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 complainant'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 Judge. "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 the 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."