There was a great to-do some years ago in the city of New York over an
ill-omened young person, Duffy by name, who, falling into the bad
graces of the police, was most incontinently dragged to headquarters
and "mugged" without so much as "By your leave, sir," on the part of the
authorities. Having been photographed and measured (in most humiliating
fashion) he was turned loose with a gratuitous warning to behave himself
in the future and see to it that he did nothing which might gain him
even more invidious treatment.
Now, although many thousands of equally harmless persons had been
similarly treated, this particular outrage was made the occasion of a
vehement protest to the mayor of the city by a certain member of the
judiciary, who pointed out that such things in a civilized community
were shocking beyond measure, and called upon the mayor to remove the
commissioner of police and all his staff of deputy commissioners for
openly violating the law which they were sworn to uphold. But, the
commissioner of police, who had sometimes enforced the penal statutes in
a way to make him unpopular with machine politicians, saw nothing wrong
in what he had done, and, what was more, said so most outspokenly.
The judge said, "You did," and the commissioner said, "I didn't."
Specifically, the judge was complaining of what had been done to
Duffy, but more generally he was charging the police with despotism and
oppression and with systematically disregarding the sacred liberties of
the citizens which it was their duty to protect.
Accordingly the mayor decided to look into the matter for himself, and
after a lengthy investigation came to the alleged conclusion that the
"mugging" of Duffy was a most reprehensible thing and that all those who
were guilty of having any part therein should be instantly removed
from office. He, therefore, issued a pronunciamento to the commissioner
demanding the official heads of several of his subordinates, which order
the commissioner politely declined to obey. The mayor thereupon removed
him and appointed a successor, ostensibly for the purpose of having in
the office a man who should conduct the police business of the city with
more regard for the liberties of the inhabitants thereof. The judge
who had started the rumpus expressed himself as very much pleased and
declared that now at last a new era had dawned wherein the government
was to be administered with a due regard for law.
Now, curiously enough, although the judge had demanded the removal of
the commissioner on the ground that he had violated the law and been
guilty of tyrannous and despotic conduct, the mayor had ousted him
not for pursuing an illegal course in arresting and "mugging" a
presumptively innocent man (for illegal it most undoubtedly was), but
for inefficiency and maladministration in his department.
Said the mayor in his written opinion:
"After thinking over this matter with the greatest care, I am led to the
conclusion that as mayor of the city of New York I should not order
the police to stop taking photographs of people arrested and accused of
crime or who have been indicted by grand juries. That grave injustice
may occur the Duffy case has demonstrated, but I feel that it is not the
taking of the photograph that has given cause to the injustice, but the
inefficiency and maladministration of the police department, etc."
In other words, the mayor set the seal of his official approval upon
the very practice which caused the injustice to Duffy. "Mugging" was all
right, so long as you "mugged" the right persons.
The situation thus outlined was one of more than passing interest. A
sensitive point in our governmental nervous system had been touched and
a condition uncovered that sooner or later must be diagnosed and cured.
For the police have no right to arrest and photograph a citizen
unconvicted of crime, since it is contrary to law. And it is ridiculous
to assert that the very guardians of the law may violate it so long as
they do so judiciously and do not molest the Duffys. The trouble goes
deeper than that. The truth is that we are up against that most delicate
of situations, the concrete adjustment of a theoretical individual right
to a practical necessity. The same difficulty has always existed and
will always continue to exist whenever emergencies requiring prompt
and decisive action arise or conditions obtain that must be handled
effectively without too much discussion. It is easy while sitting on the
piazza with your cigar to recognize the rights of your fellow-men, you
may assert most vigorously the right of the citizen to immunity from
arrest without legal cause, but if you saw a seedy character sneaking
down a side street at three o'clock in the morning, his pockets bulging
with jewelry and silver! Would you have the policeman on post insist
on the fact that a burglary had been committed being established beyond
peradventure before arresting the suspect, who in the meantime would
undoubtedly escape? Of course, the worthy officer sometimes does this,
but his conduct in that case becomes the subject of an investigation
on the part of his superiors. In fact, the rules of the New York police
department require him to arrest all persons carrying bags in the small
hours who cannot give a satisfactory account of themselves. Yet there
is no such thing under the laws of the State as a right "to arrest on
suspicion." No citizen may be arrested under the statutes unless a crime
has actually been committed. Thus, the police regulations deliberately
compel every officer either to violate the law or to be made the subject
of charges for dereliction of duty. A confusing state of things, truly,
to a man who wants to do his duty by himself and by his fellow-citizens!
