Sampson had been uncommonly successful in evading jury service. By some
hook or crook he always had managed to “get off,” and he had begun
to regard his trips down to General or Special Sessions--coming with
monotonous regularity about three times a year--as interruptions instead
of annoyances. Wise men advised him to serve and get it over with for
the time being, but he had been so steadfastly resourceful in confining
his jury service to brief and uneventful “appearances,” and to
occasional examinations as to his fitness to serve as a juror, that he
preferred to trust to his smartness rather than to their wisdom. Others
suggested that he get on the “sheriff's jury,” a quaintly distinguished
method of serving the commonwealth in that the members perform their
duty as citizens in such a luxurious and expensive way that they
never appear in the newspapers as “twelve good men and true” but as
contributors to somewhat compulsory festivities in which justice is done
to the inner man alone. But Sampson, though rich, abhored the sheriff's
jury. He preferred to invent excuses rather than to have them thrust
upon him.
Having escaped service on half-a-dozen murder trials by shrewd and
original responses to important questions by counsel for one side or the
other--(it really didn't matter to Sampson which side it was so long as
he saw the loophole)--he found himself at last in the awkward position
of having exhausted all reasonable excuses, and was obliged to confess
one day in court that he had reconsidered his views in regard to capital
punishment. This confession resulted, of course, in his name being
dropped from the “special panel,” for the jury commissioner did not want
any man in that august body who couldn't see his way clear to taking
the life of another. He “got off” once on the ground that he was quite
certain he could not convict on circumstantial evidence, despite the
assurance of learned experts that it is the _best_ evidence of all, and
he escaped another time because he did not consider insanity a defence
in homicidal cases.
Then they drew him for Special Sessions and eventually for the
humiliating lower courts, the result being that his resourcefulness
was under a constant and ever increasing strain. Where once he had
experienced a rather pleasing interest in “getting off” in important
cases, he now found himself very hard put to escape service in the most
trifling of criminal trials.
He began to complain bitterly of the injustice to himself, an honest,
upright citizen who was obliged to live in a constant state of
apprehension. He felt like a hunted animal. He was no sooner safely out
of one case when he was called for another.
It was all wrong. Why should he be hounded like this when the city was
full of men eager to earn two dollars a day and who would not in
the least mind sitting cross-legged and idle all day long in a jury
box--snoozing perhaps--in order to do their duty as citizens? Moreover,
there were men who actually _needed_ the money, and there were lots
of them who were quite as honest as the prisoners on trial or even the
witnesses who testified.
He was quite sure that if he ever was sworn in as a juror, his entire
sympathy would be with the prisoner at the bar, for he would have a
fellow feeling for the unhappy wretch who also was there because he
couldn't help it. The jury system was all wrong, claimed Sampson. For
example, said he, a man is supposed to be tried by twelve of his peers.
That being the case, a ruffian from the lower East Side should be tried
by his moral and mental equals and not by his superiors. By the same
argument, a brainy, intelligent bank or railway president, an editor,
or a college professor, should not be tried by twelve incompetent though
perfectly honest window-washers. Any way you looked at it, the jury
system was all wrong. The more Sampson thought about it the more fully
convinced was he that something ought to be done about it.
He had been obliged to miss two weddings, a private-car jaunt to Aiken,
one of the Harvard-Yale football matches, the docking of the _Olympic_
when she carried at least one precious passenger, the sailing of the
_Cedric_ when she carried an equally precious but more exacting object
of interest, a chance to meet the Princess Pat, and a lot of other
things that he wouldn't have missed for anything in the world
notwithstanding the fact that he couldn't remember, off hand, just what
they were. Suffice it to say, this miserable business of “getting off”
juries kept Sampson so occupied that he found it extremely difficult to
get on with anything else.
He was above trying to “fix” any one. Other men, he knew, had some one
downtown who could get them off with a word to the proper person, and
others were of sufficient importance politically to make it impossible
for them to be in contempt of court. That's what he called “fixing
things.”
