THE OPENING OF THE TRIAL.
Little did those who looked at Henry Cross on that morning as he
stood up to listen to the reading of the indictment against him
realize all that had passed through the young man’s mind since he
had been placed under arrest. They saw him pale, hollow-cheeked, and
hollow-eyed--restless, too--and given to clasping and unclasping his
hands at frequent intervals. Many thought they saw the signs of guilt
staring from his face, and wondered how it was he had not broken down
and confessed all.
They did not know the heavy secret he carried locked up in his heart--a
secret he had determined should not be forced from him, even though
he be made to walk to the very chair. “If she will not speak, I shall
remain silent,” he had said to himself. He loved her too much to
uncover her crimes to the world.
Many times had he wondered and wondered, trying to fathom Maud’s
secret. Who was the father of her son--Chesterbrook or another? What
had taken her to that man’s rooms on their wedding morning?--a quarrel
between them, or some discovery on his part? Had he really committed
suicide, or had she in anger or fear struck that deadly blow?
These questions and a hundred others had coursed through his brain,
and he had found himself unable to answer even the first of them. And
then there was that strange slip of paper. Who had placed that by the
desk? Was it genuine or a forgery?
At first he had thought to place that slip in evidence, but he had
realized that this would bring Maud on the witness stand, and he had
given up the idea. No, she must come entirely by her own free will, or
not at all.
The courtroom was crowded long before the case was called. There was
a buzz of conversation, which was, however, immediately hushed at the
announcement:
“The People against Henry Cross!”
Cross stood up, and the indictment was read, slowly and distinctly,
accusing him of having willfully and with malice aforethought killed
Allen Chesterbrook by stabbing the man in the heart with a dagger, on
the morning of May 20th, of the current year.
“Prisoner at the bar, how do you plead?”
Cross drew a long, deep breath.
“Not guilty,” he said, in a low but clear voice. Then he sat down.
After the usual routine the selection of a jury began. Cross took but
scant interest in this, but both Welford and the prosecuting attorney
were on the alert, and it was noon before the jury was finally settled
upon. A recess of half an hour was taken, and then the trial really
opened.
It is not our intention to go into the details of that great case as
it was presented for several days in the Lakeview courthouse. To those
wishing for all the particulars we would say that they may be found in
the back files of most of the leading journals of the country, for this
trial and its sensational ending attracted widespread attention. Both
sides went into many useless details, which wearied both judge and jury.
The first real surprise came when Jack Hull took the stand and began to
relate all that he had discovered. He told first of the quarrel that
had taken place between Cross and Chesterbrook, and said it was his
knowledge of this that had made him suspect Cross. Then he related how
he had taken Chesterbrook’s rooms, the finding of the loose ceiling
in the closet, of the square that had been nailed down with six-penny
nails, while the other boards were nailed with ten-penny nails; of his
going to the office and asking for some nails to mend a wagon, and
of the office boy giving him a hammer and some nails that Cross had
brought there two days after the murder.
He told how the square in the closet floor had been put down--in a way
that proved it had not been done by a regular carpenter--and said it
was large enough to admit of the passage of any ordinary man’s body,
being sixteen inches wide by twenty and a half inches long, the boards
being two in number, eight inches wide each.
Many looked at Cross as Hull paused here in his testimony, and they saw
him start and flush; but otherwise he retained his composure. At this
point Hull asked for and received a drink of water, and then continued
his testimony.
Now every one listened with bated breath as the detective related how
he had shadowed Henry Cross many times, and noticed his restlessness.
How, as long as he had occupied the murdered man’s rooms, Cross had
scarcely looked at him.
And then he told of the night when he was sitting in his room, and
Cross had come down the stairs in his pajamas, fast asleep. One could
have heard a pin drop when, in low, impressive tones, he related the
particulars of Cross’ appearance at that time. He vividly pictured
Jackson’s conduct, and how he--Hull--had cautioned the man to keep
silent.
Then came the horrible, thrilling climax which held the audience
spellbound--how Cross had stalked into the front room, passed to the
one in the rear, gone to the closet, and then how his manner had
changed as with a face full of bitter hatred he had sprung to the
bureau, caught up the hairbrush as one would a dagger, and stabbed
quickly and heavily at the empty air.
He stopped and looked at Cross, and the audience, the jury, and the
judge followed that gaze. The prisoner had arisen; he was clutching the
rail before him, and shaking as with the ague. He had listened to every
word, and he stood there doubting the evidence of his own senses, the
heavy beads of perspiration standing out upon his forehead, over which
his uncombed hair hung wildly. As all present looked at him his eyes
fell, and he dropped limply into his seat.
After this Hull’s testimony came to a rapid close. He told how Cross
had vanished from the room, and how he had cautioned Jackson to remain
silent for a few days. The knowledge that Cross was going to flee
next reached his ears, and he had waited no longer, but arrested the
criminal just as he was about to step on board one of the lake boats.
