It is the second day of my trial. The whole performance is tiresome and
monotonous in the extreme. On one side--the side of the prosecution, the
side against me--the case is legally perfect, on my side there is
practically no defense; and surrounded as I am by powerful and subtle
political influences, I have come to the conclusion that I have as much
chance of success--or escape--as the proverbial snowball in Hades.
Considering my hopeless predicament and my helplessness, I am astonished
at the sneering and insulting manner of the prosecuting attorney. Why
this unseemly desire to swat as insignificant a gnat as I?[1] During
lunch at recess I hear that my victim and accuser is very much
embarrassed and annoyed at the pertinent questions asked by the
prosecutor and translated by an interpreter.
"Are you a picaroon?" queried the District Attorney.
"No," protested the blushing Mexican, "I am only a congressman."
Insults are sometimes the making of a man's reputation, but ridicule
always kills, as my Mexican opponent confessed to me once in Mexico
City, adding that he never paid the slightest attention to insults or
libelous attacks of the Mexican press. In this case they made him change
his mind and he was sent twice three thousand miles from Mexico to
prosecute as libel that which he could not even read.
Finally the case is concluded and I am led through a maze into the
Tombs prison to await the deliberation of the jury.
The keepers inquire as to the real meaning and equivalent in slang of
the word "picaroon," and they seem disappointed at its commonplace
meaning as compared to the phonetic redundance of a word which promised
so much. All seem quite certain the jury won't convict, but I am of a
different opinion.
After waiting more than two hours I am brought back to court to hear the
decision of the jury. I notice the foreman, a gray-haired, lean person
with a long neck two sizes smaller than his collar. He is speaking in a
low voice. I cannot hear what he says, but when he stops, and I see two
Mexican friends and refugees come towards me with tears in their eyes,
then I know my fate. They pat me on the back and say encouraging things
as to the effect the publicity of this conviction will have on the cause
of liberal Mexico. Newspapermen and friends surround me. An adverse
verdict was expected; nevertheless I am somewhat dazed. They ask for a
declaration, but adequate words fail me. I can only smile and say
awkwardly: "It's all in the day's work. I believe what is to be, will
be." And the keepers lead me through the bridge of sighs.