Shortly after the holidays he was served with a notice to appear and be
examined as to his fitness to serve as juror in the case of the State
vs. James W. Hildebrand. Now, he had made all his arrangements for
a trip to California. In fact, he planned to leave New York on the
twenty-first of January, and here he was being called into court on the
twentieth. Something told him that the presiding justice was sure to be
one of those who had witnessed one or more of his escapes from service
on previous occasions, and that the honourable gentleman in the long
black gown would smile sadly and shake his head if he protested that
he was obliged to get off because he had to go to California for his
health. The stupidest judge on earth would know at a glance that Sampson
didn't have to go anywhere for his health. He really had more of it than
was good for him.
If he hadn't been so healthy he might have relished an occasional
fortnight of indolence in a drowsy, stuffy, little court-room with
absolutely nothing to do but to look at the clock and wonder, with the
rest of the jurors, how on earth the judge contrived to wake up from a
sound sleep whenever a point came up for decision and always to settle
it so firmly, so confidently, so promptly that even the lawyers were
fooled into believing that he had been awake all the time.
Sampson entered the little court-room at 9:50 o'clock on the morning of
the twentieth.
He was never to forget the morning of the twentieth.
Fifteen or twenty uneasy, sour-faced men, of all ages, sizes and
condition sat outside the railing, trying to look unconcerned. They
couldn't fool him. He knew what they were and he knew that in the
soul of each lurked the selfish, cruel prayer that twelve men would be
snatched from among them and stuffed into the jury box to stay before
the clerk could draw his own dreaded name from the little box at his
elbow.
Other men came in and shuffled into chairs. The deputy clerk of the
court emerged from somewhere and began fussing with the papers on his
desk. Every man there envied him. He had a nice job, and he looked as
though he rather liked being connected with an inhuman enterprise. He
was immune. He was like the man who already has had smallpox. Lazy court
attendants in well-worn uniforms ambled about freely. They too were
envied. They were thoroughly court-broken. A couple of blithe, alert
looking young men from the district attorney's office came and, with
their hands in their pockets, stared blandly at the waiting group, very
much as the judges at a live-stock show stare at the prize pigs, sheep
and cattle. They seemed to be appraising the supply on hand and, to
judge by their manner, they were not at all favourably impressed with
the material. Indeed, they looked unmistakably annoyed. It was bad
enough to have to select a jury in any event, but to have to select one
from _this_ collection of ignoramuses was--well, it was _too_ much!
The hour hand on the clock said ten o'clock, but everybody was watching
the minute hand. It had to touch twelve before anything, could happen.
Then the judge would steal out of his lair and mount the bench, while
every one stood and listened to the unintelligible barking of the
attendant who began with something that sounded suspiciously like
“Oy-yoy!” notwithstanding the fact that he was an Irish and not a Jewish
comedian.
Two uninteresting, anxious-eyed, middle-aged men, who looked a trifle
scared and uncertain as to their right to be there, appeared suddenly
inside the railing, and no one doubted for an instant that they were the
defendant's lawyers. Sampson always had wondered why the men from the
district attorney's office were so confident, so cocky, and so spruce
looking while their opponents invariably appeared to be a seedy,
harassed lot, somewhat furtive in their movements and usually labouring
under the strain of an inward shyness that caused a greasy polish of
perspiration to spread over their countenances.
Sampson was to find that these timid, incompetent looking individuals
had every reason in the world to be perspiring even so early in the
proceedings. They turned out to be what is known in rhetorical circles
as “fire-eaters” The judge took his seat and the clerk at once called
the case of the State vs. James W. Hildebrand. Sampson speculated. What
had Hildebrand done to get himself into a mess of this sort? Was
it grand or petit larceny, or was it house-breaking, entering,
safe-cracking, or--Two burly attendants came up the side aisle and
between them walked a gaunt, grey, stooped old man, his smooth shaven
face blanched by weeks of sunless existence.
Sampson had expected to see a sullen-faced, slouching young fellow,
shaved and brushed and combed into an unnatural state of comeliness for
the purpose of hoodwinking the jury into the belief that his life was as
clean as his cheek. He could not deny himself a stare of incredulity
on beholding this well-dressed, even ascetic looking man who strode
haltingly, almost timidly through the little gate and sank into the
chair designated by his counsel. Once seated, he barely glanced at his
lawyers, and then allowed his eyes to fall as if shame was the drawing
power. Somehow, in that instant, Sampson experienced the sudden
conviction that this man James W. Hildebrand was no ordinary person, for
it was borne in upon him that he despised the men who were employed to
defend him. It was as if he were more ashamed of being seen with them
than he was of being haled into a court of justice charged with crime.
