Gordon had a case in which he was about to enter judgment, when Willard
blocked him off with an extension obtained from the Court by means of an
affidavit, in which he swore that "his client had fully and fairly
stated the matter to him, and from that statement he verily believed the
defendant had a good and substantial defence to the action upon the
merits."
This, of course, was utter fiction. There was no thought of a defence.
But delay defeats, and later Willard withdrew, allowing Gordon to take
the twenty-fifth instead of the first judgment against his man.
The same thing is done every day of practice in the City of New York.
Lawyers who are Officers of the Court prostitute the Court with
cheerful zeal--men with a high sense of self-respect in their private
lives, demean themselves beyond expression in their professional
careers--gentlemen who would not stoop to the slightest equivocation
up-town, perjure themselves for money down-town, or teach their clerks
to do it for them. It is not a pretty practice, but Gordon ought to have
known the custom. However, being young at that time, it still shocked
him. To-day he says it only fills him with disgust. But he was just as
much of a crank then as he is now, so he took Willard's affidavit before
the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association.
He might have seen the smile on the faces of his auditors as he told his
story, had he not been blinded by zeal. However the Chairman was grave
and judicial enough when he announced it was not the province of the
Committee to take up the quarrels of counsel, and that they did not
propose to investigate light accusations of perjury.
Indeed, the Chairman was so very judicial, and his speech so well
delivered, that he might have been suspected of having said something of
the same sort before under similar circumstances. But Gordon, crank
that he was, thought of nothing but his point, and stoutly maintained
that false swearing was being practised every day by lawyers, great and
small--that tricks and treachery were personal matters reflecting on but
not involving the profession as a whole, while licensed perjury was a
travesty of law, striking at the very foundations of Justice. So he went
on, boiling over with intensity and utterly innocent of tact.
But when the Chairman stopped him and said something about "seeking aid
in legislative action," or "going before a Grand Jury," Gordon, young as
he was, looked straight into the speaker's eyes and drank in experience,
if not wisdom, from their glance.
Later on Willard's client quarrelled with his counsel, and put into
Gordon's hands the very proofs he needed. But the Grievance Committee
never saw them, for Gordon locked the papers in his safe and spoke no
word.
But that did not close the episode.
It was, however, the beginning of the end as far as Gordon and Willard
were concerned.
More than a year passed before the two men met again. Willard had in the
meantime been appointed an Assistant District Attorney, and practised
only in the Criminal Courts. Their encounter was entirely a matter of
accident, though Gordon doesn't think so. Nevertheless, the facts are
that Gordon chanced to wander into General Sessions while waiting for
some papers, and happened to find his _bete-noir_ prosecuting a case of
burglary, and it was merely a matter of habit that caused him to study
the prisoner as closely as he did.
The man's face was gentle, and almost expressionless in its vague wonder
at the scene before him. Something had its grip on him--just what he did
not seem to know--but something monstrous and merciless in its
mechanism, and something was being said about him--just what he did not
appear to comprehend.
Gordon watched the listless figure, and the weary droop of the head, and
interpreted for himself.
Perhaps the poor wretch had struggled when arrested, but without
avail--had stormed and protested to the sergeant at the police station,
with no result--had denied and explained to the Magistrate at the
hearing, but to no end. The Law--a hideous Something--resistless in its
power, relentless in its purpose, wanted him. These men--the one on the
Bench, the one behind the rail, those others in uniform--wished him out
of the way. Perhaps he had concluded he could best propitiate them by
giving as little trouble as possible. So he sat there inert and silent,
fascinated into non-resistance, watching the doors of his prison open
somewhat as a rabbit must watch the widening jaws of a snake.
It is impossible to comprehend the feeling without experiencing it, but
Gordon was a lonely sort of man, who sometimes felt himself apart from,
instead of a part of, the universe, and so he understood.
Mr. Assistant District Attorney Willard was presenting his case ably,
handling his points with so much care that Gordon asked the policeman
sitting beside him if the trial was of any importance.
"Importance? Well, I should say so! Don't you see the Chief sitting up
near the rail?"
Gordon glanced in the direction indicated and observed the Chief of
Police, note book in hand, watching every move of the District Attorney.
"Who is he?" he asked, nodding toward the prisoner.
"Why the larrup says his name is Winter--and don't he look innocent?
Well, he's really Red Farrell, a crook we've been after for years. But
there's nothin' much gets by us, I guess.--Eh?"
But Gordon was studying the prisoner again and did not respond.