The present author once wrote a book dealing with the practical
administration of criminal justice, in which the unlawfulness of arrest
on mere "suspicion" was discussed at length and given a prominent place.
But when the time came for publication that portion of it was omitted
at the earnest solicitation of certain of the authorities on the ground
that as such arrests were absolutely necessary for the enforcement
of the criminal law a public exposition of their illegality would do
infinite harm. Now, as it seems, the time has come when the facts, for
one reason or another, should be faced. The difficulty does not end,
however, with "arrest on suspicion," "the third degree," "mugging," or
their allied abuses. It really goes to the root of our whole theory of
the administration of the criminal law. Is it possible that on final
analysis we may find that our enthusiastic insistence upon certain of
the supposedly fundamental liberties of the individual has led us into
a condition of legal hypocrisy vastly less desirable than the frank
attitude of our continental neighbors toward such subjects?
The Massachusetts Constitution of 1785 concludes with the now famous
words: "To the end that this may be a government of laws and not of
men." That is the essence of the spirit of American government. Our
forefathers had arisen and thrown off the yoke of England and her
intolerable system of penal government, in which an accused had no
right to testify in his own behalf and under which he could be hung
for stealing a sheep. "Liberty!" "Liberty or death!" That was the note
ringing in the minds and mouths of the signers of the Declaration and
framers of the Constitution. That is the popular note to-day of the
Fourth of July orator and of the Memorial Day address. This liberty was
to be guaranteed by laws in such a way that it was never to be curtailed
or violated. No mere man was to be given an opportunity to tamper
with it. The individual was to be protected at all costs. No king, or
sheriff, or judge, or officer was to lay his finger on a free man
save at his peril. If he did, the free man might immediately have his
"law"--"have the law on him," as the good old expression was--for no
king or sheriff was above the law. In fact, we were so energetic in
providing safeguards for the individual, even when a wrong-doer, that we
paid very little attention to the effectiveness of kings or sheriffs or
what we had substituted for them. And so it is to-day. What candidate
for office, what silver-tongued orator or senator, what demagogue or
preacher could hold his audience or capture a vote if, when it came to a
question of liberty, he should lift up his voice in behalf of the rights
of the majority as against the individual?
Accordingly in devising our laws We have provided in every possible way
for the freedom of the citizen from all interference on the part of the
authorities. No one may be stopped, interrogated, examined, or arrested
unless a crime has been committed. Every one is presumed to be innocent
until shown to be guilty by the verdict of a jury. No one's premises
may be entered or searched without a warrant which the law renders it
difficult to obtain. Every accused has the right to testify in his own
behalf, like any other witness. The fact that he has been held for a
crime by a magistrate and indicted by a grand jury places him at not the
slightest disadvantage so far as defending himself against the charge
is concerned, for he must be proven guilty beyond any reasonable
doubt. These illustrations of the jealousy of the law for the rights of
citizens might be multiplied to no inconsiderable extent. Further,
our law allows a defendant convicted of crime to appeal to the highest
courts, whereas if he be acquitted the people or State of New York have
no right of appeal at all.
Without dwelling further on the matter it is enough to say that in
general the State constitutions, their general laws, or penal statutes
provide that a person who is accused or suspected of crime must be
presumed innocent and treated accordingly until his guilt has been
affirmatively established in a jury trial; that meantime he must not be
confined or detained unless a crime has in fact been committed and there
is at least reasonable cause to believe that he has committed it; and,
further, that if arrested he must be given an immediate opportunity
to secure bail, to have the advice of counsel, and must in no way be
compelled to give any evidence against himself. So much for the law. It
is as plain as a pikestaff. It is printed in the books in words of
one syllable. So far as the law is concerned we have done our best
to perpetuate the theories of those who, fearing that they might be
arrested without a hearing, transported for trial, and convicted in a
king's court before a king's judge for a crime they knew nothing of,
insisted on "liberty or death." They had had enough of kings and their
ways. Hereafter they were to have "a government of laws and not of men."
