"Guilty, your Honour."
The voice was the tremulous voice of the foreman of a jury. His hand
shook as it held the slip of paper from which he read the portentous
words.
The Court leaned over toward him.
"I didn't catch that," said the Court.
Once more the foreman drew himself together, and moistened his lips
before he repeated in shrill tones:
"Guilty, your Honour--guilty as charged in the indictment."
For a brief moment there was a silence; then the spacious court-room
broke into subdued uproar.
"Jumpin' Jerusalem, I didn't think they'd have the nerve to do
it!" came from a voice somewhere in the crowd; and judging from
the expression on the faces of the people, this remark was fairly
indicative of their opinion.
The Court rapped for silence, and nodded to Beekman, the active counsel
for the defence.
"If the Court please," began Beekman, his face pale, and his voice
trembling with surprise and disappointment, "we move to set aside the
verdict and for a new trial on the ground that the verdict is against
the weight of evidence, against the charge of the Court, contrary
to...."
A heavy hand was laid upon Beekman's arm.
"Hold on there! I want that jury polled!" The speaker of these words
was Peter V. Wilkinson; for this trial was his trial; and this verdict
was the verdict in his case. "Morehead, get 'em to poll that jury!"
Again he spoke as one accustomed to command, and not as a prisoner
before the bar.
"Poll the jury," directed the Court.
The clerk started to obey.
"Now, Morehead," went on Wilkinson in a hoarse whisper, "I want you to
place in my hands--my hands, you understand--the name and address of
every mother's son upon that jury. I won't forget 'em, let me tell you
that."
"John T. Wyatt," droned the clerk.
And Wyatt, juror, stiffened for an instant, hesitated, and then taking
a big grip on himself, answered as his foreman had: "Guilty." Every man
in the box made the same answer; but as every man voiced his verdict,
he met the sullen, defiant, vengeful gaze of a man who never forgot,
who never forgave, and each man felt that instant as if, somehow, he
were in the tightening grasp of the big millionaire at the counsel
table.
"Now make your motions, Beekman," whispered Morehead.
And Beekman made a motion to set aside the verdict; made a motion in
arrest of judgment; made a motion for a new trial.
Wilkinson watched the face of the Court as he had watched the faces of
the jurymen.
"This is Gilchrist's chance to square himself, Morehead," he announced
huskily. "He's got to give us a new trial, or we'll know the reason
why."
But Judge Gilchrist merely swept the court-room with a weary glance.
"Motion denied," he said briefly, and with as much concern as if he
brushed away a fly. He now turned to the jury. "Gentlemen," he went on
gratefully, "you are discharged for the balance of the week--after this
long, protracted trial--with the thanks of the Court, for the fairness,
justice and impartiality of your verdict. Good-day, gentlemen."
"Wha--what!" gasped Wilkinson in a voice that could be heard all over
the court-room. "Does he mean to say that this verdict is just--does
he, Morehead?"
Colonel Morehead frowned with vexation.
"Keep quiet, Wilkinson," was all he said.
The Court waited until the jury had filed out, watching them as they
went. Then his glance returned to the coterie of counsel at the table.
"Counsellor," he remarked to Beekman, "what day will be most convenient
to you for sentence? And you, Mr. Leech?"
Up to this time Leslie, who had been sitting at the counsel table
with her father, had listened in a sort of daze to the proceedings of
the court. She had heard all the testimony, understanding it as best
she could, and had gathered from her father's manner and that of his
counsel, particularly Beekman's, that the whole thing was a mere matter
of form, from which her father would come out unscathed and unscarred.
The verdict had simply added to this vagueness; but when the Court had
pronounced the significant and ugly word 'sentence,' it brought her up,
as it were, all standing; and half-rising from her seat she held out
her hand in an imploring gesture.
"Sentence?" she cried out in her excitement. "No, he can't mean
that...."
There was a titter from the women on the benches; it brought Leslie to
her senses, and flushing and confused she sank back and covered her
face with her hands.
"Leslie, brace up!" said Beekman, leaning over her, his voice showing
his deep emotion. "It will come out all right. We'll win out on appeal."
Flomerfelt stepped to the fore and plucked Beekman by the sleeve.
"Let me have a word with you," he requested, whispering something in
his ear.
Beekman at once addressed the Court.
"If your Honour please," he began, "may we have a brief consultation
among counsel before we ask your Honour to set a day?"
"Certainly," agreed the Court, "you may step into the ante-room."