Winter? Where had he heard that name? Why, of course, Winter was the
married name of his old nurse, who had been in his father's family for
thirty years. But who was this man?
"Mr. Duncan----"
Gordon turned as he heard the whisper behind him and found himself face
to face with the very woman of whom he had been thinking.
"Why, Margaret, what are you doing here?"
"O, Mr. Duncan--it's him."
"Who?"
"Jack--there--my son." She glanced toward the prisoner.
Gordon motioned toward the door and they passed out together into the
Rotunda.
"O, Mr. Duncan, can you save him?--You will, won't you, dearie? He's my
only boy! Indeed, indeed, he's not guilty for all he's been a wild lad
at times. O, why do they say he's Red Farrell, or some such man? O
please tell them, Mr. Duncan."
And then the story came out with a burst of tears which the Rotunda saw
and heard without any emotion whatsoever. It has witnessed so many
tears--that Rotunda--heard so many, many stories.
Before Court adjourned Gordon found himself committed to aid in the
defence of John Winter--his first criminal case. By evening he was
working enthusiastically, confident in the innocence of his client.
Winter was a stupid fellow and impossible as a witness, but this only
further convinced his new counsel, who believed a bad witness could not
be a good liar. But the defence had been poorly prepared at the hands of
the attorney assigned by the Court. Proper witnesses had not been
subpoenaed--details had been neglected, while the prosecution seemed
unusually keen. This last fact worried and puzzled Gordon more than all
the others, and finally started him out on a tour of personal
investigation.
When he returned he had learned enough to make him admit that with the
time at his command there was small hope of clearing his man from the
closely pressed charge.
One chance, however, remained--to see the Assistant District Attorney
and obtain an adjournment. But to beg a favour from that source was gall
and wormwood to Gordon. Moreover, what he had discovered was not
calculated to cool his hot head or make him more diplomatic. So the
mission did not promise well, and he had about determined not to attempt
it, when the look of despair and mute appeal in Margaret's face made him
reconsider, and drove him late at night to visit a man he would have
gone miles to avoid.
The Assistant District Attorney was the opposite of Gordon in every
way--smooth, politic, even tempered, and ambitious to drop the word
"Assistant" from his title. This, it was rumoured, he would do at the
next election. In an encounter between these two men it was not
difficult to foresee with whom would rest the advantage.
Willard welcomed Gordon to his study and opened with easy commonplaces.
But Gordon, hopelessly fanatic and stiff-necked in his honesty,
disdained the aid of conventions and pushed directly to his point.
"Mr. Willard, you are prosecuting a young man--John Winter by name----"
"Ah yes, I thought I saw you at the trial to-day, but didn't know you
practised in the Criminal Courts. Yes,--John Winter, alias Red Farrell."
"I do not think so and that is why I am here. This young man is the son
of Margaret Winter, an old family servant of ours on whose word I would
stake my life. I have examined the prisoner and some of the witnesses,
and am sure a mistake is being made and that I can prove the man's
innocence."
"Well, I shall at least have the satisfaction of being beaten by a
worthy adversary. But you didn't come here merely to throw down the
gauntlet, Mr. Gordon."
The District Attorney smiled inquiringly at his visitor.
"No, Sir. I want you to withdraw a juror in this case and consent to a
mistrial. Meanwhile we can both make further investigations and the
cause of Justice will not suffer."
If the speaker had asked for his head, Willard's face could not have
expressed more absolute amazement. He stared in silence for a
moment--then checked a sudden inclination to laugh and answered calmly
enough:
"Of course you have not practised very extensively in the Criminal
Courts, Mr. Gordon, or you would know that what you ask is really
absurd."
The expression was unfortunate and Gordon blazed up instantly.
"I see nothing absurd about it, Sir. I ask you for time to ascertain
this man's guilt or his innocence which cannot now be properly
determined.--Do you mind telling me just why this seems absurd to the
District Attorney?"
The speaker's tone and manner would have nettled a man less on his
guard, but Willard only laughed pleasantly as he answered:
"The District Attorney's office is satisfied to proceed, and you will
admit the case must be fairly strong when we are undaunted by the
presence of distinguished counsel."
"This is no matter for jests, Mr. Willard. Do you consider that the duty
of the District Attorney is to convict as many persons as possible--to
win as many cases as you can?"
"O come, come, Mr. Gordon, we are not here to discuss ethical
questions."
"Mr. Willard, I am not here to be trifled with or side-tracked. Will
you tell me what investigations you have made to ascertain if this man
is innocent or not?"
