unison, declaring that they were. At or about this same moment the
small door in the rear of the room opened and an officer appeared,
leading in Kasheed Hassoun. He was an imposing man, over six feet in
height, of dignified carriage, serious mien, and finely chiseled
features. Though he was dressed as a European there was nevertheless
something indefinably suggestive of the East in the cut of his clothes;
he wore no waistcoat and round his waist was wound a strip of crimson
cloth. His black eyes glinted through lowering brows, wildly, almost
fiercely, and he strode haughtily beside his guard like some unbroken
stallion of the desert.
"Well, you may as well proceed to select a jury," directed the court,
putting on his glasses and studying his copy of Al-Hoda with interest.
Presently he beckoned to Pepperill.
"Have you seen this?" he asked.
"No, Your Honor. What is it?"
"It's a newspaper published by these people," explained His Honor.
"Rather amusing, isn't it?"
"I didn't know they had any special newspaper of their own," admitted
Pepperill.
"They've got eight right in New York," interjected the stenographer.
"I notice that this paper is largely composed of advertisements,"
commented Wetherell. "But the advertisers are apparently scattered all
over the world--Chicago; Pittsburgh; Canton; Winnipeg; Albuquerque;
Brooklyn; Tripoli; Greenville, Texas; Pueblo; Lawrence, Massachusetts;
Providence, Rhode Island; Fall River; Detroit--"
"Here's one from Roxbury, Massachusetts, and another from Mexico City,"
remarked the clerk delightedly.
"And here's one from Paris, France," added the stenographer. "Say! Some
travelers!"
"Well, go on getting the jury," said the judge, yawning again and
handing the paper to the clerk.
At that moment Mr. Salim Zahoul, the interpreter procured by Mr.
Pepperill, approached, bowed and, twisting his purple mustache,
addressed the court: "Your Excellence: I haf to zay dat dees papaire eet
haf articles on zis affair--ze _memkaha_--zat are not diplomatique."
Judge Wetherell blinked at him.
"Who's this man?" he demanded.
"That's the interpreter," explained W.M.P.
"Interpreter!" answered the court. "I can't understand a word he says!"
"He was the best I could get," apologized Pepperill, while the
countenance of Mr. Zahoul blazed with wrath and humiliation. "It's very
difficult to get a fluent interpreter in Arabic."
"Well, just interpret what _he_ says to _me_, will you?" kindly
requested His Honor.
"I zay," suddenly exploded Zahoul--"dees papaire eet half contemptuous
article on ze _menkaha_ zat dees Kasheed Hassoun not kill dees Sardi
Babu!"
"He says," translated Pepperill, "that the newspaper contains an
indiscreet article in favor of the defense. I had no idea there would be
any improper attempt to influence the jury."
"What difference does it make, anyway?" inquired His Honor. "You don't
expect any juryman is going to read that thing, do you? Why, it looks as
if a bumblebee had fallen into an ink bottle and then had a fit all
over the front page."
"I don't suppose--" began Pepperill.
"Go on and get your jury!" admonished the court.
So the lion and the lamb in the shape of Mr. Tutt and Pepperill
proceeded to select twelve gentlemen to pass upon the issue who had
never been nearer to Syria than the Boardwalk at Atlantic City and who
only with the utmost attention could make head or tail of what Mr. Salim
Zahoul averred that the witnesses were trying to say. Moreover, most of
the talesmen evinced a profound distrust of their own ability to do
justice between the People and the defendant and a curious desire to be
relieved from service. However, at last the dozen had been chosen and
sworn, the congestion of the court room slightly relieved, Mr. Zahoul
somewhat appeased, and Mr. William Montague Pepperill rose to outline
his very simple case to the jury.
There was, he explained, no more difficulty in administering justice in
the case of a foreigner than of anyone else. All were equal in the eyes
of the law--equally presumed to be innocent, equally responsible when
proved guilty. And he would prove Kasheed Hassoun absolutely
guilty--guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, beyond any doubt. He would
produce five--five reputable witnesses who would swear that Hassoun had
murdered Sardi Babu; and he prophesied that he would unhesitatingly
demand at the end of the trial such an unequivocal, fearless, honest
expression of their collective opinion as would permanently fix Mr.