Six counsel and Flomerfelt and Wilkinson--eight in all--filed into the
ante-room.
"Shut that door, Eliot," said Morehead. "Now, Flomerfelt, what's your
idea?"
* * * * *
Out in the court-room J. Newton Leech, who had prosecuted for the
People, left the side of Murgatroyd and went over to Leslie to offer
his sympathy.
"Miss Wilkinson, this has been pretty hard on you."
"I don't understand it at all," the girl answered, turning her pale,
tired face to his.
"I wouldn't worry," he went on, with something more than mere
professional courtesy in his eyes.
And indeed Leech spoke truly when he said that the trial had been most
distressing to Leslie. It had been doubly so, perhaps, because of the
lack of the usual dramatic features. Forgery, perjury, larceny, ominous
charges to be sure, had figured in the case, but their proof consisted
in large account books, private memoranda, original reports from the
State banking offices, notes, stock transfers, in fact, everything to
weary and little to excite.
District Attorney Murgatroyd, like the accusing ghost of Hamlet's
father, had stalked silent, brooding, imperturbable, behind his
assistant, Leech, dictating nothing openly, but seeing, knowing that no
stone was left unturned. For the first two days of the trial the People
apparently had made but little inroads upon the integrity of Peter V.
Wilkinson; but at the end of that time, some new and powerful influence
had made itself felt: shrewd accountants entered the court-room and sat
at the Assistant District Attorney's elbow; a financier or two kept at
Murgatroyd's side; absolutely unassailable witnesses took the stand.
It was about this time that Morehead had nudged Durand and whispered:
"The _Morning Mail_ and Ougheltree of the National Banks are at work.
Here's where our trouble begins."
But although these two practitioners well knew, even at that early
stage of the game, that the chances weighed heavily against them, not
once did they flinch, not once did they permit the set expression of
confidence to leave their faces. On the contrary, they turned to their
leader and said:
"Beekman, the jury isn't even nibbling at this stuff. We've got a
walk-over."
But Beekman could not bring himself to their point of view. With
growing fear he listened to the evidence of the People as it piled up
against his client. Nevertheless, Beekman had--just the thing that
Morehead had said he had--an unaltering faith in Wilkinson. He was
partisan to the last degree. And so quite naturally his intellect
rejected the proofs of the People. Not that he did not appreciate their
weight, but rather that he didn't believe their truth.
And what a fight he had put up for his client! To this day Beekman's
summing up is remembered.
"We didn't make any mistake in getting him," Morehead had told Durand
after the address to the jury.
Even Murgatroyd had been moved to admiration by his closing arguments,
turning black into white, as he did, because it looked white to him,
and the District Attorney had said to his Assistant:
"Leech, you couldn't do that in a thousand years--not the way he does
it. And if it were not for public opinion, it is pretty certain that
Beekman would get an acquittal from this jury. As it is...."
And not for one moment had Murgatroyd felt that the case was safe
until the foreman's tremulous tones had quavered forth upon the heavy
air of Sessions.
* * * * *
During the first few minutes of the time that was passed in the
ante-room behind closed doors, Beekman's face wore an air of profound
dejection. Instead of joining, as was to be expected, in an animated
discussion that the others were having, he had taken a seat by himself,
and was reproaching himself with dereliction of duty. Imagine, then,
his astonishment when presently the little coterie gathered about him
and began to laud him for his good work.
"You're a wonder, youngster!" they told him. "And you may consider
yourself engaged again right now, if we get a new trial."
"But they beat me! I failed!" replied Beekman, a look of bewilderment
on his face. For he had expected reproaches, and here was genuine
applause as for a winner instead of for a loser.
"Thought you were going to get me out of this?" growled Wilkinson,
staring about him; for he knew that these men in some way were
responsible for his losing his case.
"We are," returned Durand, grimly; but his eyes flashed a wireless
message to the eyes of Colonel Morehead. And this wireless message ran
about like this: "We are going to get him out of this ... but how?"
Colonel Morehead's glance travelled quickly around the room in a
comprehensive way; then settled upon Wilkinson, and he said:
"Gentlemen, I think Peter V. had better be sentenced now."
"Now! Thunder and guns, not now! Give me another chance to get at the
Court, or at Murgatroyd. I need time--put it off as long as possible,"
Wilkinson said, the tremour in his voice only half concealed.
