The obscure defendant charged with murder has little reason to complain
of the law's delays. The morning following the arrest of Victor Ancona,
the newspapers published long sensational articles, denounced him as
a fiend, and convicted him. The grand jury, as it happened, was
in session. The preliminaries were soon arranged and the case was
railroaded into trial. The indictment contained a great many counts,
and charged the prisoner with the murder of Nina San Croix by striking,
stabbing, choking, poisoning, and so forth.
The trial had continued for three days and had appeared so
overwhelmingly one-sided that the spectators who were crowded in the
court-room had grown to be violent and bitter partisans, to such an
extent that the police watched them closely. The attorneys for the
People were dramatic and denunciatory, and forced their case with
arrogant confidence. Mason, as counsel for the prisoner, was indifferent
and listless. Throughout the entire trial he had sat almost motionless
at the table, his gaunt form bent over, his long legs drawn up under his
chair, and his weary, heavy-muscled face, with its restless eyes, fixed
and staring out over the heads of the jury, was like a tragic mask.
The bar, and even the judge, believed that the prisoner's counsel had
abandoned his case.
The evidence was all in and the People rested. It had been shown that
Nina San Croix had resided for many years in the house in which the
prisoner was arrested; that she had lived by herself, with no other
companion than an old negro servant; that her past was unknown, and that
she received no visitors, save the Mexican sailor, who came to her house
at long intervals. Nothing whatever was shown tending to explain who
the prisoner was or whence he had come. It was shown that on Tuesday
preceding the killing the Archbishop had received a communication from
Nina San Croix, in which she said she desired to make a statement of
the greatest import, and asking for an audience. To this the Archbishop
replied that he would willingly grant her a hearing if she would come
to him at eleven o'clock on Friday morning. Two policemen testified
that about eight o'clock on the night of Thursday they had noticed the
prisoner slip into the gate of Nina San Croix's residence and go down
to the side of the house, where he was admitted; that his appearance
and seeming haste had attracted their attention; that they had concluded
that it was some clandestine amour, and out of curiosity had both
slipped down to the house and endeavored to find a position from which
they could see into the room, but were unable to do so, and were about
to go back to the street when they heard a woman's voice cry out in
great anger: "I know that you love her and that you want to get rid of
me, but you shall not do it! You murdered him, but you shall not
murder me! I have all the evidence to convict you of murdering him! The
Archbishop will have it to-morrow! They shall hang you! Do you hear me?
They shall hang you for his murder!" that thereupon one of the policemen
proposed that they should break into the house and see what was wrong,
but the other had urged that it was only the usual lovers' quarrel and
if they should interfere they would find nothing upon which a charge
could be based and would only be laughed at by the chief; that they had
waited and listened for a time, but hearing nothing further had gone
back to the street and contented themselves with keeping a strict watch
on the house.
The People proved further, that on Thursday evening Nina San Croix had
given the old negro domestic a sum of money and dismissed her, with the
instruction that she was not to return until sent for. The old woman
testified that she had gone directly to the house of her son, and later
had discovered that she had forgotten some articles of clothing which
she needed; that thereupon she had returned to the house and had gone
up the back way to her room,--this was about eight o'clock; that
while there she had heard Nina San Croix's voice in great passion and
remembered that she had used the words stated by the policemen; that
these sudden, violent cries had frightened her greatly and she had
bolted the door and been afraid to leave the room; shortly thereafter,
she had heard heavy footsteps ascending the stairs, slowly and with
great difficulty, as though some one were carrying a heavy burden; that
therefore her fear had increased and that she had put out the light and
hidden under the bed. She remembered hearing the footsteps moving about
up-stairs for many hours, how long she could not tell Finally, about
half-past four in the morning, she crept out, opened the door, slipped
down stairs, and ran out into the street. There she had found the
policemen and requested them to search the house.
The two officers had gone to the house with the woman. She had opened
the door and they had had just time to step back into the shadow when
the prisoner entered. When arrested, Victor Ancona had screamed with
terror, and cried out, "It was no use! it was no use to do it!"