Kasheed Hassoun so that he could do no more harm. He expressed it more
elegantly but that was the gist of it. He himself was as sincere and
honest in his belief in his ability to establish the truth of his claim
as he was in the justice of his cause. Alas, he was far too young to
realize that there is a vast difference between knowing the truth and
being able to demonstrate what it is!
In proper order he called the photographer who had taken the picture of
the restaurant, the draftsman who had made the diagram of the interior,
the policeman who had arrested Hassoun, the doctor who had performed the
official autopsy upon the unfortunate Babu, and the five Syrians who had
been present when the crime was perpetrated. Each swore by all that was
holy that Kasheed Hassoun had done exactly as outlined by Assistant
District Attorney Pepperill--and swore it word for word, _verbatim et
literatim, in iisdem verbis, sic_, and yet again exactly. Their
testimony mortised and tenoned in a way to rejoice a cabinet-maker's
heart. And at first to the surprise and later to the dismay of Mr.
Pepperill, old man Tutt asked not one of them a single question about
the murder. Instead he merely inquired in a casual way where they came
from, how they got there, what they did for a living, and whether they
had ever made any contradictory statement as to what had occurred, and
as his cross-examination of Mr. Habu Kahoots was typical of all the rest
it may perhaps be set forth as an example, particularly as Mr. Kahoots
spoke English, which the others did not.
"And den," asserted Mr. Kahoots stolidly, "Kasheed Hassoun, he grab heem
by ze troat and break hees neck."
He was a short, barrel-shaped man with curly ringlets, fat, bulging
cheeks, heavy double chin and enormous paunch, and he wore a green
worsted waistcoat and his fingers were laden with golden rings.
"Ah!" said Mr. Tutt complaisantly. "You saw all that exactly as you have
described it?"
"Yes, sair!"
"Where were you born?"
"Acre, Syria."
"How long have you been in the United States?"
"Tirty years."
"Where do you live?"
"Augusta, Georgia."
"What's your business?"
Mr. Kahoots visibly expanded.
"I have street fair and carnival of my own. I have electric theater, old
plantation, Oriental show, snake exhibit and merry-go-round."
"Well, well!" exclaimed Mr. Tutt. "You are certainly a capitalist! I
hope you are not financially overextended!"
Mr. Pepperill looked pained, not knowing just how to prevent such
jocoseness on the part of his adversary.
"I object," he muttered feebly.
"Quite properly!" agreed Mr. Tutt. "Now, Mr. Kahoots, are you a citizen
of the United States?"
Mr. Kahoots looked aggrieved.
"Me? No! Me no citizen. I go back sometime Acre and build moving-picture
garden and ice-cream palace."
"I thought so," commented Mr. Tutt. "Now what, pray, were you doing in
the Washington Street restaurant?"
"Eating _kibbah arnabeiah_ and _mamoul_."
"I mean if you live in Augusta how did you happen to be in New York at
precisely that time?"
"Eh?"
"How you come in New York?" translated Mr. Tutt, while the jury laughed.
"Just come."
"But why?"
"Just come."
"Yes, yes; but you didn't come on just to be present at the murder, did
you?"
Kahoots grinned.
"I just come to walk up and down."
"Where--walk up and down?"
"On Washington Street. I spend the winter. I do nothing. I rich man."
"How long did you stay when you just came on?"
"Tree days. Then I go back."
"Why did you go back?"
"I dunno. Just go back."
Mr. Tutt sighed. The jury gave signs of impatience.
"Look here!" he demanded. "How many times have you gone over your story
with the district attorney?"
"Nevvair."
"What?"
"I nevvair see heem."
"Never see whom?"
"Dees man--judge."
"I'm not talking about the judge."
"I nevvair see no one."
"Didn't you tell the Grand Jury that Hassoun stabbed Babu with a long
knife?"