But the unfortunate fact remains that all laws, however perfect, must in
the end be administered by imperfect men. There is, alas! no such thing
as a government of laws and not of men. You may have a government
more of laws and less of men, or vice versa, but you cannot have an
auto-administration of the Golden Rule. Sooner or later you come to a
man--in the White House, or on a wool sack, or at a desk in an office,
or in a blue coat and brass buttons--and then, to a very considerable
extent, the question of how far ours is to be a government of laws or of
men depends upon him. Generally, so far as he is concerned, it is going
to be of man, for every official finds that the letter of the law works
an injustice many times out of a hundred. If he is worth his salary he
will try to temper justice with mercy. If he is human he will endeavor
to accomplish justice as he sees it so long as the law can be stretched
to accommodate the case. Thus, inevitably there is a conflict
between the law and its application. It is the human element in the
administration of the law that enables lawyers to get a living. It is
usually not difficult to tell what the law is; the puzzle is how it
is going to be applied in any individual case. How it is going to be
applied depends very largely upon the practical side of the matter and
the exigencies of existing conditions.
It is pretty hard to apply inflexibly laws over a hundred years old. It
is equally hard to police a city of a million or so polyglot inhabitants
with a due regard to their theoretic constitutional rights. But suppose
in addition that these theoretic rights are entirely theoretic and fly
in the face of the laws of nature, experience, and common sense? What
then? What is a police commissioner to do who has either got to make an
illegal arrest or let a crook get away, who must violate the rights of
men illegally detained by outrageously "mugging" them or egregiously
fail to have a record of the professional criminals in his bailiwick?
He does just what all of us do under similar conditions--he "takes a
chance." But in the case of the police the thing is so necessary that
there ceases practically to be any "chance" about it. They have got to
prevent crime and arrest criminals. If they fail they are out of a
job, and others more capable or less scrupulous take their places. The
fundamental law qualifying all systems is that of necessity. You can't
let professional crooks carry off a voter's silverware simply because
the voter, being asleep, is unable instantly to demonstrate beyond
a reasonable doubt that his silver has been stolen. You can't permit
burglars to drag sacks of loot through the streets of the city at 4 A.M.
simply because they are presumed to be innocent until proven guilty. And
if "arrest on suspicion" were not permitted, demanded by the public,
and required by the police ordinances, away would go the crooks and off
would go the silverware, the town would be full of "leather snatchers"
and "strong-arm men," respectable citizens would be afraid to go out o'
nights, and liberty would degenerate into license. That is the point. We
Americans, or at least some of the newer ones of us, have an idea that
"liberty" means the right to steal apples from our neighbor's orchard
without interference. Now, somewhere or other, there has got to be a
switch and a strong arm to keep us in order, and the switch and arm must
not wait until the apples are stolen and eaten before getting busy. If
we come climbing over the fence sweating apples at every pore, is Farmer
Jones to go and count his apples before grabbing us?
The most presumptuous of all presumptions is this "presumption of
innocence." It really doesn't exist, save in the mouths of judges and in
the pages of the law books. Yet as much to-do is made about it as if
it were a living legal principle. Every judge in a criminal case is
required to charge the jury in form or substance somewhat as follows:
"The defendant is presumed to be innocent until that presumption is
removed by competent evidence"... "This presumption is his property,
remaining with him throughout the trial and until rebutted by the
verdict of the jury."... "The jury has no right to consider the fact
that the defendant stands at the bar accused of a crime by an indictment
found by the grand jury." Shades of Sir Henry Hawkins! Does the judge
expect that they are actually to swallow that? Here is a jury sworn "to
a true verdict find" in the case of an ugly looking customer at the bar
who is charged with knocking down an old man and stealing his watch. The
old man--an apostolic looking octogenarian--is sitting right over there
where the jury can see him. One look at the plaintiff and one at the
accused and the jury may be heard to mutter, "He's guilty,--all right!"
"Presumed to be innocent?" Why, may I ask? Do not the jury and everybody
else know that this good old man would never, save by mistake, accuse
anybody falsely of crime? Innocence! Why, the natural and inevitable
presumption is that the defendant is guilty! The human mind works
intuitively by comparison and experience. We assume or presume with
considerable confidence that parents love their children, that all
college presidents are great and good men, and that wild bulls are
dangerous animals. We may be wrong. But it is up to the other fellow to
show us the contrary.