"Time is dangerous," declared Morehead, with a shake of the head. "We
don't want public opinion nor the _Morning Mail_ to get to work. The
public--except your own depositors--didn't believe that you were going
to be convicted; they believed you to be only technically guilty.
But give the populace two days to consider the fact that you've
been convicted--convicted of forgery--I don't say you're guilty,
Wilkinson--and let the _Morning Mail_ hammer that in for a week, the
Judge is bound to feel the force of this public opinion. It's the one
thing from which no public officer can escape."
"Let Gilchrist sentence now, and you'll get off with a fine,"
interposed Flomerfelt; "that was my suggestion."
"That's the whole idea," said Patrick Durand. "The less delay there
is, the lighter it will be."
* * * * *
Meanwhile Assistant District Attorney Leech had been moderately
successful in his attempt to soothe Leslie. His manner and his words,
"I wouldn't worry," had seemed a guarantee to her that her troubles
were about to vanish. She began to reason that nothing could happen to
her father. Nothing ever did happen to respectable men like him--big
men, rich men. And so she watched with increasing confidence the eight
men file back into the court-room.
"If the Court please," Beekman was saying gravely, at her side,
"instead of fixing a future day for sentence, we suggest that the Court
pronounce its sentence now."
The suggestion fell like a bomb-shell in the midst of the crowd. Even
District Attorney Murgatroyd rose to his feet in surprise.
"I see no reason," he began, and then remembering that he was not
trying the case, he nodded to his assistant; Leech took the cue and
pressed to the fore.
"This is an important case, your Honour," he contended, "and one that
demands deliberation. It seems to me that it would be preferable to
defer sentence until--say, Thursday of next week."
The Court quickly waved Leech back to his seat and addressed himself to
the prisoner.
"What does the defendant say? Are you ready for sentence now?"
"I am," said Wilkinson, and rising at Morehead's nudge he stood glaring
at the Court. Beekman was at his side, and extended his hand, saying:
"Before sentence is pronounced, if your Honour please, I should like to
say a word or two on behalf of the defendant."
The Court likewise waved him back.
"I heard all you told the jury," remarked Judge Gilchrist, somewhat
sharply. "You exhausted the subject, there's nothing left to say. I
have the floor."
There was a pause during which the Court slowly took off his glasses,
wiped them with his handkerchief and put them on again.
"This is an unusual case," he began, looking sternly at the defendant.
Back on the benches the crowd leaned forward eagerly.
"What will he give him?" asked someone.
On the rear seat, Burns of the Ideal Dairy, who never missed a big
trial, turned to his friend Porteous, the Park Row hardware man, and
remarked:
"I'll bet you another fifty, Billy, that he fines him a cold million
dollars--that or more."
The hardware man only laughed.
"Done," he answered. "Judge Gilchrist wouldn't dare to fine him over
fifty thousand dollars--and----"
"Hush!" whispered Burns. "He's speaking now."
" ... confined for ten years in State's Prison at hard labour,"
concluded the Court.
The people looked at one another aghast; but Murgatroyd smiled a
smile of complete satisfaction. As for Leslie, she turned a startled,
half-reproachful glance at the Assistant District Attorney, and then
her face went white and her head sank slowly down upon her arm that
lay upon the table. Unconsciously Beekman rested his hand lightly
upon her shoulder, and although the court-room seemed whirling about
his head, he presently found himself counting the heart throbs that
shook her frame. At the table Wilkinson's counsel exchanged glances,
only Morehead and Durand apparently retaining their self-possession,
and proceeded to gather their papers together, and scoop them into
capacious leather bags, shutting the bags loudly with a snap.
Wilkinson's face was scarlet, his eyes flashing fire. From the instant
of the rendition of the jury's verdict he had been a spluttering
volcano of righteous indignation; but now, as he glared at the Court,
he was searching in his mind for some torture, some vengeance fitting
for a judge who dared....
"Do you mean to tell me, Gilchrist," he shouted so that all might hear,
and advancing toward him, "that you've got the nerve to----"
The Court rapped for order.
"Clear the court-room!" he ordered; and turning to Beekman he added:
"Counsellor, your client is beside himself. Take charge of him, or I'll
have somebody do it for you."
Morehead and Flomerfelt pulled Wilkinson down into his seat and held
him there while a court officer stood over him threateningly. For a
brief instant, only, Gilchrist let his cold, judicial gaze meet the hot
belligerence of Peter V. Wilkinson; then he rose, gathered his robes
about him, and passed on to his private chambers.