"I dunno heem!"
"Who?"
"Gran' Jury."
"Didn't you go into a big room and put your hand on a book and swear?"
"I no swear--ever!"
"And tell what you saw?"
"I tell what I saw."
"What did you see?"
"I saw Hassoun break heem hees neck."
"Didn't you say first that Hassoun stabbed Babu?"
"No--nevvair!"
"Then didn't you come back and say he shot him?"
"No--nevvair!"
"And finally, didn't you say he strangled him--after you had heard that
the coroner's physician had decided that that was how he was killed?"
"Yes--he break heem hees neck."
Mr. Kahoots was apparently very much bored, but he was not bored in
quite the same way as the judge, who, suddenly rousing himself, asked
Mr. Tutt if he had any basis for asking such questions.
"Why, certainly," answered the old lawyer quietly. "I shall prove that
this witness made three absolutely contradictory statements before the
Grand Jury."
"Is that so, Mister District Attorney?"
"I don't know," replied Pepperill faintly. "I had nothing to do with the
proceedings before the Grand Jury."
Judge Wetherell frowned.
"It would seem to me," he began, "as if a proper preparation of the case
would have involved some slight attention to--Well, never mind! Proceed,
Mr. Tutt."
"Kahoots!" cried the lawyer sternly. "Isn't it a fact that you have
been convicted of crime yourself?"
The proprietor of the merry-go-round drew himself up indignantly.
"Me? No!"
"Weren't you convicted of assault on a man named Rafoul Rabyaz?"
"Me? Look here, sir! I tell you 'bout dat! This Rafoul Rabyaz he my
partner, see, in pool, billiard and cigar business on Greenwich Street.
This long time ago. Years ago. We split up. I sell heem my shares, see.
I open next door--pool table, café and all. But I not get full half the
stock. I not get the tablecloth, see. I was of the tablecloth you know
short. It don't be there. I go back there that time. I see heem. I say,
'We don't count those tablecloth.' He say, 'Yes.' I say,'No.' He
say,'Yes.' I say 'No.' He say, 'Yes.' I say, 'No'--"
"For heaven's sake," exclaimed Judge Wetherell, "don't say that again!"
"Yes, sair," agreed the showman. "All right. I say, 'No.' I say, 'You
look in the book.' He say, 'No.' We each take hold of the cloth. I have
a knife. I cut cloth in two. I give heem half. I take half. I say, 'You
take half; I take half.' He say, 'Go to hell!'"
He waved his hand definitively.
"Well?" inquired Mr. Tutt anxiously.
"Dat's all!" answered Mr. Kahoots.
One of the jurymen suddenly coughed and thrust his handkerchief into his
mouth.
"Then you stuck your knife into him, didn't you?" suggested Mr. Tutt.
"Me? No!"
Mr. Tutt shrugged his shoulders and pursed his lips.
"You were convicted, weren't you?"
"I call twenty witness!" announced Mr. Kahoots with a grand air.
"You don't need to!" retorted Mr. Tutt. "Now tell us why you had to
leave Syria?"
"I go in camel business at Coney Island," answered the witness demurely.
"What!" shouted the lawyer. "Didn't you run away from home because you
were convicted of the murder of Fatima, the daughter of Abbas?"
"Me? No!" Mr. Kahoots looked shocked.
Mr. Tutt bent over and spoke to Bonnie Doon, who produced from a leather
bag a formidable document on parchment-like paper covered with
inscriptions in Arabic and adorned with seals and ribbons.
"I have here, Your Honor," said he, "the record of this man's conviction
in the Criminal Court in Beirut, properly exemplified by our consuls and
the embassy at Constantinople. I have had it translated, but if Mr.
Pepperill prefers to have the interpreter read it--"
"Show it to the district attorney!" directed His Honor.
Pepperill looked at it helplessly.
"You may read your own translation," said the court drowsily.
Mr. Tutt bowed, took up the paper and faced the jury.
"This is the official record," he announced. "I will read it.