The assistant district attorney in charge of the case addressed the
waiting talesmen, briefly outlining the case against the defendant, and
for the first time in his experience Sampson listened with a show of
interest.
James W. Hildebrand was charged with embezzlement. Judging by the
efforts of his counsel to have the case set over for at least ten
days and the Court's refusal to grant a delay, together with certain
significant observations as to the time that would probably be required
to produce and present the evidence--a week or more--Sampson realised
that this was a case of considerable magnitude. He racked his brain in
the futile effort to recall any mention of it in the newspapers. It was
his practice to read every line of the criminal news printed, for this
was the only means he had of justifying the declaration that he had
formed an opinion. Nothing escaped him--or at least he thought so--and
yet here was a case, evidently important, that had slipped through
without having made the slightest impression on him. It was most
disturbing. This should not have happened.
His heart sank as he thought of the California reservations uptown.
He was expected to take up the transportation and Pullman that very
afternoon.
The old man--he was seventy--was accused of having misappropriated
something like fifty thousand dollars of the funds belonging to a
real-estate and investment concern in which he was not only a partner
but also its secretary and treasurer. The alleged crime had been
committed some five years prior to the day on which he was brought to
trial.
After having evaded capture for four years and a half by secluding
himself in Europe, he voluntarily had returned to the States, giving
himself up to the authorities. Sampson abused himself secretly for
having allowed such a theatric incident as this to get by without notice
on his part. Other prospective jurors sitting nearby appeared to
know all about the case, for he caught sundry whispered comments that
enlightened him considerably. He realised that he had been singularly
and criminally negligent.
A protracted and confidential confab took place between the Court and
the counsel for both sides. Every juror there hoped that they were
discussing some secret and imperative reason for indefinitely postponing
the case after all--or, perhaps, better than that, the prisoner was
going to plead guilty and save all of them!
Finally the little group before the bench broke up and one of the
attorneys for Hildebrand approached the rail and held open the gate. A
woman entered and took a seat beside the prisoner. Sampson, with scant
interest in the woman herself--except to note that she was slender and
quite smartly attired--was at once aware of a surprising politeness
and deference on the part of the transmogrified lawyers, both of whom
smirked and scraped and beamed with what they evidently intended to be
gallantry.
The attorneys for the state regarded the lady with a very direct
interest, and smiled upon her, not condescendingly or derisively as is
their wont, but with unmistakable pleasure. A close observer would
have detected a somewhat significant attentiveness on the part of the
justice, a middle-aged gentleman whose business it was to look severe
and ungenial. He gave his iron-grey moustache a tender twist at each end
and placed an elbow on the desk in front of him, revealing by that act
that he was as human as any one else.
I have neglected to state that Sampson was thirty, smooth-faced,
good-looking, a consistent member of an athletic club and a Harvard man
who had won two H's and a _cum laude_ with equal ease. You will discover
later on that he was unmarried.
He was the seventeenth talesman called. Two jurors had been secured. The
other fourteen had been challenged for cause and, for the life of him,
he couldn't see why. They all looked pretty satisfactory to him. He
garnered a little hope for himself in the profligate waste of good
material. If he could sustain his customary look of intelligence there
was a splendid chance that he too would be rejected.
It seemed to him that the attendant in announcing his name and place
“of residence after the oath vociferated with unusual vehemence. Never
before had he heard his name uttered with such amazing gusto.
“You have heard the statement concerning the charge against the
defendant, Mr. Sampson,” said the assistant district attorney, taking
his stand directly in front of him. “Before going any farther, I will
ask if you know of any reason why you cannot act as a juror in this
case?”
Sampson had always been honest in his responses. He never had lied in
order to “get off.” Subterfuges and tricks, yes--but never deliberate
falsehood.
“No,” he answered.
“Have you heard of this case before?”
“No,” admitted Sampson, distinctly mortified.
“Then you have formed no opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the
defendant?”
“No.”
“Are you acquainted with the defendant, James W. Hildebrand?”
