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 action 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 to-morrow."
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 nearer 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.
"Come, 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 hope 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 were, 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."
He paused, coughed slightly, and, removing from his green bag a folded
paper, continued: "In addition, it is my duty to inform the Court that a
person named Farlan left the jurisdiction of this tribunal upon the day
after Monohan's conviction of the offence for which my client is now on
trial.
"After such an unfortunate mistake," said Crookshanks with an almost
imperceptible twinkle in his "jury eye," "he can hardly be expected to
assist voluntarily in a second prosecution. I hold in my hand his
affidavit that he has left the State never to return."
The Judge had left his chair and was striding up and down the dais. He
now turned wrathfully upon poor Dockbridge.
"What do you mean by trying a case before me prepared in such a fashion?
This is a disgraceful miscarriage of justice! I shall lay the matter
before the District Attorney in person! Mr. Crookshanks has correctly
stated the law. I am absolutely compelled to discharge this defendant,
who, by his own statement, ought to be incarcerated in State Prison!
I--I--the Court has been hoodwinked! The District Attorney made
ridiculous! As for you," casting a withering glance upon the prisoner,
"if I ever have the opportunity, I shall punish you as you deserve!"
Dead silence fell upon the court-room. The clerk arose and cleared his
throat.
"Mr. Foreman, have you agreed upon a verdict? What say you? Do you find
the defendant guilty, or not guilty?"
"Not guilty," replied the foreman, somewhat doubtfully.
There was a smothered demonstration in the rear of the court-room. A few
spectators had the temerity to clap their hands.
"Silence! Silence in the court!" shouted the Captain.
The clerk faced the prisoner.
"James Hawkins, alias James Hawkinson, alias Supple Jim, you are
discharged."
As our hero stepped from behind the bar, Paddy was the first to grasp
his hand.
"You're the cleverest boy in New York!" he muttered enthusiastically;
"and say, Jim," he lowered his voice--could it be with a shade of
embarrassment?--"you're a hero all right, into the bargain."
"Oh, cut that out!" answered Jim. "Wasn't I playing a sure thing? And
wasn't it worth three months,--and ten dollars _per_ to the old guy for
staying over in Jersey,--to put 'em in a hole like that?"
And the two of them, relieved by this evasion of an impending and
depressing cloud of moral superiority, went out, with others, to get a
drink.