"'In the name of God.
"'On a charge of the murder of the gendarmes Nejib Telhoon and
Abdurrahman and Ibrahim Aisha and Fatima, daughter of Hason Abbas, of
the attack on certain nomads, of having fired on them with the intent of
murder, of participation and assistance in the act of murder, of having
shot on the regular troops, of assisting in the escape of some offenders
and of having drawn arms on the regular troops, during an uprising on
Sunday, January 24, 1303--Mohammedan style--between the inhabitants of
the Mezreatil-Arab quarter in Beirut and the nomads who had pitched
their tents near by, the following arrested persons, namely--Metri son
of Habib Eljemal and Habib son of Mikael Nakash and Hanna son of
Abdallah Elbaitar and Elias Esad Shihada and Tanous son of Jerji Khedr
and Habib son of Aboud Shab and Elias son of Metri Nasir and Khalil son
of Mansour Maoud and Nakhle son of Elias Elhaj and Nakhle son of Berkat
Minari and Antoon son of Berkat Minari and Lutfallah son of
Jerji-Kefouri and Jabran Habib Bishara and Kholil son of Lutf Dahir and
Nakhle Yousif Eldefoumi, all residents of the said quarter and Turkish
subjects, and their companions, sixty-five fugitives, namely--Isbir
Bedoon son of Abdallah Zerik and Elias son of Kanan Zerik and Amin Matar
and Jerji Ferhan alias Baldelibas and Habu son of Hanna Kahoots and--'"
Deputy Assistant District Attorney Pepperill started doubtfully to his
feet.
"If the court please," he murmured in a sickly voice, "I object. In the
first place I don't know anything about this record--and I object to it
on that ground; and in the second place a trial and conviction in the
absence of a defendant under our law is no conviction at all."
"But this man is a Turkish subject and it's a good conviction in
Turkey," argued Mr. Tutt.
"Well, it isn't here!" protested Pepperill.
"You're a little late, aren't you?" inquired His Honor. "It has all been
read to the jury. However, I'll entertain a motion to strike out--"
"I should like to be heard on the question," said Mr. Tutt quickly.
"This is an important matter."
Unexpectedly a disgruntled-looking talesman in the back row held up his
hand.
"I'd like to ask a question myself," he announced defiantly, almost
arrogantly, after the manner of one with a grievance. "I'm a
hard-working business man. I've been dragged here against my will to
serve on this jury and decide if this defendant murdered somebody or
other. I don't see what difference it makes whether or not this witness
cut a tablecloth in two or murdered Fatima, the daughter of What's his
Name. I want to go home--sometime. If it is in order I'd like to suggest
that we get along."
Judge Wetherell started and peered with a puzzled air at this bold
shatterer of established procedure.
"Mister Juryman," said he severely, "these matters relate directly to
the credibility of the witness. They are quite proper.
I--I--am--surprised--"
"But, Your Honor," expostulated the iconoclast upon the back row, "I
guess nobody is going to waste much time over this Turkish snake
charmer! Ain't there a policeman or somebody we can believe who saw what
happened?"
"Bang!" went the judicial gavel.
"The juryman will please be silent!" shouted Judge Wetherell. "This is
entirely out of order!" Then he quickly covered his face with his
handkerchief. "Proceed!" he directed in a muffled tone.
"Where were we?" asked Mr. Tutt dreamily.
"Fatima, the daughter of Abbas," assisted the foreman, sotto voce.
"And I objected to Fatima, the daughter of Abbas!" snapped Pepperill.
"Well, well!" conceded Mr. Tutt. "She's dead, poor thing! Let her be.
That is all, Mr. Kahoots."