Now, if out of a clear sky Jones accuses Robinson of being a thief we
know by experience that the chances are largely in favor of Jones's
accusation being well founded. People as a rule don't go rushing around
charging each other with being crooks unless they have some reason
for it. Thus, at the very beginning the law flies in the face of
probabilities when it tells us that a man accused of crime must be
presumed to be innocent. In point of fact, whatever presumption there is
(and this varies with the circumstances) is all the other way, greater
or less depending upon the particular attitude of mind and experience of
the individual.
This natural presumption of guilt from the mere fact of the charge is
rendered all the more likely by reason of the uncharitable readiness
with which we believe evil of our fellows. How unctuously we repeat some
hearsay bit of scandal. "I suppose you have heard the report that
Deacon Smith has stolen the church funds?" we say to our friends with a
sententious sigh--the outward sign of an invisible satisfaction. Deacon
Smith after the money-bag? Ha! ha! Of course, he's guilty! These deacons
are always guilty! And in a few minutes Deacon Smith is ruined forever,
although the fact of the matter may well have been that he was but
counting the money in the collection-plate. This willingness to believe
the worst of others is a matter of common knowledge and of historical
and literary record. "The evil that men do lives after them--" It might
well have been put, "The evil men are said to have done lives forever."
However unfair, this is a psychologic condition which plays an important
part in rendering the presumption of innocence a gross absurdity.
But let us press the history of Jones and Robinson a step further. The
next event in the latter's criminal history is his appearance in
court before a magistrate. Jones produces his evidence and calls his
witnesses. Robinson, through his learned counsel, cross-examines
them and then summons his own witnesses to prove his innocence. The
proceeding may take several days or perhaps weeks. Briefs are submitted.
The magistrate considers the testimony and finally decides that he
believes Robinson guilty and must hold him for the action of the
grand jury. You might now, it would perhaps seem, have some reason for
suspecting that Robinson was not all that he should be. But no! He is
still presumed in the eyes of the law, and theoretically in the eyes of
his fellows, to be as innocent as a babe unborn. And now the grand jury
take up and sift the evidence that has already been gone over by the
police judge. They, too, call witnesses and take additional testimony.
They likewise are convinced of Robinson's guilt and straightway hand
down an indictment accusing him of the crime. A bench warrant issues.
The defendant is run to earth and ignominiously haled to court. But he
is still presumed to be innocent! Does not the law say so? And is not
this a "government of laws"? Finally, the district attorney, who is not
looking for any more work than is absolutely necessary, investigates the
case, decides that it must be tried and begins to prepare it for trial.
As the facts develop themselves Robinson's guilt becomes more and more
clear. The unfortunate defendant is given any opportunity he may desire
to explain away the charge, but to no purpose.
The district attorney knows Robinson is guilty, and so does everybody
else, including Robinson. At last this presumably innocent man is
brought to the bar for trial. The jury scan his hang-dog countenance
upon which guilt is plainly written. They contrast his appearance with
that of the honest Jones. They know he has been accused, held by a
magistrate, indicted by a grand jury, and that his case, after careful
scrutiny, has been pressed for trial by the public prosecutor. Do they
really presume him innocent? Of course not. They presume him guilty. "So
soon as I see him come through dot leetle door in the back of the room,
then I know he's guilty!" as the foreman said in the old story. What
good does the presumption of innocence, so called, do for the miserable
Robinson? None whatever--save perhaps to console him in the long days
pending his trial. But such a legal hypocrisy could never have deceived
anybody. How much better it would be to cast aside all such cant and
frankly admit that the attitude of the continental law toward the man
under arrest is founded upon common sense and the experience of mankind.
If he is the wrong man it should not be difficult for him to demonstrate
the fact. At any rate circumstances are against him, and he should be
anxious to explain them away if he can.
The fact of the matter is, that in dealing with practical conditions,
police methods differ very little in different countries. The
authorities may perhaps keep considerably more detailed "tabs" on people
in Europe than in the United States, but if they are once caught in a
compromising position they experience about the same treatment wherever
they happen to be. In France (and how the apostles of liberty condemn
the iniquity of the administration of criminal justice in that country!)
the suspect or undesirable receives a polite official call or note, in
which he is invited to leave the locality as soon as convenient. In
New York he is arrested by a plainclothes man, yanked down to Mulberry
Street for the night, and next afternoon is thrust down the gangplank
of a just departing Fall River liner. Many an inspector has earned
unstinted praise (even from the New York Evening Post) by "clearing New
York of crooks" or having a sort of "round-up" of suspicious characters
whom, after proper identification, he has ejected from the city by the
shortest and quickest possible route. Yet in the case of every person
thus arrested and driven out of the town he has undoubtedly violated
constitutional rights and taken the law into his own hands.
