At half past ten o'clock the big court-room still remained almost empty.
Inside the rail the clerk and the stenographer, having returned from a
short visit to Tom Foley's saloon across the way, were languidly
discussing the condition of the stock-market. A nebulous illumination in
the vastness above only served to increase the shadowy dimness of the
room. The talk of the pair made a scarcely audible whisper in the great
silence. Outside, an electric car could be heard at intervals; within,
only the slam of iron doors, subdued by distance, echoed through the
corridors.
Dockbridge had awakened, and, lounging before his table, was trying to
get up a case for the morrow. The Judge had gone home for dinner. One by
one the court attendants had strayed away, coming back to push open the
heavy door, and, after a furtive glance at the empty bench, as silently
to depart.
Below in the stifling pen, alone behind the bars, James Graham sat
staring vacantly at the stained cement floor. A savage rage surged
through him. Curse them! That infernal Judge had not given him half a
chance. Once more he recalled that day when he had stepped out into the
sunlight a free man. Again he saw his iron bed, his cobbling bench, his
coarse food, his hated stripes. He choked at the thought of them. Only
two months before he had been at liberty. Think of it! Good clothes,
good food, pleasure! God, what a fool! A dull pain worked through his
body; he remembered that he had not eaten since seven that morning.
Outside in the corridor the keeper was smoking a cigar. The fumes of it
drifted in and mingled with the stench of the pen. It almost nauseated
him. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. The act
brought rushing back the memories of his childhood, and of how, every
night, he would lay his head upon his mother's knee and say, "Have I
been a good boy to-day?" A sob shook him, and he pressed closer against
the wall.
A sound of moving feet roused him suddenly. A door swung open, shut
again, and voices came with a draught of air from the corridor.
The keeper waiting outside stirred and stood up, looking regretfully at
his cigar.
"Get up there, you!"
The prisoner obeyed perfunctorily, and followed the officer heavily up
the stairs and down the dirty passage to the court-room. Outside, he
shrank from entering. Those eyes--those eyes! That hard, pitiless Judge!
But he was pushed roughly forward. Then his old pugnacity returned; he
set his teeth, and entered.
He trudged around the room and stopped at the bar before the clerk. On
his right sat the twelve silent men. On the bench the white-haired Judge
was gazing at him with sad but penetrating eyes.
It was different from the mellow glow of the afternoon. They were all so
still--like ghosts--and all around, all about him! He wanted to shout
out at them, "Speak! for God's sake, speak!" But something stifled him.
The overwhelming power of the law held him speechless.
The clerk rose without looking at the prisoner.
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?"
"We have," answered the foreman, rising and standing with his eyes upon
the floor.
"How say you, do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty?"
"Guilty of grand larceny in the first degree."
The prisoner involuntarily pressed his hand to his heart. He had
weathered that blast before and could do so again. Dockbridge gave him a
look full of pity. Graham hated him for it. That child! That snivelling
little fool! He wanted none of his sympathy! His breath came faster.
Must they all look at him? Was that a part of his trial--to be stared
down? He glared back at them. The room swam, and he saw only the stern
face on the bench above.
"Name?" broke in the harsh voice of the clerk.
"James Graham."
"Age?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Married, or unmarried?" "Temperate?" came the pitiless questions, all
answered in a monotone.
"Ever convicted before?"
"No," said the prisoner in a low voice, but the word sounded to him like
a roaring torrent. Then came once more that awful silence. The dread eye
of the Judge seared his soul.
"Graham, is that the truth?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you quite sure?"
That merciless question! What had that to do with it? Why should he have
to tell them? That was not his crime. He was ready to suffer for what he
had done, but not for the past; that was not fair--he had paid for that.
He must defend himself.
"Yes, sir."
"Swear him," said the Judge.
The officer took up the soiled Bible and started to place it in Graham's
hand. But the hand dropped from it.
"No, no, I can't!" he faltered; "I can't--I--I--it is no use," he added
huskily.
"When were you convicted?"
"I served six months for petty larceny in the penitentiary six years
ago."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, sir."
"Quite sure? Think again!"
"Yes, sir," almost inaudibly.
"Swear him."
Again the book was forced toward the unwilling hand, and again it was
refused.
"Have you no pity--no mercy?" his dark eyes seemed to say. Then they
gave way to a look of utter hopelessness.
"I served three years in Charlestown for larceny, and was discharged two
months ago."
"Is that all?"
"O, God! Isn't that enough?" suddenly groaned the prisoner. "No, no; it
isn't all! It's always been the same old story! Concord, Joliet, Elmira,
Springfield, Sing Sing, Charlestown--yes, six times. Twelve years. . . .
I'm a _jailbird_." He laughed harshly and rested wearily against the
wooden bar.
"Have you anything to say why judgment should not be pronounced against
you?"
"Your Honor, will you hear me?" Graham choked back a dry sob.
The Judge slightly inclined his head.
"Yes. I'm a jailbird," uttered the prisoner rapidly. "I'm only out two
months." There was no defiance in his voice now, and his eyes searched
the face of the Judge, seeking for mercy. "I had a good home--no matter
where--and a good father and mother. My father died and didn't leave
anything, and I had to work while my mother kept house. I worked on the
farm, winter and summer, summer and winter, early and late. I got sick
of it. I quit the farm and went to the city. I worked hard and did well.
