THE FIGHT.
The only reply which Peter received to his letter to the
District-Attorney, was a mere formal reiteration of that officer’s
verbal statement, that the case would be taken up in its due order,
after those which preceded it had been dealt with. Peter knew enough of
the numberless cases which never reach trial to understand that this
meant in truth, the laying aside of the case, till it was killed by the
statute of limitations.
On receiving this reply, Peter made another move, by going to three
newspapers, and trying to see their managing editors. One declined to
see him. A second merely told Peter, after his statement, which the
editor only allowed him partly to explain, that he was very busy and
could not take time to look into it, but that Peter might come again in
about a month. The third let Peter tell his story, and then shook his
head:
“I have no doubt you are right, but it isn’t in shape for us to use.
Such a case rarely goes to trial for six months or a year, and so, if
we begin an attack now, it will simply fall flat. If you can get us a
written statement from the District Attorney that he doesn’t intend to
push the case, we can do something, but I suppose he’s far too shrewd
to commit himself.”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s no use in beginning an attack, for you really have no
powder. Come in again a year from now, and then we may be able to say
something, if he hasn’t acted in the meantime.”
Peter left the office, knowing that that chance of pressure was gone.
If the papers of the Republican party would not use it, it was idle
spending time in seeing or trying to see the editors of the Democratic
papers. He wasted therefore no more efforts on newspapers.
The next three days Peter passed in the New York Law Institute Library,
deep in many books. Then he packed his bag, and took an afternoon train
for Albany. He was going to play his last card, with the odds of a
thousand to one against his winning. But that very fact only nerved him
the more.
Promptly at ten o’clock, the morning after his arrival at the state
capital, he sent in his card to the Governor. Fortunately for him, the
middle of August is not a busy time with that official, and after a
slight delay, he was ushered into the executive chamber.
Peter had been planning this interview for hours, and without
explanation or preamble, he commenced his statement. He knew that he
must interest the Governor promptly, or there would be a good chance of
his being bowed out. So he began with a description of the cow-stables.
Then he passed to the death of the little child. He sketched both
rapidly, not taking three minutes to do it, but had he been pleading
for his own life, he could not have spoken more earnestly nor
feelingly.
The Governor first looked surprised at Peter’s abruptness; then weary;
then interested; and finally turned his revolving chair so as to put
his back to Peter. And after Peter had ended his account, he remained
so for a moment. That back was very expressive to Peter. For the first
time he felt vanquished.
But suddenly the Governor turned, and Peter saw tears on his cheek. And
he said, after a big swallow, “What do you want of me?” in a voice that
meant everything to Peter.
“Will you listen to me for five minutes?” asked Peter, eagerly.
“Yes.”
Than Peter read aloud a statement of the legal proceedings, and of his
interviews with the District Attorney and with Dummer, in the clearest
and most compact sentences he had been able to frame.
“You want me to interfere?” asked the Governor.
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid it’s not possible. I can of course remove the District
Attorney, but it must be for cause, and I do not see that you can
absolutely prove his non intention to prosecute those scoundrels.”
“That is true. After study, I did not see that you could remove him.
But there’s another remedy.”
“What is that?”
“Through the State Attorney you can appoint a special counsel for this
case.”
“Are you sure?”
Peter laid one of the papers in his hands before the Governor. After
reading it, the Governor rang a bell.
“Send for Mr. Miller,” he said to the boy. Then he turned, and with
Peter went over the court papers, till Mr. Miller put in an appearance.
“State the matter to Mr. Miller,” said the Governor, and Peter read his
paper again and told what he wished.
“The power unquestionably exists,” said the Attorney-General. “But it
has not been used in many years. Perhaps I had better look into it a
bit.”
“Go with Mr. Miller, Mr. Stirling, and work over your papers with him,”
said the Governor.
“Thank you,” said Peter simply, but his hand and face and voice said
far more, as he shook hands. He went out with the first look of hope
his face had worn for two years.
The ground which the Attorney-General and his subordinates had to
traverse was that over which Peter had so well travelled already, that
he felt very much at home, while his notes indeed aided the study, and
were doubly welcomed, because the summer season had drained the office
of its underlings. Half as assistant, and half as principal, he worked
till three o’clock, with pleasure that grew, as he saw that the opinion
of the Attorney-General seemed to agree more and more with his own.
Then they returned to the Governor, to whom the Attorney-General gave
his opinion that his present conclusion was that the Governor could
empower him, or some appointee, to prosecute the case.
“Well,” said the Governor, “I’m glad you think so. But if we find that
it isn’t possible, Mr. Stirling, I’ll have a letter written to the
District Attorney that may scare him into proceeding with the case.”
Peter thanked him, and rose to go.
“Are you going to New York at once?” asked the Governor.
“Yes. Unless I can be of use here.”
“Suppose you dine with me, and take a late train?”
“It will be a great pleasure,” said Peter.
“Very well. Six sharp.” Then after Peter had left the room, the
Governor asked, “How is he on law?”
“Very good. Clear-headed and balanced.”
“He knows how to talk,” said the Governor. “He brought my heart up in
my mouth as no one has done in years. Now, I must get word to some of
the people in New York to find out who he is, and if this case has any
concealed boomerang in it.”
The dinner was a very quiet one with only the Governor and his wife.
