years, but I shall be merciful to you. The sentence of the Court is—” here the Judge adjusted his spectacles, and scribbled something in a book—“that you be confined in State Prison for a period of
not less than ten nor more than fifteen years
.”

Monohan staggered and turned white.

The whole crowded court-room gasped aloud.

“Come on there!” growled the attendant to his prisoner. But suddenly there was a quick movement in the centre of the room, and a man sprang to his feet.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop! There’s been a mistake! You’ve convicted the wrong man!
I
stole that ring!”

“Keep your seats! Keep your seats!” bellowed the court officers as the spectators rose impulsively to their feet.

Those who had been present at the trial two days before were all positive
now
that they had never taken any stock in the old gentleman’s identification.

“Silence! Silence in the court!” shouted the Captain pounding vigorously with a paper-weight.

“What’s all this?” sternly demanded the J
udge. “Do you claim that
you
robbed the complainant in this case? Impossible!”

“Not a bit, yer ’Onor!” replied Jim in clarion tones. “You’ve nailed the wrong man, that’s all. I took the ring, pawned it for five dollars, and sold the ticket to Monohan on the corner. I can’t stand for his gettin’ any fifteen years,” he concluded, glancing expectantly at the spectators.

A ripple of applause followed this declaration.

“Hm!” commented his Honor. “How about the co-defendant in the case, identified here in the court-room? Do you exonerate
him
as well?”

“I’ve nothin’ to do with
him
,” answered Jim calmly. “I’ve got enough troubles of my own without shouldering any more. Only Monohan didn’t have any hand in the job. You’ve got the boot on the wrong foot!”

Young Mr. Dockbridge, the Deputy Assistant District Attorney, now asserted himself.

“This is all very well,” said he with interest, “but we must have it in the proper form. If your Honor will warn this person of his rights, and administer the oath, the stenographer may take his confession and make it a part of the record.”

Jim was accordingly sworn, and informed that whatever he was about to say must be “without fear or hope of reward,” and might be used as evidence against him thereafter.

In
the ingenious and exhaustive interrogation which followed, the Judge, a noted cross-examiner, only succeeded in establishing beyond peradventure that Jim was telling nothing but the truth, and that Monohan was, in fact, entirely innocent. He therefore consented, somewhat ungraciously, to having the latter’s conviction set aside and to his immediate discharge.

“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 t
he 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 a
ction 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 nea
rer 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.

“Com
e, 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 hop
e 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 wer
e, 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.”