It is difficult to describe the intense excitement these digressions
from the direct testimony occasioned among the audience. The reference
to the billiard-table cover and the murder of the unfortunate Fatima
apparently roused long-smoldering fires. A group of Syrians by the
window broke into an unexpected altercation, which had to be quelled by
a court officer, and when quiet was restored the jury seemed but
slightly attentive to the precisely similar yarns of Nicola Abbu,
Menheem Shikrie, Fajal Mokarzel and David Elias, especially as the
minutes of the Grand Jury showed that they had sworn to three entirely
different sets of facts regarding the cause of Babu's death. Yet when
the People rested it remained true that five witnesses, whatever the
jury may have thought of them, had testified that Hassoun strangled
Sardi Babu. The jury turned expectantly to Mr. Tutt to hear what he had
to say.
"Gentlemen," he said quietly, "the defense is very simple. None of the
witnesses who have appeared here was in fact present at the scene of the
homicide at all. I shall call some ten or twelve reputable Syrian
citizens who will prove to you that Kasheed Hassoun, my client, with a
large party of friends was sitting quietly in the restaurant when Sardi
Babu came in with a revolver in his hand, which he fired at Hassoun, and
that then, and only then, a small dark man whose identity cannot be
established--evidently a stranger--seized Babu before he could fire
again, and killed him--in self-defense."
Mr. William Montague Pepperill's jaw dropped as if he had seen the ghost
of one of his colonial ancestors. He could not believe that he had heard
Mr. Tutt correctly. Why, the old lawyer had the thing completely turned
round! Sardi Babu hadn't gone to the restaurant. He had been in the
restaurant, and it had been Kasheed Hassoun who had gone there.
Yet, one by one, placidly, imperturbably, the dozen witnesses foretold
by Mr. Tutt, and gathered in by Bonnie Doon, marched to the chair and
swore upon the Holy Bible that it was even as Mr. Tutt had said, and
that no such persons as Mokarzel, Kahoots, Abbu, Shikrie and Elias had
been in the restaurant at any time that evening, but on the contrary
that they, the friends of Hassoun, had been there eating Turkish pie--a
few might have had mashed beans with _taheenak_--when Sardi Babu,
apparently with suicidal intent, entered alone to take vengeance upon
the camel owner.
"That is all. That is our case," said Mr. Tutt as the last Syrian left
the stand.
But there was no response from the bench. Judge Wetherell had been
dozing peacefully for several hours. Even Pepperill could not avoid a
decorous smile. Then the clerk pulled out the copy of Al-Hoda and
rustled it, and His Honor, who had been dreaming that he was riding
through the narrow streets of Bagdad upon a jerky white dromedary so
tall that he could peek through the latticed balconies at the plump,
black-eyed odalisques within the harems, slowly came back from Turkey to
New York.
"Gentlemen of the jury," said he, pulling himself together, "the
defendant here is charged by the Grand Jury with having murdered Fatima
the daughter of Abbas--I beg your pardon! I mean--who was it?--one Sardi
Babu. I will first define to you the degrees of homicide--"
* * * * *
One day three months later, after Kasheed Hassoun had been twice tried
upon the same testimony and the jury had disagreed--six to six, each
time--Mr. Tutt, who had overstayed his lunch hour at the office, put on
his stovepipe hat and strolled along Washington Street, looking for a
place to pick up a bite to eat. It was in the middle of the afternoon
and most of the stores were empty, which was all the more to his liking.
He had always wanted to try some of that Turkish pie that they had all
talked so much about at the trial. Presently a familiar juxtaposition of
names caught his eye--Ghabryel & Assad. The very restaurant which had
been the scene of the crime! Curiously, he turned in there. Like all the
other places it was deserted, but at the sound of his footsteps a little
Syrian boy not more than ten years old came from behind the screen at
the end of the room and stood bashfully awaiting his order.
Mr. Tutt smiled one of his genial weather-beaten smiles at the youngster
and glancing idly over the bill of fare ordered _biklama_ and coffee.
Then he lit a stogy and stretched his long legs comfortably out under
the narrow table. Yes, this was the very spot where either Sardi Babu
and his friends had been sitting the night of the murder or Kasheed
Hassoun and his friends--one or the other; he wondered if anybody would
ever know which. Was it possible that in this humdrum little place human
passions had been roused to the taking of life on account of some mere
difference in religious dogma? Was this New York? Was it possible to
Americanize these people? A door clattered in the rear, and from behind
the screen again emerged the boy carrying a tray of pastry and coffee.