The former must have told his better-half something about Peter, for
she studied him with a very kind look in her face, and prosaic and
silent as Peter was, she did not seem bored. After the dinner was
eaten, and some one called to talk politics with the Governor, she took
Peter off to another room, and made him tell her about the whole case,
and how he came to take it up, and why he had come to the Governor for
help. She cried over it, and after Peter had gone, she went upstairs
and looked at her own two sleeping boys, quite large enough to fight
the world on their own account, but still little children to the
mother’s heart, and had another cry over them. She went downstairs
later to the Governor’s study, and interrupting him in the work to
which he had settled down, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him.
“You must help him, William,” she said. “Do everything you can to have
those scoundrels punished, and let him do it.”
The Governor only laughed; but he pushed back his work, and his wife
sat down, and told of her admiration and sympathy for Peter’s fight.
There was a bad time ahead for the criminal and his backers. They might
have political influence of the strongest character, fighting their
battle, but there was a bigger and more secret one at work. Say what we
please, the strongest and most subtle “pull” this world as yet contains
is the under-current of a woman’s influence.
Peter went back to New York that night, feeling hopeful, yet doubtful.
It almost seemed impossible that he had succeeded, yet at twenty-three,
failure is hard to believe in. So he waited, hoping to see some move on
the part of the State, and dreaming of nothing better. But better came,
for only five days after his return his mail brought him a large
envelope, and inside that envelope was a special commission, which made
Peter a deputy of the Attorney-General, to prosecute in the Court of
Sessions, the case of “The People of the State of New York _versus_
James Goldman.” If any one could have seen Peter’s face, as he read the
purely formal instrument, he would not have called it dull or heavy.
For Peter knew that he had won; that in place of justice blocking and
hindering him, every barrier was crushed down; that this prosecution
rested with no officials, but was for him to push; that that little
piece of parchment bound every court to support him; that if necessary
fifty thousand troops would enforce the power which granted it. Within
three hours, the first formal steps to place the case in the courts had
been taken, and Peter was working at the evidence and law in the
matter.
These steps produced a prompt call from Dummer, who showed considerably
less assurance than hitherto, even though he tried to take Peter’s
success jauntily. He wanted Peter to drop the whole thing, and hinted
at large sums of money, but Peter at first did not notice his hints,
and finally told him that the case should be tried. Then Dummer pleaded
for delay. Peter was equally obdurate. Later they had a contest in the
court over this. But Peter argued in a quiet way, which nevertheless
caught the attention of the judge, who ended the dispute by refusing to
postpone. The judge hadn’t intended to act in this way, and was rather
surprised at his own conduct. The defendant’s lawyer was furious.
No stone was left unturned, however, to prevent the case going to
trial. Pressure of the sharpest and closest kind was brought to bear on
the Governor himself—pressure which required backbone to resist. But he
stood by his act: perhaps because he belonged to a different party than
that in control of the city government; perhaps because of Peter’s
account, and the truthfulness in his face as he told it; perhaps
because the Attorney-General had found it legal; perhaps because of his
wife; perhaps it was a blending of all these. Certain it is, that all
attempts to block failed, and in the last week in August it came before
the court.
Peter had kept his clients informed as to his struggles, and they were
tremendously proud of the big battle and ultimate success, as indeed
were the residents of the whole district, who felt that it was really
their own case. Then the politicians were furious and excited over it,
while the almost unexampled act of the Governor had created a good deal
of public interest in the case. So the court was packed and the press
had reporters in attendance. Since the trial was fully reported, it is
needless to go over the testimony here. What Peter could bring out, is
already known. The defence, by “experts,” endeavored to prove that the
cowsheds were not in a really unhygienic condition; that feeding cows
on “mash” did not affect their milk, nor did mere “skin sores;” that
the milk had been sold by mistake, in ignorance that it was thirty-six
hours old, and skimmed; and that the proof of this particular milk
being the cause of the deaths was extremely inadequate and doubtful.
The only dramatic incident in the testimony was the putting the two
little Dooleys (who had returned in fat and rosy condition, the day
before) on the stand.
“Did you find country milk different from what you have here?” Peter
asked the youngest.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Here it comes from a cart, but in the country it
squirts from a cow.”
“Order,” said the judge to the gallery.
“Does it taste differently?”
“Yes. It’s sweet, as if they put sugar in it. It’s lovely I like cow
milk better than cart milk.”
“Damn those children!” said Dummer, to the man next him.
The event of the trial came, however, when Peter summed up. He spoke
quietly, in the simplest language, using few adjectives and no
invective. But as the girl at the Pierces’ dinner had said, “he
describes things so that one sees them.” He told of the fever-stricken
cows, and he told of the little fever-stricken children in such a way
that the audience sobbed; his clients almost had to be ordered out of
court; the man next Dummer mopped his eyes with his handkerchief; the
judge and jury thoughtfully covered their eyes (so as to think the
better); the reporters found difficulty (owing to the glary light), in
writing the words despite their determination not to miss one; and even
the prisoner wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Peter was unconscious that
he was making a great speech; great in its simplicity, and great in its
pathos. He afterwards said he had not given it a moment’s thought and
had merely said what he felt. Perhaps his conclusion indicated why he
was able to speak with the feeling he did. For he said:
“This is not merely the case of the State _versus_ James Goldman. It is
the case of the tenement-house children, against the inhumanity of
man’s greed.”
Dummer whispered to the man next him, “There’s no good. He’s done for
us.” Then he rose, and made a clever defence. He knew it was wasting
his time. The judge charged against him, and the jury gave the full
verdict: “Man-slaughter in the first degree.” Except for the desire for
it, the sentence created little stir. Every one was still feeling and
thinking of Peter’s speech.
And to this day that speech is talked of in “the district.”