What redress can a penniless tramp secure against a stout inspector of
police able and willing to spend a considerable sum of money in his own
defence, and with the entire force ready and eager to get at the tramp
and put him out of business? He swallows his pride, if he has any, and
ruefully slinks out of town for a period of enforced abstinence from the
joys of metropolitan existence. Yet who shall say that, in spite of the
fact that it is a theoretic outrage upon liberty, this cleaning out of
the city is not highly desirable? One or two comparatively innocent men
may be caught in the ruck, but they generally manage to intimate to the
police that the latter have "got them wrong" and duly make their
escape. The others resume their tramp from city to city, clothed in the
presumption of their innocence.
Since the days of the Doges or of the Spanish Inquisition there has
never been anything like the morning inspection or "line up" of arrested
suspects at the New York police head-quarters.* (*Now abolished.) One by
one the unfortunate persons arrested during the previous night (although
not charged with any crime) are pointed out to the assembled detective
force, who scan them from beneath black velvet masks in order that they
themselves may not be recognized when they meet again on Broadway or
the darker side streets of the city. Each prisoner is described and his
character and past performances are rehearsed by the inspector or head
of the bureau. He is then measured, "mugged," and, if lucky, turned
loose. What does his liberty amount to or his much-vaunted legal rights
if the city is to be made safe? Yet why does not some apostle of liberty
raise his voice and cry aloud concerning the wrong that has been done?
Are not the rights of a beggar as sacred as those of a bishop?
One of the most sacred rights guaranteed under the law is that of not
being compelled to give evidence against ourselves or to testify to
anything which might degrade or incriminate us. Now, this is all very
fine for the chap who has his lawyer at his elbow or has had some
similar previous experience. He may wisely shut up like a clam and set
at defiance the tortures of the third degree. But how about the poor
fellow arrested on suspicion of having committed a murder, who has never
heard of the legal provision in question, or, if he has, is cajoled or
threatened into "answering one or two questions"? Few police officers
take the trouble to warn those whom they arrest that what they say may
be used against them. What is the use? Of course, when they testify
later at the trial they inevitably begin their testimony with the
stereotyped phrase, "I first warned the defendant that anything which
he said might be used against him." If they did warn him they probably
whispered it or mumbled it so that he didn't hear what they said, or,
in any event, whether they said it or not, half a dozen of them probably
took him into a back room and, having set him with his back against the
wall, threatened and swore at him until he told them what he knew, or
thought he knew, and perhaps confessed his crime. When the case comes to
trial the police give the impression that the accused quietly summoned
them to his cell to make a voluntary statement. The defendant denies
this, of course, but the evidence goes in and the harm has been done. No
doubt the methods of the inquisition are in vogue the world over under
similar conditions. Everybody knows that a statement by the accused
immediately upon his arrest is usually the most important evidence that
can be secured in any case. It is a police officer's duty to secure one
if he can do so by legitimate means. It is his custom to secure one
by any means in his power. As his oath, that such a statement was
voluntary, makes it ipso facto admissible as evidence, the statutes
providing that a defendant cannot be compelled to give evidence against
himself are practically nullified.
In the more important cases the accused is usually put through some sort
of an inquisitorial process by the captain at the station-house. If
he is not very successful at getting anything out of the prisoner the
latter is turned over to the sergeant and a couple of officers who can
use methods of a more urgent character. If the prisoner is arrested
by headquarters detectives, various efficient devices to compel him to
"give up what he knows" may be used--such as depriving him of food and
sleep, placing him in a cell with a "stool pigeon" who will try to worm
a confession out of him, and the usual moral suasion of a heart-to-heart
talk in the back room with the inspector.