“No.”
“Have you had any business dealings with either of his counsel, Mr.
Abrams or Mr. O'Brien?”
“No.”
“Are you acquainted with either of his former partners, the gentlemen
who are to appear as witnesses against him, Thomas Stevens and John L.
Drew?”
Sampson's face brightened. “I know a John Drew,” he said. The lawyer
shook his head and smiled. “But he's not in the loan business,” he
added.
“Do you know Miss Alexandra Hildebrand, the granddaughter of this
defendant? The lady sitting beside him?”
[Illustration: 0029]
For the first time, Sampson directed his attention to the woman. His
glance, instead of being casual and perfunctory, as he had expected
it would be, developed into a prolonged stare that left him shy and
confused. She was looking into his eyes, calmly, seriously, and, he
thought, a bit speculatively, as if she were estimating his mental
displacement. As a matter of fact, she was merely detaching him from the
others who had gone before. He had the strange, uncomfortable feeling
that he was being appraised by a most uncompromising judge. His stare
was not due to resentment on his part because of her cool inspection. It
was the result of suddenly being confronted by the loveliest girl he had
ever seen--unquestionably the loveliest.
It seemed an affront to this beautiful, clear-eyed creature to say that
he did not know her. To say it to her face, too--with her eyes upon
him--why, it was incomprehensibly rude and ungallant. He ought to have
been spared this unnecessary humiliation, he thought. How would she
feel when he deliberately, coldly insulted her by uttering a bald, harsh
negative to the question that had been asked?
“I--I am afraid not,” he managed to qualify, hoping for a slight smile
of acknowledgement.
“Would you be inclined to favour the defendant because of his age, Mr.
Sampson?”
Sampson hesitated. Here was his chance. He looked again at Miss
Alexandra Hildebrand. She was still regarding him coolly, impersonally.
After all, he was nothing to her but a juror--just an ordinary,
unwholesome specimen undergoing examination. If he was rejected, he
would pass out of her mind on the instant and never again would he be
permitted to enter. He felt very small and inconsequential.
“Well, naturally, I suppose, I should be influenced to some extent by
his age,” he replied.
“You would, however, keep your mind open to the evidence in the case and
render a verdict according to that evidence? You would not discharge him
solely because he is an old man?”
“I don't know where my sympathy would carry me,” said Sampson evasively.
“I see. Well, if you should be accepted by both sides as a juror to sit
in this case you would at least try to divide your sympathy as fairly as
possible between us, wouldn't you? You would not deny the long-suffering
State of New York a share of your sympathy, would you?”
Miss Hildebrand, at that juncture, touched her grandfather on the arm
and whispered something in his ear. For the first time the old man
looked at the talesman in the chair. Sampson was acutely aware of a
sudden flash of interest in the prisoner's eyes. Moreover, the young
woman was regarding him rather less impersonally.
Sampson assumed an air of extreme hauteur “If I am accepted by both
sides in this case, my sympathy will be, first of all, with myself,
I am not eager to serve. I shall, however, do my best to render an
intelligent, just verdict.”
“According to the evidence and the law as laid down by the honourable
Court?”
“According to the circumstances as I see them.”
“That is not a direct answer to my question, Mr. Sampson.”
“I am not willing to say that I will be governed entirely by the
evidence. I can only say, that I should render what I consider to be a
just and reasonable verdict, depending on circumstances.”
“Ahem! You are quite sure that you could render a just and reasonable
verdict?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you admit that you cannot answer for your sympathies?”
“Are you cross-examining me?”
“Not at all, Mr. Sampson,” responded the other smoothly. “I am merely
trying to ascertain whether you are competent to serve as a juror in
this case.”
Sampson was saying to himself: “Thank the Lord, he will never accept
me.” Aloud he said: “Pray, overlook my stupidity and proceed--”
The Court leaned forward and tapped smartly on the desk with a lead
pencil. “We are wasting time, gentlemen. Please omit the persiflage.”
“Have you ever served as a juror in a criminal case, Mr. Sampson?”
inquired the lawyer. Sampson had turned pink under the Court's mild
irony.
“No,” he answered, and glanced at Miss Hildebrand, expecting to see a
gleam of amusement in her eyes. She was regarding him quite solemnly,
however.
