“My name is Epstein,” he said. “We went to school together.”
“Oh, yes; I remember,” I replied.
Regularly each day he came and reported the progress of affairs.
“They are building up a strong case against you,” he said. “Our
only hope lies in an alibi.”
“What is that?” I inquired dully.
He explained; and continued, “Of course the prosecution won’t tell
me what tack they mean to pursue, but from several little things that
have leaked out I infer that they have a pretty strong case. Now, at
what hour did you leave Miss Pathzuol that night?”
“At about midnight.”
“And went directly home?”
“Directly home.”
“After entering your house did you meet any of the other occupants?
any of your fellow-lodgers?”
“I don’t remember.”
“But you must make an effort to remember. Try.”
“I tell you, I don’t remember,” I repeated. His persistence
irritated me.
“You appear to take as little interest in this case as though it were
the life of a dog hanging in the scales instead of your own,” he said,
and that was the truth.
Next day his face wore a somber expression.
“This is too bad,” he cried. “I have interviewed your landlady and
your fellow-lodgers, and not one of them can swear to your alibi. I know
you are innocent, but I don t see how I am to prove it.”
At last the trial began.
I sat through that trial, the most indifferent person in the court-room.
I heard the testimony of the witnesses and the speeches of the lawyers
simply because I was close at hand and could not help it. But I was
the least interested of the many auditors, the least curious as to the
result. Yet, stolid, indifferent, inattentive as I was, every detail of
the trial is stamped upon my memory in indelible hues. Here is the story
of it.
The first day was used in securing a jury.
The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called
it—by the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika
was, how she had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of
the 13th July they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable
train of circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer.
Then he raised his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s
soul. Then he faced around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his
finger at me, “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the
man.”
The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the
murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all
night that night; and explained the nature of the relations that
subsisted between Veronika and myself.
“When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was
the door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney.
“In its usual condition.”
“That is to say, locked?”
“Precisely.”
“It had not been broken open or tampered with?”
“Not so far as I could see.”
“That’s all.”
On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass
between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every
reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover.
“And when made aware of the death of his betrothed,” pursued my
lawyer, “how did Mr. Neuman conduct himself?”
“He acted like a crazy man—like one paralyzed by a tremendous
blow.”
“You can go, Mr. Tikulski,” said my lawyer. “But I wish to say,”
began Tikulski, “that I do not believe——”
“Stop,” cried the prosecutor. “Your honor, I object to any
expression of opinion by the witness.”
“No matter about what you don’t believe,” said the Judge to
Tikulski.
“But——-”
“But you must hold your tongue,” imperiously. “You can go.”
The old man left the stand and elbowed his way to my side.
“What I wished to say was,” he whispered into my ear, “that I
believe you are as innocent as I myself. It is outrageous, this trial.
They compelled me to testify. But you must understand that I am sure of
your innocence. I don’t know why they hushed me up.”
Meanwhile the captain of police had succeeded him, and sworn to having
visited the scene of the crime and to having placed the prisoner under
arrest.
“Captain,” said the district-attorney, “here is a key. Have you
seen it before?” handing a key to the witness.
“I have,” was the reply.
“Tell us when and where.”
“I took it from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest.”
“What further can you say about it?”
“Subsequently it was identified as a key to the apartments occupied by
the deceased.”
“Did you try it yourself?”
“I did. It fitted the lock.”
“How is this?” Epstein asked me. “How did you come by that key?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t remember ever
having had it in my possession.”
“But it is an ugly circumstance, and must be accounted for.”
“Oh, what difference does it make?” I retorted petulantly. “Leave
me alone.”
“A few little trifles like this may make the difference of your
neck,” muttered Epstein, and he looked disturbed.
“Captain,” continued the district-attorney, “just one thing more.
Do you recognize this handkerchief?”
“Yes; it was found in the pocket of the prisoner when he was searched
at the station-house.”
My lawyer got hold of the handkerchief and exhibited it to me. It
was stained dull brown. “This is blood,” he said. “How did it
happen?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t an idea,” was the utmost I could
respond. Epstein looked more uneasy than before.
“That’s enough, Captain,” said the prosecutor.
“But before you leave the stand,” put in Epstein, “kindly tell us
what the prisoner’s conduct was from the time you took charge of the
premises down to the time you locked him up.”
