“Prisoner, look you upon the jury. Jury, look you upon the
prisoner,” the clerk cried, machine-like.
In the murky light of the gas I could have gathered nothing from the
faces of the jurymen, even had I been concerned to do so.
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?” the
metallic voice of the clerk rang out.
The foreman rose. “We have,” he answered.
“How say you, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty
of the offense for which he stands indicted?”
“Not guilty,” said the foreman.
Epstein grasped my hand and crunched it hard. His own was clammy. He did
not speak.
“Gentlemen of the jury, you say you find the prisoner at the bar
not guilty of homicide in the first degree, and so your verdict stands
recorded. Neuman, you are discharged.” It was the clerk’s last word.
I quitted the court-room, a free man. I was as indifferent to my freedom
as I had been to my peril. There was no consciousness of relief in my
breast.
Epstein stood at my elbow. “You must be weak and faint,” he said.
“Come with me.”
He led me through the silent streets and into a restaurant.
“This is an all-night place,” he said, with an attempt at
cheerfulness, “and much frequented by journalists. What will you
have?”
“I am not hungry,” I answered.
“Oh, but you must take something,” he urged with a touch of
ruefulness, “just a bite to celebrate our victory.”
I drank a cup of coffee. When we were again out-doors, Epstein cried,
“Why, see; it is beginning to get light. Morning already.” A fresh
wind blew in our faces, and the blackness of the sky was giving place to
gray. “I must leave you now,” said Epstein, “and hurry home. Where
will you go?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll stroll about for a while.
Good-by.”
“Good-by.”