The District Attorney leaned back wearily in his chair and gazed at the
earnest face confronting him. Then he lazily reached for a cigarette.
"I am trying to keep my temper and be polite," he replied, "but you
surely do not expect me to detail my case to my adversary?"
"Your case? Is that how you term the solemn duty you are charged with?
Does the District Attorney condescend to tricks--does he hope to make
convictions by surprise?"
Willard struck a match angrily, but he applied it to the cigarette in
his mouth before he answered:
"Red Farrell must pay you a good fee, Mr. Gordon, to make this worth
your while."
For a moment Gordon was the cooler man of the two.
"Is it not the duty of the District Attorney to ascertain the truth?" he
asked as though the other had not spoken. "Are you, a public officer,
interested in withholding any part of the truth? Have you anything to
conceal?"
"Mr. Gordon, I do not propose to listen to these insinuations----"
"Let us cease bantering then, Mr. Willard. I am ready to talk plainly.
Must I?"
"You must indeed, unless you wish me to interpret for myself."
He flicked the ashes from his cigarette and glanced with a bored
expression toward the clock.
But Gordon did not speak until Willard's eyes met his again.
"Very well then. I will see that you understand. The police have been
hunting a man called Red Farrell, but they have not been successful. The
Chief has blamed the Captains--the Captains the detectives, and the
papers have ridiculed them all. The police of other cities too have
twitted them about it. Suddenly this young man is arrested under
suspicious circumstances. No one seems particularly interested in him or
knows much about him. Why shouldn't he be Red Farrell? He is Red
Farrell. Do you understand me?"
"I hear you making a very nasty and uncalled-for charge against the
police of this City and----"
"One that you well know has both foundation and precedent. You know the
men who compose the force. So do I. They have the same pride and
ambition and morals that other men have. No more and no less. They
discover Red Farrell and remove a reproach. Suppose Winter isn't
Farrell--well, he's probably guilty anyhow. _They want to win cases
too!_"
"Mr. Gordon, you have said about enough----"
"To persuade you that this is a proper case for further investigation?"
"No, Sir, and I will tell you right now that this case will not be
adjourned for one hour!"
Gordon rose to his feet and faced his opponent, wording his question
slowly and with deliberate emphasis.
"Of course you personally have no special interest in convicting this
particular prisoner?"
Willard sprang from his seat and angrily tossed his cigarette into the
fire.
"Mr. Gordon, take care you do not go too far."
"Are you not especially anxious to win this case?"
"I am prosecuting, Sir, in the name of the People."
"In the name of the People!"
Gordon laughed the words out with stinging scorn, and the Attorneys
faced one another with a rage that in men of less refinement would have
set them at each other's throats. But the grapple was as deadly and the
purpose as grim as though the struggle had been physical. There was no
possible chance for argument now and Gordon flung off all restraint as
he poured forth his torrent of contempt.
"In the name of the People! What people gave you a commission to tamper
with the liberty of the meanest thing alive? What people privileged you
to prosecute an innocent man--for you know he is innocent--I have seen
it in every false smirk of your face ever since I entered this room. And
to prosecute him for what? For your own personal advancement--to win a
case for your client. Do you want me to tell you who your client is----"
"I want you to understand that you can't blackmail me, Sir!"
"Blackmail you? By the Lord Harry, you shall hear the truth from one
man if you never hear it again. Don't lay a hand on me or I'll break you
like this pencil! Blackmail you? To-night you've got to know that
another man knows you through and through. To-night you have to go
unmasked. Are you afraid of hearing me say who your client is? Are you
afraid of having me name the politicians whose orders you execute and
whose nod is your law? You have been ordered by the police to win this
case. This _case_ indeed! And you, the Assistant District Attorney, in
the name of the People, will win it by fair means or foul. You have
never investigated one fact, or asked one question, calculated to bring
out the truth, but by trick and wile you stoop to serve your master's
purpose. And do you think I do not know why? You poor fool! Every honest
man knows who cares to follow your dirty tracks, and the knaves whose
gifts you buy know whom they sell to and for what. But remember this,
the day you run for District Attorney will be the day I take these
papers where they will do the most good, and we will see if the People
want a perjurer to prosecute in their name!"
Gordon tore from his pocket the "affidavit of merits," with the proofs
of its falsity, and slapped them down upon the desk.
Willard glanced at the papers and then at his adversary. His answer was
almost a whisper--hard and rasping.
"Gordon, I will convict your man if I never win another case in my
life!"
"By God--you dare not!"