The Chief of Police had come to the house and instituted a careful
search. In the room below, from which the cries had come, he found a
dress which was identified as belonging to Nina San Croix and which
she was wearing when last seen by the domestic, about six o'clock that
evening. This dress was covered with blood, and had a slit about two
inches long in the left side of the bosom, into which the Mexican knife,
found on the prisoner, fitted perfectly. These articles were introduced
in evidence, and it was shown that the slit would be exactly over the
heart of the wearer, and that such a wound would certainly result in
death. There was much blood on one of the chairs and on the floor. There
was also blood on the prisoner's coat and the leg of his trousers, and
the heavy Mexican knife was also bloody. The blood was shown by the
experts to be human blood.
The body of the woman was not found, and the most rigid and tireless
search failed to develop the slightest trace of the corpse, or the
manner of its disposal. The body of the woman had disappeared as
completely as though it had vanished into the air.
When counsel announced that he had closed for the People, the judge
turned and looked gravely down at Mason. "Sir," he said, "the evidence
for the defence may now be introduced."
Randolph Mason arose slowly and faced the judge.
"If your Honor please," he said, speaking slowly and distinctly,
"the defendant has no evidence to offer." He paused while a murmur of
astonishment ran over the court-room. "But, if your Honor please," he
continued, "I move that the jury be directed to find the prisoner not
guilty."
The crowd stirred. The counsel for the People smiled. The judge looked
sharply at the speaker over his glasses. "On what ground?" he said
curtly.
"On the ground," replied Mason, "that the _corpus delicti_ has not been
proven."
"Ah!" said the judge, for once losing his judicial gravity.
Mason sat down abruptly. The senior counsel for the prosecution was on
his feet in a moment.
"What!" he said, "the gentleman bases his motion on a failure to
establish the _corpus delicti?_ Does he jest, or has he forgotten the
evidence? The term '_corpus delicti_' is technical, and means the body
of the crime, or the substantial fact that a crime has been committed.
Does any one doubt it in this case? It is true that no one actually saw
the prisoner kill the decedent, and that he has so sucessfully
hidden the body that it has not been found, but the powerful chain of
circumstances, clear and close-linked, proving motive, the criminal
agency, and the criminal act, is overwhelming.
"The victim in this case is on the eve of making a statement that would
prove fatal to the prisoner. The night before the statement is to be
made he goes to her residence. They quarrel. Her voice is heard, raised
high in the greatest passion, denouncing him, and charging that he is a
murderer, that she has the evidence and will reveal it, that he shall be
hanged, and that he shall not be rid of her. Here is the motive for the
crime, clear as light. Are not the bloody knife, the bloody dress, the
bloody clothes of the prisoner, unimpeachable witnesses to the criminal
act? The criminal agency of the prisoner has not the shadow of a
possibility to obscure it. His motive is gigantic. The blood on him,
and his despair when arrested, cry 'Murder! murder!' with a thousand
tongues.
"Men may lie, but circumstances cannot. The thousand hopes and fears and
passions of men may delude, or bias the witness. Yet it is beyond the
human mind to conceive that a clear, complete chain of concatenated
circumstances can be in error. Hence it is that the greatest jurists
have declared that such evidence, being rarely liable to delusion or
fraud, is safest and most powerful. The machinery of human justice
cannot guard against the remote and improbable doubt. The inference
is persistent in the affairs of men. It is the only means by which the
human mind reaches the truth. If you forbid the jury to exercise it,
you bid them work after first striking off their hands. Rule out the
irresistible inference, and the end of justice is come in this land; and
you may as well leave the spider to weave his web through the abandoned
courtroom."
The attorney stopped, looked down at Mason with a pompous sneer,
and retired to his place at the table. The judge sat thoughtful and
motionless. The jurymen leaned forward in their seats.