“At first he acted as though he was crazy; raved and carried on like a
madman. Afterward he became quiet and sort of dull. At the station-house
he fainted away.”
“Didn’t act as though he liked it—as though the death of Miss
Pathzuol was a thing that pleased him?”
“No, sir; on the contrary. He acted as though it had been a great
shock to him.”
“You can go.”
Next came a physician.
He said he was a police-surgeon. At about nine o’clock on the morning
of July 13th he had been summoned to the house of the decedent; had
examined the body and satisfied himself as to the mode of death. There
were three separate knife-wounds. These he proceeded to describe in
technical language. Not one of them could have been self-inflicted; any
one of them was sufficient to have caused immediate death.
“Dr. Merrill,” inquired the prosecutor, “how long—how many
hours—prior to your arrival must the crime have been perpetrated?”
“From seven to ten hours.”
“So that—?”
“So that the crime must have been perpetrated between eleven and two
o’clock.”
“Good.—Now, Doctor, here is a handkerchief which the captain says
he took from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest. Do you recognize
it?”
“I do.”
“Go on—what about it?”
“It was submitted to me for chemical analysis—to analyze the
substance, with which it is discolored.”
“And you found?”
“I found that it was stained with blood,”
“Human blood?”
“Precisely.”
“About how long had it been shed? Did its condition indicate?”
“From its condition when submitted to me—that is, at about noon on
the 13th—I inferred that it had been shed not much less nor much more
than twelve hours.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said the lawyer. To Epstein, “Your
witness.”
“One moment, Doctor,” said Epstein. Turning to me, “You can give
no explanation of this circumstance?” he whispered.—“None,” I
answered.—To the witness, “Doctor, blood may be shed in divers ways,
may it not? This blood on the handkerchief, for instance—it might have
come from—say, a nose-bleed, eh?”
The surgeon smiled, hesitated, then replied, “Possibly, though not
probably. Its quality is rather that of blood from a wound than that of
blood from congested capillaries. But it is quite possible.”
“You can go, Doctor.”—To me, “Are you sure you didn’t have a
nose-bleed on the night in question?”
“I know nothing at all about it.”
The next witness was a woman.
She said she was the janitress of the apartment-house, No.—East
Fifty-first street. It was a portion of her duty as such to open the
street-door when the bell was rung. On the evening of July 12th, she
had opened the door and admitted the prisoner between seven and eight
o’clock.
“Can you say at what hour the prisoner left the house?”
“Yes, sir, I can. It was a warm night, and me and my husband were
seated out on the stoop for the sake of the breeze till late. Mr. Neuman
went out a little before twelve o’clock.”
“He entered between seven and eight. He left at about midnight. Now,
meanwhile, whom else did you admit?”
“No one at all. From half past seven until midnight no one went in
except Mr. Neuman.”
“Was not that a somewhat unusual circumstance?”
“Most extraordinary. Me and my husband spoke about it at the time.”
“You can swear positively on this score?”
“Yes, because we staid on the stoop the whole evening and not a soul
could have passed us without our seeing.”
“Are there any other means of ingress to the house of which you have
charge than the street door?”
“Yes, sir; the basement-door and the scuttle-door in the roof.”
“What was their condition on the night of the 12th of July?”
“They were locked and bolted.”
“What was their condition on the morning of the 13th?”
“At six o’clock when I opened the house they were still locked and
bolted.”
“Meantime could they have been unlocked?”
“No, because I carried the keys in my pocket.”
“Now, what are the means of ingress to the flat occupied by Mr.
Tikulski?”
“The door that opens from his private hall into the outer hall of the
house.”
“Any other?”
“No, your honor.”
“Do you recognize this key?” handing to the witness the key that the
officer had identified.
“I do, sir.”
“Well?”
“It’s a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door?”
Here befell a pause, during which the jurymen shifted in their seats and
the prosecutor consulted with his colleague. In a moment he resumed.
“Now, Mrs. Marshall, you have testified that the prisoner at the bar,
Ernest Neuman, left the house, No.—East Fifty-first street, shortly
before midnight on the 12th of July. Your memory on this point is
entirely trustworthy?”
“It is, sir.”
“Very well. Did you notice his movements after that?”
“I did, sir.”
“Tell us what they were.”