Immediately four New York newspaper men boldly took possession of the
bench and got three flashlights of Wilkinson struggling in the grasp of
his attorneys. It took less than three-quarters of an hour to clear the
court-room, but within that time New York was reading the headlines:
"Ten years at hard labour in State's Prison for Peter V. Wilkinson,
the multi-millionaire." As a piece of news it was unquestionably quite
worth while; and in an incredibly short space of time London and Paris
had it; that night Constantinople had it; the world had it and gloated
over it.
* * * * *
"What are they going to do to you, father?" cried Leslie, when two
uniformed officers laid hands upon Wilkinson.
"That's what I'd like to know," he answered in alarm.
"Take him to the Tombs, of course," spoke up one of the officers. "What
else is there to do?"
"No, I won't go back there! I refuse ..." cried Wilkinson, struggling.
Morehead laid a detaining hand upon the officer's arm.
"Wait a minute, officer," he said. "We'll file a notice of appeal
inside of ten minutes. We're having it prepared now. We'll give
bail--renew the bond...."
Murgatroyd stepped forward and said, clipping his words off as he spoke:
"I shall oppose this man's release on bail pending an appeal, unless
his present bail is increased to double the amount."
"A million dollars! What are you talking about!" exclaimed Morehead.
"I'm talking about the new rule," returned the District Attorney;
"and you know just as much about it as I do." And then smiling
significantly he added: "I think Judge Gilchrist will do pretty much
as I say. Maybe he'll ask for more because of your client's outburst
when sentenced. If you want to see the Judge, come along with me."
"And in the meantime, Chief, shall we lock him up?" queried an officer.
"Wait a bit," put in Leech, courteously glancing at Leslie. "Suppose
Mr. Wilkinson stays in my room until"--he looked at the Colonel
now--"you can give bail this afternoon, can't you?"
"Not if it's a million dollars. Murgatroyd, this man has got to rely
upon his daughter's money," he pleaded. "We couldn't raise a million
dollars in a month."
"Yes we can," snapped Wilkinson, the cold sweat standing out on his
forehead. "We can raise twice that in an hour."
There was an interval of silence in which Morehead tried to look
unconcerned, and Murgatroyd winked at Leech.
"I thought he had it somewhere," whispered the District Attorney to his
assistant.
With this proof before him that he was standing in the presence of a
man far from bankrupt, Leech became doubly attentive.
"I think I can accommodate Mr. Wilkinson in my private office until
five o'clock," he suggested smoothly. "Two officers can remain on
guard outside, Chief. Is that all right?"
Murgatroyd nodded a tentative assent before saying:
"Come, Colonel, and we'll see the Judge...."
And an hour and a half later the bail had been fixed and matters
arranged by Morehead and his colleagues with the surety company. But
when the Colonel was back again in Leech's private office, he whispered
to Wilkinson:
"Where's your nerve, you confounded idiot! Now you've given the whole
thing away! If you'd gone back to the Tombs for a few days longer...."
Wilkinson gave him a look of withering scorn, and measuring his words
carefully, declared:
"I'll never be locked up, Morehead, again--anywhere. I told you once,
and I tell you now for all time, that they'll never get Peter V.
Wilkinson again behind the bars."
Colonel Morehead made no comment, but favoured him with an enigmatical
smile. After a moment or two, he went on to explain that if Wilkinson
had kept quiet they could have hunted up some of his friends and had
the thing fixed up in forty-eight hours; that now, after what had
happened, everybody, and especially Ougheltree and the _Morning Mail_,
would know that he had this money tucked away somewhere; and that
before long they'd find out where the rest of it was, concluding with:
"Somebody'll get it, Wilkinson--they'll get at it."
Wilkinson resented, with a shrug of the shoulders, this interference
with what he considered his business, and made no answer. But turning
to Leslie, he said irritably:
"Leslie, just put your name on the back of these things, will you. The
surety company is waiting for them."
Leslie's face showed a peculiar change; and she turned the certificates
over to read them before attaching her signature.
"Half a million more!" she gasped. "Why, I don't own that much, father.
They can't be mine to sign away, can they?"
"Do as I tell you," ordered her father, gruffly, taking them out of her
hand and turning them face down. "Sign your name on the back of every
one of them." And when she had done so, he said to a waiting messenger:
"There, now, Surety Company, fork over that new bond." And motioning to
Morehead: "Call Leech--there's his bail."