"If your Honor please," said Mason, rising, "this is a matter of law,
plain, clear, and so well settled in the State of New York that even
counsel for the People should know it. The question before your Honor is
simple. If the _corpus delicti,_ the body of the crime, has been proven,
as required by the laws of the commonwealth, then this case should go to
the jury. If not, then it is the duty of this Court to direct the jury
to find the prisoner not guilty. There is here no room for judicial
discretion. Your Honor has but to recall and apply the rigid rule
announced by our courts prescribing distinctly how the _corpus delicti_
in murder must be proven.
"The prisoner here stands charged with the highest crime. The law
demands, first, that the crime, as a fact, be established. The fact that
the victim is indeed dead must first be made certain before any one
can be convicted for her killing, because, so long as there remains
the remotest doubt as to the death, there can be no certainty as to
the criminal agent, although the circumstantial evidence indicating
the guilt of the accused may be positive, complete, and utterly
irresistible. In murder, the _corpus delicti_, or body of the crime, is
composed of two elements:
"Death, as a result.
"The criminal agency of another as the means.
"It is the fixed and immutable law of this State, laid down in the
leading case of Ruloff v. The People, and binding upon this Court, that
both components of the _corpus delicti_ shall not be established by
circumstantial evidence. There must be direct proof of one or the other
of these two component elements of the _corpus delicti_. If one is
proven by direct evidence, the other may be presumed; but both shall not
be presumed from circumstances, no matter how powerful, how cogent, or
how completely overwhelming the circumstances may be. In other words, no
man can be convicted of murder in the State of New York, unless the body
of the victim be found and identified, or there be direct proof that the
prisoner did some act adequate to produce death, and did it in such a
manner as to account for the disappearance of the body."
The face of the judge cleared and grew hard. The members of the bar were
attentive and alert; they were beginning to see the legal escape open
up. The audience were puzzled; they did not yet understand. Mason turned
to the counsel for the People. His ugly face was bitter with contempt.
"For three days," he said, "I have been tortured by this useless
and expensive farce. If counsel for the People had been other than
playactors, they would have known in the beginning that Victor Ancona
could not be convicted for murder, unless he were confronted in this
courtroom with a living witness, who had looked into the dead face of
Nina San Croix; or, if not that, a living witness who had seen him drive
the dagger into her bosom.
"I care not if the circumstantial evidence in this case were so strong
and irresistible as to be overpowering; if the judge on the bench, if
the jury, if every man within sound of my voice, were convinced of the
guilt of the prisoner to the degree of certainty that is absolute; if
the circumstantial evidence left in the mind no shadow of the remotest
improbable doubt; yet, in the absence of the eye-witness, this prisoner
cannot be punished, and this Court must compel the jury to acquit him."
The audience now understood, and they were dumbfounded. Surely this was
not the law. They had been taught that the law was common sense, and
this,--this was anything else.
Mason saw it all, and grinned. "In its tenderness," he sneered, "the law
shields the innocent. The good law of New York reaches out its hand and
lifts the prisoner out of the clutches of the fierce jury that would
hang him."
Mason sat down. The room was silent. The jurymen looked at each other
in amazement. The counsel for the People arose. His face was white with
anger, and incredulous.
"Your Honor," he said, "this doctrine is monstrous. Can it be said that,
in order to evade punishment, the murderer has only to hide or destroy
the body of the victim, or sink it into the sea? Then, if he is not seen
to kill, the law is powerless and the murderer can snap his finger in
the face of retributive justice. If this is the law, then the law for
the highest crime is a dead letter. The great commonwealth winks at
murder and invites every man to kill his enemy, provided he kill him
in secret and hide him. I repeat, your Honor,"--the man's voice was now
loud and angry and rang through the court-room--"that this doctrine is
monstrous!"
"So said Best, and Story, and many another," muttered Mason, "and the
law remained."
"The Court," said the judge, abruptly, "desires no further argument."
The counsel for the People resumed his seat. His face lighted up with
triumph. The Court was going to sustain him.