“Well, sir, he crossed over the street and stood on the sidewalk under
a lamp-post looking up at the front of the house toward Mr. Tikulski’s
windows, and then—”
“For how long?”
“I couldn’t tell exactly, but maybe for the time it would take you
to walk around the block.”
“For five minutes?”
“Yes, or more likely for ten.”
“And then—?”
“Well, and then, as I was saying, he marched straight away toward the
avenue.”
“Toward what avenue?”
“Toward Second avenue.”
“And disappeared?”
“And disappeared.”
“Did you see any thing more of him that night?”
“I did, sir.”
“When and under what circumstances?”
“In about a quarter of an hour, your honor, Mr. Neuman he comes back
and stands leaning up against the railing across the way; and pretty
soon crosses over and goes past us without speaking a word and enters
the house, the door being open, and goes up the stairs.” My lawyer
turned sharply to me. “Is this true?” he whispered. “No, it is
entirely false,” I answered. But I did not care.
“This,” resumed the district-attorney, “was at about what hour?”
“Sure, you can reckon it for yourself, sir. It was a little after
twelve.”
“Very good. Now, at what hour did you shut up the house?”
“It was after one o’clock.”
“Had the prisoner meantime gone out?”
“He had not.”
“So that consecutively from the moment of his reëntrance to the
hour of your closing up, he was in the house?”
“He was, sir.”
“Meanwhile, who else had entered?”
“Two of the tenants, Mr. and Mrs.————, the tenants of the
first flat.”
“Any one else?”
“No one else.”
“That will do, Mrs. Marshall.”
My lawyer cross-questioned her for an hour. His utmost art was powerless
to shake her. She reiterated absolutely and word for word what she had
already sworn to.
“John Marshall!” called the prosecutor.
It was the husband of the janitress. He confirmed her story, and like
her, was impregnable to Epstein’s assaults.
“That’s our case, your honor,” said the district-attorney to the
judge.
“Then we will adjourn until to-morrow,” replied the latter.
I was handcuffed and led back to the Tombs, a crowd following. Epstein
joined me in my cell.
“How about that key?” he demanded.
“I know nothing about it.”
“How about the blood on your handkerchief?”
“I don’t remember. Perhaps, as you suggested, I had a nose-bleed.”
“You are sure you did not reenter the house?”
“Yes, I am sure of that. I went straight home and to bed.”
“Then the Marshalls have lied out and out?”
“They have.”
“Will you take the stand?”
“What for?”
“Why, to defend, to exonerate yourself.”
“No.”
“I feared as much. My friend, your life depends upon it.”
“What do I care for my life?”
“But your good name—you cherish your good name, do you not?’
“No,” I replied, stubbornly.
He attempted to plead, to reason with me. “No, no, no,” I insisted.
He went his way.
“Your honor,” he said next day in court, “I ask that the jury
be directed to render a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that the
prosecution has failed to show any motive on the part of my client
for the crime of which he is accused. Where the evidence is wholly
circumstantial, as in the present case, a failure to show motive is
fatal.”
“I shall not hamper the jury,” said the judge. “They must decide
the case on its merits.” Epstein called, “Mrs. Burrows.” My
landlady took the witness-chair and testified to my excellent character.
He called a handful more to testify to the same thing; then said, “I
am ready to sum up, your honor.”
“Do so,” replied the Court.
Epstein spoke shortly and quietly. I remember his argument word for
word; yet I was not conscious of attending to it at the time.
He said, “We are not prepared to contest the matters of fact alleged
by the prosecution, nor to deny that their bearing is against my client.
That Mr. Neuman was in Miss Pathzuol’s company on the night of July
12th, and that the next morning a blood-stained handkerchief and a key
to Mr. Tikulski’s door were taken from his pocket, we admit. We will
even admit that these circumstances are of a sort to cast suspicion upon
him: all that we claim is that they are not sufficient to confirm that
suspicion and make it certainty. It is the liberty, perhaps the life,
of a human being which you have at your disposal. No matter how dark the
shadow over him may be, if you can entertain a reasonable doubt of his
guilt, you must acquit. And, putting it to you in all simplicity and
sincerity, I ask: Does not the evidence offered by the prosecution leave
room for a reasonable doubt? Is it not possible that some other hand
than Neuman’s dealt the blows by which Veronika Pathzuol met her
death? If such a possibility exists, you must give Neuman the benefit of
it; you must acquit. Consider his good character; consider that he was
the betrothed of the lady whose murderer they would make him out to be;
consider that absolutely no trace of motive has been brought home to
him; consider that on the contrary he was the one man who above all
others most desired that she might live; consider these matters,
and then decide whether in reasonableness his guilt is not in doubt.