This is the darker side of the picture of practical government. It
is needless to say that the police do not always suggest the various
safeguards and privileges which the law accords to defendants thus
arrested, but the writer is free to confess that, save in exceptional
cases, he believes the rigors of the so-called third degree to be
greatly exaggerated. Frequently in dealing with rough men rough methods
are used, but considering the multitude of offenders, and the thousands
of police officers, none of whom have been trained in a school of
gentleness, it is surprising that severer treatment is not generally
met with on the part of those who run afoul of the criminal law. The
ordinary "cop" tries to do his duty as effectively as he can. With the
average citizen gruffness and roughness go a long way in the assertion
of authority. In the task of policing a big city, the rights of the
individual must indubitably suffer to a certain extent if the rights
of the multitude are to be properly protected. We can make too much of
small injustices and petty incivilities. Police business is not gentle
business. The officers are trying to prevent you and me from being
knocked on the head some dark night or from being chloroformed in our
beds. Ten thousand men are trying to do a thirty-thousand-man job. The
struggle to keep the peace and put down crime is a hard one anywhere.
It requires a strong arm that cannot show too punctilious a regard for
theoretical rights when prompt decisions have to be made and equally
prompt action taken. The thieves and gun men have got to be driven
out. Suspicious characters have got to be locked up. Somehow or other a
record must be kept of professional criminals and persons likely to
be active in law-breaking. These are necessities in every civilized
country. They are necessities here. Society employs the same methods of
self-protection the world over. No one presumes a person charged with
crime to be innocent, either in Delhi, Pekin, Moscow, or New York. Under
proper circumstances we believe him guilty. When he comes to be tried
the jury consider the evidence, and if they are reasonably sure he is
guilty they convict him. The doctrine of reasonable doubt is almost as
much of a fiction as that of the presumption of innocence. From the
time a man is arrested until arraignment he is quizzed with a view to
inducing him to admit his offence or give some evidence that may help
convict him. Logically, why should not a person charged with a crime
be obliged to give what explanation he can of the affair? Why should he
have the privilege of silence? Doesn't he owe a duty to the public the
same as any other witness? If he is innocent he has nothing to fear; if
he is guilty--away with him! The French have no false ideas about such
things and at the same time they have a high regard for liberty. We
merely cheat ourselves into thinking that our liberty is something
different from French liberty because we have a lot of laws upon our
statute books that are there only to be disregarded and would have to be
repealed instantly if enforced.
Take, for instance, the celebrated provision of the penal laws that the
failure of an accused to testify in his own behalf shall not be taken
against him. Such a doctrine flies in the face of human nature. If a
man sits silent when witnesses under oath accuse him of a crime it is an
inevitable inference that he has nothing to say--that no explanation of
his would explain. The records show that the vast majority of accused
persons who do not avail themselves of the opportunity to testify are
convicted. Thus, the law which permits a defendant to testify in reality
compels him to testify, and a much-invoked safeguard of liberty turns
out to be a privilege in name only. In France or America alike a man
accused of crime sooner or later has to tell what he knows--or take
his medicine. It makes little difference whether he does so under the
legalized interrogation of a "juge d'instruction" in Paris or under the
quasi-voluntary examination of an assistant district attorney or police
inspector in New York. It is six of one and half a dozen of the other if
at his trial in France he remains mute under examination or in America
refrains from availing himself of the privilege of testifying in his own
behalf.
Thus, we are reluctantly forced to the conclusion that all human
institutions have their limitations, and that, however theoretically
perfect a government of laws may be, it must be administered by men
whose chief regard will not be the idealization of a theory of liberty
so much as an immediate solution of some concrete problem.
Not that the matter, after all, is particularly important to most of us,
but laws which exist only to be broken create a disrespect and disregard
for law which may ultimately be dangerous. It would be perfectly simple
for the legislature to say that a citizen might be arrested under
circumstances tending to create a reasonable suspicion, even if he had
not committed a crime, and it would be quite easy to pass a statute
providing that the commissioner of police might "mug" and measure all
criminals immediately after conviction. As it is, the prison authorities
won't let him, so he has to do it while he has the opportunity.
It must be admitted that this is rather hard on the innocent, but they
now have to suffer with the guilty for the sins of an indolent and
uninterested legislature. Moreover, if such a right of arrest were
proposed, some wiseacre or politician would probably rise up and
denounce the suggestion as the first step in the direction of a military
dictatorship. Thus, we shall undoubtedly fare happily on in the
blissful belief that our personal liberties are the subject of the most
solicitous and zealous care on the part of the authorities, guaranteed
to us under a government which is not of men but of laws, until one
of us happens to be arrested (by mistake, of course) and learns by sad
experience the practical methods of the police in dealing with criminals
and the agreeable but deceptive character of the pleasant fiction of the
presumption of innocence.