A long line of witnesses followed; Ned Degroot and Bart Harkness, who
had witnessed the quarrel at the Charity Ball, and overheard Cross say
he would kill Chesterbrook; Mark Jepson, who was compelled to testify
about the nails and the hammer; Jackson, who corroborated Hull’s
story of Cross’ somnambulism, and several other witnesses of lesser
importance.
Then the case was adjourned for the day, and the prisoner was taken
back to his cell, while the people streamed out into the raw, wintry
air, saying to themselves that Henry Cross had not the ghost of a
chance of being acquitted.
On the following morning, after a sleepless night and a long interview
with his lawyer, the prisoner was put on the stand. He was more calm
than on the day previous, and all could see that he had nerved himself
for a searching encounter with the prosecuting attorney.
No cross-examination had yet been indulged in, and the case had
moved on without a hitch. Consequently the prosecuting attorney was
contented, satisfied that the case would be decided against the
prisoner. He handled Cross lightly, almost pityingly. The prisoner
admitted what had been said about the quarrel, and the hammer and
nails, and the prosecutor did not ask him concerning his alleged
sleep-walking.
It was then that Welford showed what was in him. He began his opening
address with confidence and excellent judgment. In a few well-chosen
words he brushed aside almost all of the so-styled evidence against his
client, who, he asserted, was entirely innocent of this foul charge
brought against him.
He endeavored to prove that the quarrel between his client and
Chesterbrook had been patched up long before the murder, so much so
that on that fateful morning Cross had been gayly bound for the church
where the wedding was to take place, with never an idea in his head
that murder most foul had been committed.
Hull smiled to himself here. He had not mentioned that slip of paper,
for several reasons, and he was glad to learn that no plea of suicide
was to be entered.
And as for that hole in the closet, Welford went on, Cross had found
the boards loose weeks before and nailed them fast, and had taken the
hammer and nails to his office merely because he needed them more there
than he did at his rooms.
As to the sleep-walking--well, lots of people were at times subject to
somnambulism, and did very curious things when in that condition. He
could recite half a dozen queerer cases. Cross’ mind had been full of
the murder; he wouldn’t deny that, for his rooms were directly over
those of the murdered man, and he had been the first to find him.
His client was a sensitive man, of an imaginative turn of mind, and
during that sleep-walking had merely dreamed of the awful deed, and
imagined how it had been committed, just as he or any man on the
jury might do when he had eaten a heavy supper. If the sleep-walking
meant anything, it meant that Cross had come down to that room while
in a somnambulistic state, and had reënacted the murder of poor
Chesterbrook, as the details had been impressed upon his mind by
listening to them as described by the witnesses at the inquest.
The recess of the day was now reached, and the afternoon was mainly
devoted to the cross-examination of the witnesses, but nothing of
importance was elicited.
Among those who attended the trial was Colonel Willowby, who came
escorting a young woman who was heavily veiled. That his companion was
Maud Willowby no one for one moment doubted, but there was that in
the stern old military man’s bearing which precluded questioning on
the point. The two sat very nearly in the middle of the courtroom, in
a little seat cut off from the others by two columns running to the
ceiling, and during the progress of the case the eyes of the veiled
lady were never once taken from the face of the prisoner.
Maud had received Henry Cross’ letter on the morning after it had been
written and hardly had she finished reading it when her father had
brought her the news of the young man’s arrest. The announcement had
caused her to faint, and she had gone to bed sick, not to get up until
the Sunday previous to the day on which the great trial opened.
Her determination to witness the trial had surprised her father, who
had sought to interview Cross three times, but without success. But
he was forced to accede to her demands, and so there they were, like
a couple of outsiders, listening to all that was going on. Many times
had the young woman shivered to think that she might at any moment be
called on to take the stand and reveal her awful secret, but the call
had not come. Still the trial was not yet ended.
When the court adjourned for the day, the crowd was slow in leaving
the building, many remaining behind to see the sheriff once more take
charge of his prisoner, so pale, so haggard, and yet growing firmer
every hour.
There were all kinds of people there, business men, idlers from the
race track down at Creston, tramps, who thought as much of the shelter
as they did of the trial, and some few criminals to whom such scenes
were all too familiar. They stared at Cross openly and impudently, and
did not stir until he had passed out of sight through a door behind the
jury box. Then the spectators drifted out singly and in pairs, and the
conversation became loud and general.
The colonel and Maud waited in their retired seat until the main aisle
of the courtroom was almost cleared. Then the father took his daughter
by the arm.
“Come, my dear; we can easily get to the street now,” he said.
She did not reply, but, trembling over the strain she had endured
throughout the afternoon, arose and followed him. As she turned her
face toward the open doors, a man who had occupied a seat but a yard
or two to the rear of them also passed out to the aisle, and he and
Maud came face to face.
The young woman gazed at the stranger as if spellbound with horror.
She took a step forward as though to grasp him by the arm, then fell
back with bitter loathing depicted on her hidden face. She threw up her
hands wildly, gave one long, pitiable shriek, and fell at her father’s
feet like one dead.