Remember that it is not sufficient that there should be a presumption
against him. Remember that there must be proof. Remember also what a
grave duty yours is, and how grave the consequences, should you send an
innocent man to the gallows.
“Only one word more. I had naturally intended to place my client upon
the stand, and let him justify himself by his own word of mouth. But,
unfortunately, I am not able to do so, because morally and physically he
is prostrated and unfitted for sustaining the strain of an examination.
But after all, if you will for a moment imagine yourselves in Mr.
Neuman’s position, you can conceive that his defense must necessarily
be of a passive, not of an active, kind. In his position what could
you say? Why, only that you were ignorant of the whole transaction, and
innocent despite appearances, and as much at loss for a solution of the
mystery involving it as his honor himself. This is what Neuman would say
were he able to go upon the stand. But one thing more he would say. He
would impugn the veracity of the Marshalls. He would maintain that they
lied in toto when they swore to his second entrance. He would tell you
that when he left the house in Fifty-first street at midnight, he went
directly home and to his bed, and that he returned no more until the
next morning. And he would leave you to choose between his story and
that of Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. My opponent will ask, ‘Why not prove an
alibi, then?’ Because, when Mr. Neuman returned to his lodging-house
late that night, every body, as might have been expected, was asleep. He
encountered no one in the hall or on the stairs. He mounted straight to
his own bed-chamber and went to bed.
“I trust the matter to your discretion. I am sure that you will weigh
it carefully and conscientiously. You will realize that the life of a
fellow man hangs upon your verdict, and you will deliberate well, if
there be not, on the whole, a reasonable doubt in his favor. You will, I
am confident, in no uncertain mind consign Ernest Neuman to the grave of
a felon.” The district-attorney’s address was florid and rhetorical.
It lasted about two hours. He resumed the evidence. He said that an
ordinary process of elimination would suffice to fasten the guilt upon
the prisoner at the bar. The gist of his argument was that as Neuman
had been the only person in the victim’s company at the time of the
commission of the crime, he was consequently the only person who by
a physical possibility could be guilty. He warned the jury against
allowing their sympathies to interfere with their judgment, and read at
length from a law book respecting the value of circumstantial proof. He
ridiculed Epstein’s impeachment of the Marshalls, and added that even
without their testimony the doctor’s story and the police-captain’s
story, coupled with my own “eloquent silence,” were conclusive. It
was the obvious duty of the jury to convict.
The judge delivered his charge, dealing with the legal aspect of the
case.
Epstein rose again. “I request your honor,” he said, “to charge
that in the event of the jurymen finding that there is a reasonable
doubt in Neuman’s favor, they must acquit.”
“I so charge,” assented the judge.
“I request your honor,” Epstein continued, “to charge that if the
jurymen consider the fact of no motive having been shown, sufficient
to establish a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, they must
acquit.”
“I so charge you, gentlemen,” said the judge.
The jurymen filed out of the room. The judge left the bench. It was now
about four in the afternoon. Half an hour passed. The court-room began
to empty. Another half hour passed. Only the court attendants, Epstein,
the district-attorney’s colleague, and the prisoner remained. One of
the attendants held a whispered conference with Epstein: then said to
me, “There is no prospect of a speedy agreement. Come.” I rose,
followed him to the rear of the room, and was locked up in the
prisoner’s pen.
It got dark. I sat still in the dark and waited. The stupor bound my
faculties like a frost.
It had been dark many hours when the door of the pen swung open. The
same attendant again said, “Come.”
The court-room was lighted by a few feeble gas jets. The judge sat on
the bench. The district-attorney was laughing and chatting with him.
Epstein said, “For God’s sake, summon all your strength. They have
agreed.”
The jurymen entered in single file, took their places, settled
themselves in their chairs. The judge and the prosecutor suspended their
pleasantries. The clerk cleared his throat. There was a second of dead
silence. Then, “Prisoner, stand up,” called the clerk.