The judge turned and looked down at the jury. He was grave, and spoke
with deliberate emphasis.
"Gentlemen of the jury," he said, "the rule of Lord Hale obtains in this
State and is binding upon me. It is the law as stated by counsel for
the prisoner: that to warrant conviction of murder there must be direct
proof either of the death, as of the finding and identification of the
corpse, or of criminal violence adequate to produce death, and exerted
in such a manner as to account for the disappearance of the body; and
it is only when there is direct proof of the one that the other can be
established by circumstantial evidence. This is the law, and cannot now
be departed from. I do not presume to explain its wisdom. Chief-Justice
Johnson has observed, in the leading case, that it may have its probable
foundation in the idea that where direct proof is absent as to both the
fact of the death and of criminal violence capable of producing
death, no evidence can rise to the degree of moral certainty that the
individual is dead by criminal intervention, or even lead by direct
inference to this result; and that, where the fact of death is not
certainly ascertained, all inculpatory circumstantial evidence wants
the key necessary for its satisfactory interpretation, and cannot be
depended on to furnish more than probable results. It may be, also,
that such a rule has some reference to the dangerous possibility that
a general preconception of guilt, or a general excitement of popular
feeling, may creep in to supply the place of evidence, if, upon other
than direct proof of death or a cause of death, a jury are permitted to
pronounce a prisoner guilty.
"In this case the body has not been found and there is no direct proof
of criminal agency on the part of the prisoner, although the chain of
circumstantial evidence is complete and irresistible in the highest
degree. Nevertheless, it is all circumstantial evidence, and under the
laws of New York the prisoner cannot be punished. I have no right of
discretion. The law does not permit a conviction in this case, although
every one of us may be morally certain of the prisoner's guilt. I am,
therefore, gentlemen of the jury, compelled to direct you to find the
prisoner not guilty."
"Judge," interrupted the foreman, jumping up in the box, "we cannot find
that verdict under our oath; we know that this man is guilty."
"Sir," said the judge, "this is a matter of law in which the wishes of
the jury cannot be considered. The clerk will write a verdict of not
guilty, which you, as foreman, will sign."
The spectators broke out into a threatening murmur that began to grow
and gather volume. The judge rapped on his desk and ordered the bailiffs
promptly to suppress any demonstration on the part of the audience. Then
he directed the foreman to sign the verdict prepared by the clerk, When
this was done he turned to Victor Ancona; his face was hard and there
was a cold glitter in his eyes.
"Prisoner at the bar," he said, "you have been put to trial before this
tribunal on a charge of cold-blooded and atrocious murder. The evidence
produced against you was of such powerful and overwhelming character
that it seems to have left no doubt in the minds of the jury, nor indeed
in the mind of any person present in this court-room.
"Had the question of your guilt been submitted to these twelve arbiters,
a conviction would certainly have resulted and the death penalty would
have been imposed. But the law, rigid, passionless, even-eyed, has
thrust in between you and the wrath of your fellows and saved you from
it I do not cry out against the impotency of the law; it is perhaps as
wise as imperfect humanity could make it. I deplore, rather, the genius
of evil men who, by cunning design, are enabled to slip through the
fingers of this law. I have no word of censure or admonition for you,
Victor Ancona. The law of New York compels me to acquit you. I am only
its mouthpiece, with my individual wishes throttled. I speak only those
things which the law directs I shall speak.
"You are now at liberty to leave this court-room, not guiltless of the
crime of murder, perhaps, but at least rid of its punishment. The eyes
of men may see Cain's mark on your brow, but the eyes of the Law are
blind to it."
When the audience fully realized what the judge had said they were
amazed and silent. They knew as well as men could know, that Victor
Ancona was guilty of murder, and yet he was now going out of the
court-room free. Could it happen that the law protected only against the
blundering rogue? They had heard always of the boasted completeness of
the law which magistrates from time immemorial had labored to perfect,
and now when the skilful villain sought to evade it, they saw how weak a
thing it was.