"Well, my little man," said Mr. Tutt, "do you work here?"
"Oh, yes," answered the embryonic citizen. "My father, he owns half the
store. I go to school every day, but I work here afterward. I got a
prize last week."
"What sort of a prize?"
"I got the English prize."
The lawyer took the child's hand and pulled him over between his knees.
He was an attractive lad, clean, responsive, frank, and his eyes looked
straight into Mr. Tutt's.
"Sonny," he inquired his new friend, "are you an American?"
"Me? Sure! You bet I'm an American! The old folks--no! You couldn't
change 'em in fifty years. They're just what they always were. They
don't want anything different. They think they're in Syria yet. But
me--say, what do you think? Of course I'm an American!"
"That's right!" answered Mr. Tutt, offering him a piece of pastry. "And
what is your name?"
"George Nasheen Assad," answered the boy, showing a set of white teeth.
"Well, George," continued the attorney, "what has become of Kasheed
Hassoun?"
"Oh, he's down at Coney Island. He runs a caravan. He has six camels. I
go there sometimes and he lets me ride for nothing. I know who you are,"
said the little Syrian confidently, as he took the cake. "You're the
great lawyer who defended Kasheed Hassoun."
"That's right. How did you know that, now?"
"I was to the trial."
"Do you think he ought to have been let off?" asked Mr. Tutt
whimsically.
"I don't know," returned the child. "I guess you did right not to call
me as a witness."
Mr. Tutt wrinkled his brows.
"Eh? What? You weren't a witness, were you?"
"Of course I was!" laughed George. "I was here behind the screen. I saw
the whole thing. I saw Kasheed Hassoun come in and speak to Sardi Babu,
and I saw Sardi draw his revolver, and I saw Kasheed tear it out of his
hand and strangle him."
Mr. Tutt turned cold.
"You saw that?" he challenged.
"Sure."
"How many other people were there in the restaurant?" inquired Mr. Tutt.
"Nobody at all," answered George in a matter-of-fact tone. "Only Kasheed
and Sardi. Nobody else was in the restaurant."
Contempt of Court
The court can't determine what is honor.--Chief Baron Bowes, 1743.
I know what my code of honor is, my lord, and I intend to adhere to
it.--John O'Conner, M.P., in Parnell Commission's Proceedings, 103d
Day; Times Rep. pt. 28, pp. 19 _ff_.
Well, honor is the subject of my story.--Julius Caesar, Act I, Sc 2.
"What has become of Katie--the second waitress?" asked Miss Althea
Beekman of Dawkins, her housekeeper, as she sat at her satinwood desk
after breakfast. "I didn't see her either last night or this morning."
Dawkins, who was a mid-Victorian, flushed awkwardly.
"I really had to let the girl go, ma'am!" she explained with an outraged
air. "I hardly know how to tell you--such a thing in this house! I
couldn't possibly have her round. I was afraid she might corrupt the
other girls, ma'am--and they are such a self-respecting lot--almost
quite ladylike, ma'am. So I simply paid her and told her to take herself
off."
Miss Beekman looked pained.
"You shouldn't have turned her out into the street like that, Dawkins!"
she expostulated. "Where has she gone?"
Dawkins gazed at her large feet in embarrassment.
"I don't know, ma'am," she admitted. "I didn't suppose you'd want her
here so I sent her away. It was quite inconvenient, too--with the
servant problem what it is. But I'm hoping to get another this afternoon
from Miss Healey's."
Miss Beekman was genuinely annoyed.
"I am seriously displeased with you, Dawkins!" she returned severely.
"Of course, I am shocked at any girl in my household misbehaving
herself, but--I--wouldn't want her to be sent away--under such
circumstances. It would be quite heartless. Yes, I am very much
disturbed!"
"I'm sorry, ma'am," answered the housekeeper penitently. "But I was only
thinking of the other girls."