“You are a Harvard man, I believe, Mr. Sampson?”
“Yes.”
“If it should be shown that this defendant is also a Harvard graduate,
would that fact serve to prejudice you in his favour?”
“Certainly not,” said Sampson, warmly. This was _too_ much!
“What is your business, Mr. Sampson?”
“I am connected with the Sampson Steamship and Navigation Company.”
“In what capacity?”
“I am its president.”
“You are, I believe, the son of the late Peter Stuyvesant Sampson,
founder of the company?”
“I am.”
“The only son?”
“And heir,” said Sampson curtly. “I inherited my job, if that's what you
are trying to get at. And it is more or less of an honorary position, if
that will help you any. I am president of the company because I happen
to own all but five shares of the capital stock, and not because I
really want to hold, or because I am in any sense competent to fill the
office. Now you know all that there is to know about my connection with
the company.”
“Thanks,” said the assistant district attorney, drily. “And now, Mr.
Sampson, could you sit as a juror in this case and give, on your honour
as a man, despite a very natural sympathy that may be aroused for this
aged defendant, a verdict in favour of the State if it is proved to you
beyond all doubt that he is guilty as charged?”
There was but one answer that Sampson could give. He felt exceedingly
sorry for himself. “Yes.” Then he made haste to qualify: “Provided, as I
said before, that there are no extenuating circumstances.”
“But you would not deliberately discharge a guilty man just because you
happened to feel sorry for him, would you? We, as individuals, are all
sorry for the person we are obliged to punish, Mr. Sampson. But the
law is never sorry. The mere fact that one man disregards the law is no
reason why the rest of us should do the same, is it?”
“Of course not,” said Sampson, feeling himself in a trap.
“The State asks no more of you than you would, as a citizen, ask of
the State, Mr. Sampson. The fact that this defendant, after five years,
voluntarily surrendered himself to the authorities--would that have any
effect on your feelings?”
“Yes, it would. I should certainly take that into consideration. As a
citizen, I could not ask more of any man than that he surrender himself
to my State if it couldn't catch him.”
The Court tapped with his pencil, and a raucous voice from somewhere
called for order.
“Are you a married man, Mr. Sampson?”
“I am not.”
“The State is satisfied,” said the assistant district attorney, and sat
down.
Sampson caught his breath. Satisfied? It meant that he was acceptable
to the State! After all he had said, he was acceptable to the State. He
could hardly believe his ears. Landed! Landed, that's what it meant. The
defence would take him like a shot. A cold perspiration burst out all
over him. And while he was still wondering how the district attorney
could have entrusted the case to such an incompetent subordinate,
counsel for the defence began to ply him with questions--perfunctory,
ponderous questions that might have been omitted, for any one with half
an eye could see that Sampson was doomed the instant the State said it
was satisfied.
His spirit was gone. He recognised the inevitable; in a dazed sort of
way he answered the questions, usually in monosyllables and utterly
without spunk. Miss Hildebrand was no longer resting her elbows on
the table in front of her in an attitude of suspense. She was leaning
comfortably back in her chair, her head cocked a little to one side,
and she gazed serenely at the topmost pane of glass in the tall window
behind the jury box. She appeared to be completely satisfied.
He saw the two lawyers lean across the table in consultation with the
prisoner and his granddaughter, their heads close together. They were
discussing him as if he were the criminal in the case. Miss Hildebrand
peered at him as she whispered something in her grandfather's ear, and
then he caught a fleeting, though friendly smile in her eyes. He
was reminded, in spite of his extreme discomfiture, that she was an
amazingly pretty girl.
“No challenge,” said the defendant's attorney, and Sampson was told to
take seat No. 3 in the jury box.
“Defendant, look upon the juror. Juror, look upon the defendant,” said
the clerk, and with his hand on the Bible Sampson took the oath to
render a true verdict according to the law and the evidence, all the
while looking straight into the eyes of the gaunt old man who stood and
looked at him wearily, drearily, as if from a distance that rendered his
vision useless.
Then Sampson sank awkwardly into the third seat, and sighed so
profoundly that juror No. 2 chuckled.
He certainly was in for it now.