I learned shorthand, and finally got a job as a court stenographer.
That's how I know about the rules of evidence. Then I got started wrong,
and by and by I took a fifty-dollar note and another fellow was sent up
for it. After that I didn't care. I had a good time--of its kind. It was
better than a dog's life on the farm, anyway. By and by I got caught,
and then it was no use. Each time I got out I swore I'd lead an honest
life. But I couldn't. A convict might as well try to eat stones as to
find a job. But when I got free this time I made up my mind to starve
rather than get back again. I meant it, too. I tried hard. It was no use
in Boston--they're too respectable. All a convict can do there is to get
a two weeks' job sawing wood. At the end of that time he's supposed to
be able to take care of himself. I had to give it up and come to New
York.
"It was August, and I went the rounds of the offices for three weeks,
looking for work. No one wanted a stenographer, and there was nothing
else to do that I could find. Once I thought I had something on the
water-front, but the man changed his mind. A woman told me to go to Dr.
Westminster, so I went. He was kind enough, said he was very busy, but
would do all he could for me; that there was a special society for just
such cases, and he would give me a card. I thanked him, and took the
card and went to the society. The young woman there gave me two soup
tickets, and said she would do all she could for me. Next day she
reported that there was nothing doing just then, but if I could come
back in about a month they could probably do better. Then she gave me
another soup ticket. I drank the soup and then I went back to Dr.
Westminster. He was rather annoyed at seeing me again, and said that he
had done all that he could, but would bear me in mind; meantime, unless
I heard from him, it would be no use to call again. I'd lived on soup
for two days.
"I got a meal by begging on the avenue. Then another woman told me to go
to Dr. Emberdays, and I went to _him_. By this time I must have been
looking pretty tough. He said that he would do what he could, and that
there was a society to which he would give me a line. They asked me a
devil of a lot of questions, and gave me a flannel undershirt. It made
me sick! An undershirt in August, when I wanted bread and human
sympathy!
"It was no use. I gave up parsons and tried the river-front again. I
didn't get over one meal a day, and my head ached all the time. I heard
of a job at One Hundred and Sixty-ninth Street, carrying lumber. I got a
nickel for holding a horse, and went up. It was a gang of niggers. They
got a dollar a day. The boss was a nigger, too, and didn't want cheap
white trash. I almost went down on my knees to him, and finally he said
I might come the next day. I slept in a field under a tree without
anything to eat that night, and started in at seven the next morning.
The thermometer went up to ninety-six, and we worked without stopping. I
had to lug one end of a big stick, with a nigger under the other end,
one hundred yards, then go back and get another. I got so I didn't know
what I was doing. At eleven o'clock I fainted, and then I was sick,
dreadfully sick. At three the boss nigger kicked me and said I had to
stop faking or I wouldn't get paid, and so I got up and lugged until
six. But I was so ill I knew it was no use. I couldn't do that kind of
work.
"It was an awfully hot night. I got off the 'L' at Thirty-fourth Street
and walked through to the avenue. When I got to the Waldorf I stopped
and looked in the windows. There were men and women in there, and
flowers and everything to eat--just what I could eat if I chose. And I
had been working with niggers, Judge, all day long until I fainted,
heaving timber. I just stood and waited, and when a chance came to
snatch a roll of bills I took it. They couldn't catch me. I was good for
ten of 'em, Judge.
"After that it was easy. I met some of the fellows that had served time
with me and got back into the old life. Judge, it's no use. I don't
blame you for what you are going to do, nor I don't blame the jury.
Anyone could see through the bluff I put up. I'm guilty. I'm a jailbird,
I say. I'm done. Only I've had no chance, Judge. Give me another; let me
go back to the farm. I'll go, I swear I will! It'll kill me to go to
prison. I'm a human being. God meant me to live out of doors, and I've
spent half of my life inside stone walls. Let me go back to the country.
I'll go, Judge. I'm a human being. Give me one more chance."
There was no sound when the prisoner stopped speaking. The judge did not
reply for a full minute. His face wore its habitual look of sadness.
Then he spoke in a very low tone, but one which was distinctly audible
in the silence of the court-room.
"Graham, you have read your own sentence. You have confessed that you
cannot lead an honest life. Your fault is that you will not work. There
are a thousand farms within a hundred miles, where you could earn a
livelihood for the asking. Your intelligence is of a high order. By
ordinary application you could have risen far above your fellows. You
are a dangerous criminal--all the more dangerous for your ability. You
almost outwitted the jury, and conducted your own case more ably than
nine out of ten lawyers would have done. You have ruined your own life,
and cast away a pearl of price. You have my pity, but I cannot allow it
to affect my duty. Graham, I sentence you to State Prison for ten
years."
The prisoner shivered, and covered his face with his hands. Then the
officer clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him toward the door.
"Gentlemen, you are excused." The Judge bowed to the jury.
"Hear ye! Hear ye!" bawled the attendant: "all persons having business
with Part One of the General Sessions of the Peace, held in and for the
County of New York, may now depart. This Court stands adjourned until
to-morrow morning at half past ten o'clock."