NEW YORK JUSTICE.
Peter saw the District Attorney the next morning for a few moments, and
handed over to him certain memoranda of details that had not appeared
in the committing court’s record.
“It shall go before the grand jury day after to-morrow,” that official
told him, without much apparent interest in the matter.
“How soon can it be tried, if they find a true bill? asked Peter.
“Can’t say,” replied the official.
“I merely wished to know,” said Peter, “because three of the witnesses
are away, and I want to have them back in time.”
“Probably a couple of weeks,” yawned the man, and Peter, taking the
hint, departed.
The rest of the morning was spent in drawing up the papers in three
civil suits against the rich brewer. Peter filed them as soon as
completed, and took the necessary steps for their prompt service.
These produced an almost immediate result, in the shape of a call the
next morning from the same lawyer who had defended the milkmen in the
preliminary examination. Peter, as he returned from his midday meal,
met the lawyer on the stairs.
“Ah, Mr. Stirling. Good-morning,” said the man, whose name was Dummer.
“I’ve just left your office, finding it closed.”
“Come in,” said Peter.
The lawyer glanced around the plain room, and a quiet look of
satisfaction came over his face. The two sat down.
“About those cases, Mr. Stirling?”
“Well?”
“For reasons you can easily understand, we don’t wish them to come to
trial.”
“Well?”
“And we take it for granted that your clients will be quite willing to
settle them.”
“We will talk about that, after the criminal trial is over”
“Why not now?”
“Because we hope to make Coldman speak the truth in the trial, and thus
be able to reach Bohlmann.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Not if there’s the smallest chance of sending the brewer to prison.”
“There isn’t. Coldman will stick to what he said if the thing is ever
tried, which it won’t be.”
Peter eyed Dummer without changing a muscle. “The District Attorney
told me that it ought to be in the courts in a couple of weeks.”
Dummer smiled blandly, and slowly closed one eye. “The District
Attorney tries to tell the truth,” he said, “and I have no doubt he
thought that was what he was telling you. Now, name your figure?”
“The civil suits will not be compromised till the criminal one is
finished.”
“But I tell you the criminal one is dead. Squashed. Bohlmann and I have
seen the right people, and they’ve seen the District Attorney. That
case won’t even go to the grand jury. So now, drop it, and say what
you’ll settle the civil suits for?”
“James Coldman shall go to prison for killing those children,” said
Peter, “and till he does, it is waste time to talk of dropping or
settling anything.”
“Humph,” half laughed the lawyer, though with obvious disgust at the
mulishness in Peter’s face and voice. “You think you know it all. But
you don’t. You can work for ten years, and that case will be no nearer
trial than it is to-day. I tell you, young man, you don’t know New
York.”
“I don’t know New York,” said Peter, “but—”
“Exactly,” interrupted Dummer. “And I do.”
“Probably,” replied Peter quietly, “You may know New York, Mr. Dummer,
but you don’t know me. That case shall be tried.”
“Well,” laughed Dummer, “if you’ll agree not to press the civil suits,
till that’s out of the way, we shall have no need to compromise.
Good-day.”
The next morning Peter went to the District Attorney’s office, and
inquired for him.
“He’s gone to Bar Harbor for a couple of weeks’ vacation,” he was told.
“Whom must I see in his stead?” And after some time Peter was brought
face to face with the acting official.
“Mr. Nelson told me he should present the Coldman case to the grand
jury to-day, and finding he has left the city, I wish to know who has
it in charge?” asked Peter.
“He left all the presentments with me,” the deputy replied, “but there
was no such case as that.”
“Could he have left it with some one else to attend to?”
“No.”
Peter went back to his office, took down the Code and went over certain
sections. His eyes had rather a sad look as they gazed at his wall,
after his study, as if what he had read had not pleased him. But if the
eyes were sad, the heavy jaw had a rigidness and setness which gave no
indication of weakness or yielding.
For two weeks Peter waited, and then once more invaded officialdom.
“The District Attorney’s engaged, and can’t see you,” he was told.
Peter came again in the afternoon, with the same result. The next
morning, brought only a like answer, and this was duplicated in the
afternoon. The third day he said he would wait, and sat for hours in
the ante-room, hoping to be called, or to intercept the officer. But it
was only to see man after man ushered into the private office, and
finally to be told that the District Attorney had gone to lunch, and
would not return that day. The man who told him this grinned, and
evidently considered it a good joke, nor had Peter been unconscious
that all the morning the clerks and underlings had been laughing, and
guying him as he waited. Yet his jaw was only set the more rigidly, as
he left the office.
He looked up the private address of the officer in the directory, and
went to see him that evening. He was wise enough not to send in his
name, and Mr. Nelson actually came into the hall to see him.
The moment he saw Peter, however, he said: “Oh, it’s you. Well, I never
talk business except in business hours.”
“I have tried to see you—” began Peter.
“Try some more,” interrupted the man, smiling, and going toward the
parlor.
Peter followed him, calmly. “Mr. Nelson,” he said, “do you intend to
push that case?”
“Of course,” smiled Nelson. “After I’ve finished four hundred
indictments that precede it.”
“Not till then?”
“No.”
“Mr. Nelson, can’t you overlook politics for a moment, and think of—”
“Who said anything of politics?” interrupted Nelson, “I merely tell you
there are indictments which have been in my office for five years and
are yet to be tried, and that your case is going to take its turn.”
Nelson passed into the back room, leaving his caller alone.
Peter left the room, and passed out of the front door, just as a man
was about to ring the bell.
“Is Mr. Nelson in?” asked the man.
“I have just left him, Mr. Dummer,” said Peter.
“Ah! Good-evening, Mr. Stirling. I think I can guess your business.
Well. How do you come on?” Dummer was obviously laughing internally.
Peter started down the steps without answering.
“Perhaps I can help you?” said Dummer. “I know Mr. Nelson very well in
politics, and so does Mr. Bohlmann. If you’ll tell me what you are
after, I’ll try to say a good word for you?”
“I don’t need your help, thank you,” said Peter calmly.
“Good,” said Dummer. “You think a briefless lawyer of thirty can go it
alone, do you, even against the whole city government?”
“I know I have not influence enough to get that case pushed, Mr.
Dummer, but the law is on my side, and I’m not going to give up yet.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” said Dummer, sneeringly.
“Fight,” said Peter, walking away.
He went back to his office, and sitting at his desk, wrote a formal
letter to the District Attorney, calling his attention to the case, and
asking information as to when it would be brought to trial. Then he
copied this, and mailed the original. Then he read the Code again.
After that he went over the New York reports, making notes. For a
second time the morning sun found Peter still at his desk. But this
time his head was not bowed upon his blotter, as if he were beaten or
dead. His whole figure was stiff with purpose, and his jaw was as rigid
as a mastiff’s.